Florence Nduku arrived at Immaculate Angel Salon five minutes after nine. Vexed that it was not nine on the dot, she hissed lewd expletives at the cause of her delay - her husband. She drove into the reserved parking space, allowing her car to roll forward until it came to rest on top of the pavement. In so doing she parked too close to the entrance, so close in fact that she left only a tiny space for pedestrians to squeeze into the salon. Even she was not spared, the car edged an inch when she wedged her way around it, her huge buttocks compressed against the wall while her enormous thighs buckled the bonnet of the Peugeot 404, causing the car to bounce up and down as she passed. Her three employees, waiting for her outside, ogled in amusement, exchanging knowing glances. She glared at them ominously, daring them to speak. Silence.

They’d learnt the moods of their boss. Maybe the fried egg was crumpled that morning, they didn't know that it had burned. If they had known, they'd probably have asked the day off. Sick leave. Malaria. Cough cough, sneeze sneeze!

Nduku opened the salon door, not bothering to apologize for demanding that her employees be at work by eight thirty while she arrived at nine ---  with the keys. She sang as she opened up.

Katoko wienda ata, nienda tusker!

Katoko wienda ata, nienda tusker!

She finally relaxed as she collapsed on her chair, and took a deep breath and exhaled. As she exhaled, she released a hissing sound that was quickly followed by a foul odour. She smiled.

“I'm expecting Mrs. George to come in today!” she said to no one in particular, “so everything must be perfect.”

Mrs. George was not like her other customers. In preparation for her visit, she had the whole salon cleaned up. Hair from the previous days’ customers was collected together and burned outside. Shampoo bottles were arranged neatly in a corner. The floor was scrubbed and mopped until the old paint was almost peeing off.

I will have new tiles put in soon! Nduku mumbled unaware that her mumblings were clearly audible.

“What, go on working! I don't pay you for nothing! You thick headed good for nothing village idiots!” She fumed when she became aware of the puzzled eyes peering at her.

When Mrs. George called her on her safaricom cellphone line, she stood up dramatically, sighed deeply and pinched the green button to accept the call. She did not say hello, instead she laughed.

Their conversation was long and drawn out; laughter, giggles and snickering, summed up ninety percent of it. Six percent was expletives, curses and insults ... they are fools, they are cowards, they are idiots, they are assholes! They, it was not said to whom "they" referred, not over the phone. But her employees exchanged wry knowing glances. They, of course, was the alias for their husbands. They, they were to be exploited, they were to be used and they were to be  controled. Nduku became elated, when Mrs. George said she would be bringing Lucy, Jane, and Shiru with her. The infamous gang! Vanguards of the new revolution of female dominance!

Nduku had the salon air freshened. The girl doing the spraying was the longest serving among her workers. A nine months veteran, nothing but good fortune had enabled  her to break the record for longevity at Immaculate Angel Salon. Whenever Nduku realized that an employee was becoming better than her, she would quickly fire her. You are stealing from my customers! You are stealing my money! You do not know how to work! You will chase my customers away! But this girl was different.

She could scrub the floor so well, and prepare their lunch, and she knew how to massage feet - Nduku's tired feet in the evenings, especially. Each foot she massaged earned a day more. She never learnt how to braid, she was too busy, cleaning, cooking, massaging feet.

The other two were good for nothing gossiping idiots. The younger one was adept at braiding though, her fingers tangoed on a customer’s hair, transforming  disheveled kinky hair into neat silky pleats. Alas she wasn't so good with colors. Mrs. George caused a ruckus during her last visit, she had asked to be braided with Golden Blonde number 22, but the girl, being parsimonious, had used Golden Blonde number 22 and some left over Swedish Blonde number R22. Although the blended look was more complementing to Mrs. George’s bleached face, she was not pleased. Nduku, taking on the brunt of criticism on herself, had hurled her keys violently at the girl, so much so she feared she might have killed her had the keys hit their target. Shocked by her murderous fury, and anxious to get away before she did more damage, Nduku decided to call it a day. She entered her car, took a minute to turn on the ignition, but the car only wheezed like a dying cow. She tried again and again. Then finally, an infuriated scream, she cursed her husband Micheal Mutungi as she pumped on the gas pedal. The car hiccuped briefly and roared to life.

“You, mjinga, take that flask and go buy me a cup of tea!” she commanded. Sara, Jemima and Katio looked at each other. The first one to responded would have to buy a cup of tea with her own money, no hope of compensation.

“Sara!” Nduku screamed. Sara was the good one. The one who cooked, cleaned, and ate little, but did not know how to pleat. She hurriedly grabbed the flask, and dragged Jemima along.

“Please loan me ten shillings!” Sara said to Jemima, outside. “I do not have anything and if I don't buy that tea I may loose my job!”

Nduku, who was eavesdropping, heard them, and burst out laughing. Her laughter was raucous. She enjoyed the fear she inspired. Her laughter became even more exuberant, Shiru was here!

“Shiru, Shiru, Shiru baby!” Nduku exclaimed, standing up, saying her name as though it was a traditional song that demanded a dance.

Nduku's dancing was not so bad. She was huge and could swing with ease. So she swung her behinds in a beautiful dance, laughed amidst the fired action, forgot this was her job place, and knocked her behind, huge buttocks, with that of Shiru that bore a defined resemblance. Before they settled, they exchanged a high five, and three kisses, side, side and lip to lip, Mwaaaah! And laughed again.

Sara, Jemima, and Katio watched. Sara had momentarily forgotten. She was supposed to be bringing tea. Two cups now that Shiru was here. One glance her way, and she shot away like a released arrow! Jemima tried to scream, bring my change oh! An imitation of a Nigerian accent, but Sara didn't hear.

Shiru was not here for a hair do. She had beautiful curls. Curls that Nduku could not remember working on. But nothing mattered more than the talk, she wouldn't spoil it. Not when Mrs. George was about!

“Tell me!” Nduku said, her eyes shining with expectancy.

“Not good!” Shiru said, “I haven't tamed him yet!”

“Why not now! Do you still lie to yourself that you love him?”

“I get confused sometimes. You know, he is my husband! He needs to be treated so! I fear if I refuse him, or if I don't make him good food, or if I abuse him he will get me a co-wife! Can you imagine that!”

“Don't be silly! Micheal would never think of finding another woman. If he does, he knows I will cut his thing off!”

“So what do you say I do now?”

“What else? Discipline the idiot!”

Nduku thought Katio walked out was because she was stupid. She just rose, grabbed her handbag, hissed loudly, and walked right out of them. She was the one who could plait well. She did not have a big body, and her bony, breast less chest dangled as though a separate part of her body. Nduku would not apologize, or regret, loosing her. She was competition. She was a grumbler. Goodriddance to a gossipng idiot. Nduku heard that she treated her husband, a mechanic, like a paramount chief. She would not regret loosing Katio, not even once. She'd better go! Good for nothing idiot!

“You better not come back here you . . . you . . .!” Her coarse voice was a mixture of that element that made her breathless; anger, the pointing of a lazy shaking finger and the need to be acknowledged as the one that threw her out.

“What is wrong with that idiot?” Asked Shiru.

“Never mind her!”

She was never minded. She was forgotten in seconds. When a black, well waxed Mercedes parked outside the Immaculate Angel's Salon, all else became irrelevant. The first thing that stepped off was a high heeled Prada shoe, black with white elements. Nduku shot up! She checked the salon from corner to corner, top down, within seconds, to make sure everything was okay! She then rushed out, and helped Mrs. George out of the car.

“What a blessing to have you here!” Nduku said. “You are so welcome sister!”

Unlike Nduku and Shiru, Mrs. George was not huge. She had a nice, brown face with perfect features. Her eyes dazzled with perfection, colored brown and flaming like a torch. Her make up was ever done right, its intricate details so well taken care of that she would have stopped traffic if she walked on a busy street. Her dressing was the killer element, as she knew how to combine colors, expose the little things that got men staring and always show her goddess legs. Rich she was. Beautiful she was. Educated she was. But she breathed fire!

On Tuesday the 3^rd August my friends Karanja and Wafula found me in the company of a young lady in my room, looking gloomy as I listened to her endless chatter. Karanja's eyes darted from me to her, and an instant queer smile enveloped his face. I could see, though, that Wafula was intently scrutinizing her long, green dress and her toe nails coated with dust. I had noticed it myself, that ankle length mtumba dress bought somewhere in Gikomba market, if anywhere else, in the Green City in the Sun. But much more it now had an oval stain slightly above the knee. She had stained it in my room, for when she knocked; I was having a cup of coffee and was compelled to serve her one. Holding the cup on the left hand and clumsily searching her bag with the other, she accidentally spilled coffee on herself. She let out a small laugh, looked at the dress, wiped it absentmindedly and put the cup down to look for the book. She did not seem to find it, hence just asked;

“Was Hester Prynne a living, breathing person of gone ages or the creation of Hawthorne's genius?”

I was about to answer. I would have gladly gone into excruciating details about the legendary Scarlet Letter. But the sight of Karanja and Wafula inspired in me some loathing about myself, my lifestyle. All I was, all I did, was books. I practically lived in the library. Hence was doomed to discuss about the English, American, African, Latino and Japanese literatures with Mary and others like her who smiled away the burning sensation of hot coffee on their thighs. That feeling made me imagine myself in front of a mirror, looking back at image of a person I increasingly doubted whether was me or someone else that was inevitably growing morbid. Not once, not twice, was I told that this was a miserable way to spent four years of university life.

“I'm not sure I know anything about Hester Prynne!” I told Mary, dismissively.

A few minutes later I had changed and was walking past the poorly lit Roysambu pavements, walking a step or two behind my friends. For a Tuesday night something seemed magical. People were talking out loud, walking leisurely up and down the streets, in and out bars, looking particularly animated. Excitement coursed through me.

On Tuesday the 3^rd August my friends Karanja and Wafula found me in the company of a young lady in my room, looking gloomy as I listened to her endless chatter. Karanja's eyes darted from me to her, and an instant queer smile enveloped his face. I could see, though, that Wafula was intently scrutinizing her long, green dress and her toe nails coated with dust. I had noticed it myself, that ankle length mtumba dress bought somewhere in Gikomba market, if anywhere else, in the Green City in the Sun. But much more it now had an oval stain slightly above the knee. She had stained it in my room, for when she knocked; I was having a cup of coffee and was compelled to serve her one. Holding the cup on the left hand and clumsily searching her bag with the other, she accidentally spilled coffee on herself. She let out a small laugh, looked at the dress, wiped it absentmindedly and put the cup down to look for the book. She did not seem to find it, hence just asked;

“Was Hester Prynne a living, breathing person of gone ages or the creation of Hawthorne's genius?”

I was about to answer. I would have gladly gone into excruciating details about the legendary Scarlet Letter. But the sight of Karanja and Wafula inspired in me some loathing about myself, my lifestyle. All I was, all I did, was books. I practically lived in the library. Hence was doomed to discuss about the English, American, African, Latino and Japanese literatures with Mary and others like her who smiled away the burning sensation of hot coffee on their thighs. That feeling made me imagine myself in front of a mirror, looking back at image of a person I increasingly doubted whether was me or someone else that was inevitably growing morbid. Not once, not twice, was I told that this was a miserable way to spent four years of university life.

“I'm not sure I know anything about Hester Prynne!” I told Mary, dismissively.

A few minutes later I had changed and was walking past the poorly lit Roysambu pavements, walking a step or two behind my friends. For a Tuesday night something seemed magical. People were talking out loud, walking leisurely up and down the streets, in and out bars, looking particularly animated. Excitement coursed through me.

Loud music blaring from the neighbor next door fucked-up my mood in the wee hours of that Monday morning. Infuriated, I vaulted out of bed, my vexation multiplied every second by the urge to relieve my bowels. Twice the keys slipped off my fingers in a desperate attempt to unlock the door. As I did, my whole being was accosted by a throbbing deep pulsing bass of un-music. Discomfited, my full bowel leaked slightly, threatening to erupt altogether. All the while my head was reeling with nostalgic confusion of an unusual yesterday, and then I saw him there, and froze. Everything froze. The music. The pressure on my bowels. The pain in my head. Everything was suspended in a photographic frame except for him. His presence was the only thing palpable and his seething eyes stunned me perilously like a deer in the headlights.

The interloper looked me straight in the eye. Right into the black dot in the center of the iris of my eye as it expanded in tandem with my terror and racing heart, he peered deep and beyond the reaches of my own awareness. Sleep gone; I steeled myself and held his gaze. He smiled. A smile that revealed yellowish teeth with fragments of green. It was not the time to ponder his nightly diet. It was time to get rid of him. Fast.

He did not say hello. He did not shake my hand when I extended mine. He did not even seem to notice that the noise of the music next door suddenly came back up in a startling intensity.

“Is she here?” He asked.

“No! She went away last night. Late last night.”

He had a tetra pak milk carton of KCC gold crown in his hand. And a straw. He looked down as though to disguise impatience and then tightened his grip menacingly, collapsing the carton into itself. A river of white gushed out of the roof of the carton, a stark contrast to a clenched black fist. Then without a word, he walked away. As though he was gone to regroup, and attack with the surety of a kill.

I went back into my room, trembling. I thought to myself, what a big mess I had gotten myself into. It was already three am and Nora, who was supposed to be present for the play on the other side of town by eight, was nowhere to be seen. And  so I resigned myself to the fact that she was not going to be throwing in a disturbance into the flow of my day again. Yet, at the back of my mind, I still longed to see her.

Sitting back in my bed, I took my water bottle and gulped on it like a nomad. Then I walked out the room, passing my insensitively noisy neighbor’s door on the way to the washroom at the end of the corridor that the entire block shared. I staggered in, and in a swift single motion, lifted my nightie while pulling my panties below my knees as I squatted down to dump the dissidents interned in my belly into the pit latrine.

No sooner had I returned to my room than my door slowly swung open. She was there, dress changed, no odor of fragrance as you'd expect a woman of her beauty, but her calm in place.

“Your friend just left.” I said, “He was looking for you!”

“Yeah. I know. I just met him downstairs.”

“He was supposed to pick you up last night?”

BBC African Performance is an annual season of unique radio drama, which has now entered its fifth decade and has been designed to encourage new African writing.

In the past decade, African Performance has continued to reveal themes that reflect the concerns of the continent.

The plight of child soldiers, mob justice, people trafficking and prostitution, football fanaticism, internet dating and science fiction - these are just a few of the themes that have emerged from our competition in recent years.

If you feel that you can authentically touch the lives of Africans with your writing - why not submit your script for a radio play.

Please read the rules and follow the steps on how to enter below.

How to enter African Performance 2011

The play must be 30 minutes long when read aloud and must have no more than six main characters.

Before entering the BBC African Performance playwriting competition click please read the rules of the competition carefully.

This competition opens on 1 November 2010 and all plays must reach us in London by 2400 GMT on Saturday 15 January 2011.

You can send your play along with an entry form either by email attachment as a word document to african.performance@bbc.co.uk.

Or you can post your play to:

BBC African Performance

P.O. Box 76

Bush House

London

UK

Your personal information will only be used by the BBC for the purposes of administration of this competition.

I am now of the opinion that all extra-ordinary days start out like any other. So was February the Eleventh. Nothing about it was different from any other of my mornings. Of course, except for a text message I had received a little after one in the morning, and pissed off by the indecency of its timing, and a sweet dream unceremoniously cut, I deferred its reading till long after I had had breakfast. It wasn’t so bad, for it gave meaning to an otherwise ‘plotless’ day. Someone wanted me to meet them in town. This meeting was to be either at ten or one, an open choice to my own convenience. It now was a few past ten, and I am of the discipline of timekeeping.

Loud music blaring from the neighbor next door fucked-up my mood in the wee hours of that Monday morning. Infuriated, I vaulted out of bed, my vexation multiplied every second by the urge to relieve my bowels. Twice the keys slipped off my fingers in a desperate attempt to unlock the door. As I did, my whole being was accosted by a throbbing deep pulsing bass of un-music. Discomfited, my full bowel leaked slightly, threatening to erupt altogether. All the while my head was reeling with nostalgic confusion of an unusual yesterday, and then I saw him there, and froze. Everything froze. The music. The pressure on my bowels. The pain in my head. Everything was suspended in a photographic frame except for him. His presence was the only thing palpable and his seething eyes stunned me perilously like a deer in the headlights.

The interloper looked me straight in the eye. Right into the black dot in the center of the iris of my eye as it expanded in tandem with my terror and racing heart, he peered deep and beyond the reaches of my own awareness. Sleep gone; I steeled myself and held his gaze. He smiled. A smile that revealed yellowish teeth with fragments of green. It was not the time to ponder his nightly diet. It was time to get rid of him. Fast.

He did not say hello. He did not shake my hand when I extended mine. He did not even seem to notice that the noise of the music next door suddenly came back up in a startling intensity.

“Is she here?” He asked.

“No! She went away last night. Late last night.”

He had a tetra pak milk carton of KCC gold crown in his hand. And a straw. He looked down as though to disguise impatience and then tightened his grip menacingly, collapsing the carton into itself. A river of white gushed out of the roof of the carton, a stark contrast to a clenched black fist. Then without a word, he walked away. As though he was gone to regroup, and attack with the surety of a kill.

I went back into my room, trembling. I thought to myself, what a big mess I had gotten myself into. It was already three am and Nora, who was supposed to be present for the play on the other side of town by eight, was nowhere to be seen. And  so I resigned myself to the fact that she was not going to be throwing in a disturbance into the flow of my day again. Yet, at the back of my mind, I still longed to see her.

Sitting back in my bed, I took my water bottle and gulped on it like a nomad. Then I walked out the room, passing my insensitively noisy neighbor’s door on the way to the washroom at the end of the corridor that the entire block shared. I staggered in, and in a swift single motion, lifted my nightie while pulling my panties below my knees as I squatted down to dump the dissidents interned in my belly into the pit latrine.

No sooner had I returned to my room than my door slowly swung open. She was there, dress changed, no odor of fragrance as you'd expect a woman of her beauty, but her calm in place.

“Your friend just left.” I said, “He was looking for you!”

“Yeah. I know. I just met him downstairs.”

“He was supposed to pick you up last night?”

I loved those warm summer nights

They were always so deep and dark

And would easily engulf all

If not for the stars

So right and alive

So near…

Yet so far

Like fireflies trapped in the vast blue net

Of the dark summer sky

And yet

Tonight, as I watched those stars

They held no hope for me

They no longer winked down at me

As I waited for my love

But instead

They seemed cold, dark and distant

Even the moon

Hid herself from view

And somehow

I knew

That my love would not come

When I saw him

My heart skipped a beat

I had not expected it

I had not expected him

And his presence made my heart soar

But

To my dismay

He too had abandoned me

His eyes no longer had the spark and light

That I had come to know and love

And though he was with me, he was not

His body was there

But his heart was somewhere else

He

Like the stars

Was so close

Yet so far away

He said to me

In no uncertain terms

That he was mine no more.

The words he wrote

That I held close to my heart

And lay under my pillow when I slept

To endure that I dreamt of no other

Were to be writ no more

His loving smile

His sensual caress

And his amber eyes

Were no longer only for me

And with that, he was gone

No sad smile,

No long goodbyes

I looked to the stars for comfort

But they offered none

Remaining aloof

Refusing to intervene, or interfere

I looked into the dark, peaceful waters at my feet

Yes, they were our waters

They held many memories

Of happy frolicking in the springtime

Of gay swimming and splashing

Of heated passion on hot summer nights…

Perhaps if I looked into the cool waters

If I searched deep within them

I would find my love

Perhaps, perhaps…

The stars moved further and further away

Smiling sadly down at me

As I sank deeper and deeper into the abyss

Until they were gone

I felt my head grow light

And my eyes grow misty

Then

All was dark

The moon came out at last

In all her splendour

But she came too late

Sadly, she drifted away

For I

Like the stars

And like my love

Was gone.

An acquaintance of mine recently converted to Islam. I have no idea how or why, and I’m not intimate enough with this person to ask. I know that she recently lost someone very close to her, and that it made her sink into herself, shut our regular circle out, and probably question a lot of her deepest beliefs. I think it renewed her search for something she has never quite been able to find. I also believe that the person she lost was Muslim.

I feel that perhaps watching how the family coped with the loss may have helped her reach her decision. There is a certain peace that comes from sincere religion, and perhaps seeing such peace in a world where many religions, and especially Christianity, is largely empty shallow lip-service, may have made her realise what her own desires are.

I live in a town that is largely Muslim. I am curious about this religion, intrigued even, but I know very little about it. I know that a lot of its statutes have been misused and abused, and that in their genuine form, they are good and true. For example, I vaguely know that Koranic law is very specific about wives inheriting their husband’s property, and that when used justly, that inheritance law protects women.

I know that in its truest form, the buibui and hijab are intended to revere a woman’s modesty, and that keeping women separate in religious and social contexts is meant to protect her. I also know that misuse of this same separation has led to segregating women, limiting their experience and bringing unnecessary suspicion on them by the outside world. But I have always admired the idea behind it, the concept that the whole world sees black amorphous shrouded eyes, while in the sanctity of the bedroom, only her man can see how gorgeous she truly is. I think that’s beautiful.

Reality TV is pretty big lately, even though technically, there's no such thing. Even when we get live feeds of whichever million-dollar-house participants are shackled in, we can only see one camera at a time. Out of over 50 cameras, we see what the Producers want us to see, what the producers deem exciting or TV-worthy. But that hasn't stopped people from showing the 'reality' of everything from cooking to making clothes out of seaweed.

Makeovers pull crowds as well. Everyone likes the idea of being instantly glamorous, and I know I wouldn't refuse if I was offered one, even if I know that 60% of the glamour comes from lighting.

• Mamle Kabu (Ghana) ‘The End of Skill’ from ‘Dreams, Miracles and Jazz’, published by Picador Africa, Johannesburg 2008


• Parselelo Kantai (Kenya) ‘You Wreck Her’ from the St Petersburg Review, NY 2008


• Alistair Morgan (South Africa) ‘Icebergs’ from The Paris Review no. 183, NY 2008


• EC Osondu (Nigeria) ‘Waiting' from Guernicamag.com, October 2008


• Mukoma wa Ngugi (Kenya) ‘How Kamau wa Mwangi Escaped into Exile’ from ‘Wasafiri’ No54, Summer 2008, London

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious stones myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger ...and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

Now available on iPhone or Kindle and Mobipocket

CHAPTER I

They raised me who thieved me from a battlefield, so I know no family and have chanced upon naught in the hunt for my roots. I grew up in the jungles of Isiko, in the land of deadly warriors, but being a son of their enemy they taught me no skill to tend or mend.

Darabi’s Dija, that cemetery of woods, where a healer died of fever, where the widow’s tear was for her husband’s rival, there I met my foremost calling in life. Wood hated me, I knew, and I hated wood, but here I was, the disciple of a lumberjack, so I smiled upon wood.

On the day I was expelled, wood had its muscles tightened against the blades of my trade, blunting them as I hacked into its lanky nape. I conquered, but the kill that fell before the buyer, as I was told, was as hideous as a pauper’s purse, so Darabi dragged me to conference and dismissed me with no less than: ‘Loafer, loafer without patrimony, go to Maaya; go to the witch, for only such a one can dismember you from doom.’

Hunger then put me in the cult of a charlatan who was a herbalist who traded impotent concoctions. Our market was shingles, boils, barrenness and all manner of diseases that the sons of women grumbled of.

On the morning of our confinement, we had washed a foetus off the innards of its parent till they both became corpses. I swore innocence but my liberty came by Darabi, who was representative of me, for he argued: ‘This loafer hasn’t a knowledge of herbs, nor has he the eye of a diviner. His hands are not skilled. His brain hasn’t a discretion; he wanders into all servitude, profitable or vain.’

The shortlist for The Lost Man Booker Prize - a one-off prize to honour books published in 1970 that were not eligible for consideration for the Booker Prize:

• The Birds on the Trees by Nina Bawden (Virago)
• Troubles by J G Farrell (Phoenix)
• The Bay of Noon by Shirley Hazzard (Virago)
• Fire From Heaven by Mary Renault (Arrow)
• The Driver's Seat by Muriel Spark (Penguin)
• The Vivisector by Patrick White (Vintage)

Read more here

THE WAHOME MUTAHI LITERARY AWARD – 2010

THE WAHOME MUTAHI LITERARY AWARD

ENTRY RULES

ELIGIBILITY

The Wahome Mutahi Literary Award is the brain-child of the Kenya Publishers Association. It was established in 2004 and is open to Kenyan writers whose work is published in Kenya. The prize will be given bi-annually to the author of the most outstanding new book that will use humor and satire to explore areas such as human rights, governance, etiquette and other relevant social issues in the following categories:

Adult Fiction:

1. 1. English and
   2. Kiswahili
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East African Community 10th Anniversary Essay Competition

The Essay Competition is open to all East African Youth between the ages of 16 and 20 years. Essay Competition entrants are required to write between 1000 and 1500 words on the Topic: Relevance of EAC to the Aspirations of the People of East Africa – Discuss.

The awards to Winners of the Essay Competition will be made as follows:-

Overall Winner, East Africa - JUMUIYA AWARD - $ 1,500

National Winner, Tanzania - EAC UNDUGU AWARD - $ 1000

National Winner, Kenya - EAC UMOJA AWARD - $ 1000

National Winner, Burundi - EAC AMANI AWARD - $ 1000

National Winner, Rwanda - EAC UPENDO AWARD - $ 1000

National Winner, Uganda - EAC MAENDELEO AWARD - $ 1000

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As Fall for the Book begins its second decade, we’re once more hosting events at bookstores, restaurants, retail shops, and schools at all levels of the educational spectrum — middle school, high
school, community college, major university — throughout Northern Virginia, D.C., and Maryland.
In all, we’ll have more programs in more venues and collaboration with more businesses and
organizations than ever before in our history,allowing us to:

• Advance children’s education
• Make literature fun
• Connect readers and authors
• Build community
• Encourage cultural diversity

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Kwani Trust is pleased to announce a deadline extension for its national short story competition titled, ‘The Kenya I Live In’. Though we have received in excess of 400 entries, we feel that we have not done justice to what our original ends were for the competition. This includes reaching certain demographics and geographic locations. We have undertaken a huge outreach initiative to address this. The new competition deadline is now October 26, 2009. Kwani Trust would like to thank all the writers who have, so far ,submitted entries into the competition. We look forward to a successful completion of the process when we announce the winners in December, 2009.

Please note only the dates have changed, the rules and guidelines remain the same.However those who had sent their stories earlier and wish to re-submit are allowed to do so.

• Winner: Ksh. 100,000
• 1st runner up: Ksh. 75,000
• 2nd runner up: Ksh. 50,000

CUT OFF MY TONGUE’S WILL PERFORM AT UK'S HAY FESTIVAL ON THE 27TH MAY, 2009.

Written by Sitawa Namwalie and produced by Storymoja, this play/dramatized poetry rants, sweats, and breaks into song and dance as it explores the truths that shape us as Africans: our beliefs, the way we behave and why. Woven with music and dance, Sitawa’s Namwalie’s dramatised poetry is moving and frighteningly honest. It is politics - and love - that bites as it teases.

Cast: Sitawa Namwalie, Muthoni Garland, Alice Karunditu, Amimo Olembo, Chichi Seii, Shan Bartley, Ogutu Muraya, Grand Masese, Henry Anyanga.

UK:  Tickets £15.  Students & Seniors £10.

7pm. Saturday 23rd May, 2009

Hampstead Theatre
Eton Avenue, Swiss Cottage
London NW3 3EU

boxoffice@hampsteadtheatre.com

Telephone: 020-7722-9301

7pm. Thursday 28th May, 2009

Centerprise Trust, Dalston

136 Kingsland High Street,

London E8 2NS.

www.centerprisetrust.org.uk

eamevor@centerprisetrust.org.uk

Telephone:  020 7254 9632

For more information: www.hayfestival.com, http://storymojaafrica.wordpress.com, www.storymojaafrica.co.ke.

CHAPTER I

They raised me who thieved me from a battlefield, so I know no family and have chanced upon naught in the hunt for my roots. I grew up in the jungles of Isiko, in the land of deadly warriors, but being a son of their enemy they taught me no skill to tend or mend.

Darabi’s Dija, that cemetery of woods, where a healer died of fever, where the widow’s tear was for her husband’s rival, there I met my foremost calling in life. Wood hated me, I knew, and I hated wood, but here I was, the disciple of a lumberjack, so I smiled upon wood.

On the day I was expelled, wood had its muscles tightened against the blades of my trade, blunting them as I hacked into its lanky nape. I conquered, but the kill that fell before the buyer, as I was told, was as hideous as a pauper’s purse, so Darabi dragged me to conference and dismissed me with no less than: ‘Loafer, loafer without patrimony, go to Maaya; go to the witch, for only such a one can dismember you from doom.’

Hunger then put me in the cult of a charlatan who was a herbalist who traded impotent concoctions. Our market was shingles, boils, barrenness and all manner of diseases that the sons of women grumbled of.

On the morning of our confinement, we had washed a foetus off the innards of its parent till they both became corpses. I swore innocence but my liberty came by Darabi, who was representative of me, for he argued: ‘This loafer hasn’t a knowledge of herbs, nor has he the eye of a diviner. His hands are not skilled. His brain hasn’t a discretion; he wanders into all servitude, profitable or vain.’

An acquaintance of mine recently converted to Islam. I have no idea how or why, and I’m not intimate enough with this person to ask. I know that she recently lost someone very close to her, and that it made her sink into herself, shut our regular circle out, and probably question a lot of her deepest beliefs. I think it renewed her search for something she has never quite been able to find. I also believe that the person she lost was Muslim.

I feel that perhaps watching how the family coped with the loss may have helped her reach her decision. There is a certain peace that comes from sincere religion, and perhaps seeing such peace in a world where many religions, and especially Christianity, is largely empty shallow lip-service, may have made her realise what her own desires are.

I live in a town that is largely Muslim. I am curious about this religion, intrigued even, but I know very little about it. I know that a lot of its statutes have been misused and abused, and that in their genuine form, they are good and true. For example, I vaguely know that Koranic law is very specific about wives inheriting their husband’s property, and that when used justly, that inheritance law protects women.

I know that in its truest form, the buibui and hijab are intended to revere a woman’s modesty, and that keeping women separate in religious and social contexts is meant to protect her. I also know that misuse of this same separation has led to segregating women, limiting their experience and bringing unnecessary suspicion on them by the outside world. But I have always admired the idea behind it, the concept that the whole world sees black amorphous shrouded eyes, while in the sanctity of the bedroom, only her man can see how gorgeous she truly is. I think that’s beautiful.

Our minister does not sleep

Oh no he doesn’t…

When electrical power goes out

(No sooner than the sun has set)

He has a hand in it

When the fire on the stove

Burns itself out while waiting for flour

He has a stake in it

He finds the time

In his busy schedule

To direct constituency development funds

To develop his constitution

He only rests his eyelids

In broad daylight

Inside parliament

When important bills

Come up for discussion

But even then he is not asleep

Absolutely not...

He still expropriates and appropriates

He taxes while he snores

And spends while he drools

When we all retire

Mheshimiwa goes out

On the prowl

Along Koinange Avenue

Sampling street walkers

To ensure their fitness

For western tourists

Our Mheshimiwa loves the youth

With all his being

Be they boys or be they girls

With them he is generous to a fault

That is why they call him

Baba sukari

The formerly

Mrs. Western Sudan

She divorced herself

Against her husband’s will

And for a while

Went by her childhood name

Darfur

But the old husband

With weak objections

From the community

Married her off

To Mr. Crisis

And now

We all call her

Darfur Crisis

She mourns with

Two million

Internally displaced

Voices

Seeking refuge on

Refrains of Rwanda

And longs for a

Home-land

Of her own

Drifting

Calmly

Away from reality

Succumbing to

Inertia

Half asleep

Through eight hour

Days

Half awake

Through fourteen hour

Nights

Around me

Carols are sang to

A faith-based Santa

Friends

Congregate at

Festivities

where libations

meant for the Gods

quench human throats

Wrapped gifts are

Sacrificially laid

Under an evergreen

Plastic tree

twinkling with

multi-colored LED lights

As a parent, I know it’s pretty easy to love your kids. Not always. It can get tricky to summon that warm fuzzy feeling when they wake you at 3.00 a.m. with colic, or when the toddler breaks your prized trophy, or when your six-year-old craves attention in the loud, inexhaustible way of six-year-olds, or when your teenager gets high on cheap weed and crashes your bosses’ new car. But for the most part, it’s easy to love your children. They share your genes. You see pieces of yourself in them. You carried them inside you for nine months and felt them kick, you saw their tiny eyes the first time they smiled, you know that they belong to you. For adoptive parents, you made a conscious choice to own this little person and love them and raise them. So it’s easy to love your kids.

But what makes our kids love us? When they’re all grown up, they can see themselves in us as they raise their own families, and they finally comprehend the sacrifices we made for them, and they love us for it – mostly they do. But what about when they’re little? They are only vaguely aware that they share our last names, and that our first names are Mum and Dad, but they can’t know what that means. They just accept it as normal, no question, but they have no idea what they ‘own’.

• Mamle Kabu (Ghana) ‘The End of Skill’ from ‘Dreams, Miracles and Jazz’, published by Picador Africa, Johannesburg 2008


• Parselelo Kantai (Kenya) ‘You Wreck Her’ from the St Petersburg Review, NY 2008


• Alistair Morgan (South Africa) ‘Icebergs’ from The Paris Review no. 183, NY 2008


• EC Osondu (Nigeria) ‘Waiting' from Guernicamag.com, October 2008


• Mukoma wa Ngugi (Kenya) ‘How Kamau wa Mwangi Escaped into Exile’ from ‘Wasafiri’ No54, Summer 2008, London

The sun is at full blast

And a sticky suffocating stench

Of sweat and faeces

Is palpable even in the shade

Then God

Heaves and exhales

Blowing up

Plumes of dust

And soil and dirt

From a dry rocky patch

In the only open space

Between shanty shacks

Where bare feet

Kick around a home-made

Polythene-bag ball

Stitched together with

Sisal strings

The wind intensifies

Collecting the rubbish into a heap

Large rain drops, warm to the skin,

Fall from heaven

Forming tiny rivers

That wash the rubbish heap down gullies

And trenches to the dammed lake

Leaving a clean fragrant freshness

And a clear sky as blue as

The ocean

A bell rings

And excited bare feet scatter

In all directions

No more school today

The classrooms are too wet

I lost my lover

I will never get him back

He stole my innocence

Impaled on a shaft of brutal ‘truth’

I said truth is relative

He said relative never frees

I said that kind of naked truth

Is easier given than received

He said

‘Honesty’ begets freedom

In the loins of him that gives it

Untangling a knotted web of secrets

Granting relief on him that gives it

I said

But for the person who receives it

Untangling strings do bind

The stain falls off the giver

And bind the heart of her who takes

I said

I care not that I am hurting-

Only that you hurt me!

He said

Please forgive me

Please be my friend again

I loved those warm summer nights

They were always so deep and dark

And would easily engulf all

If not for the stars

So right and alive

So near…

Yet so far

Like fireflies trapped in the vast blue net

Of the dark summer sky

And yet

Tonight, as I watched those stars

They held no hope for me

They no longer winked down at me

As I waited for my love

But instead

They seemed cold, dark and distant

Even the moon

Hid herself from view

And somehow

I knew

That my love would not come

When I saw him

My heart skipped a beat

I had not expected it

I had not expected him

And his presence made my heart soar

But

To my dismay

He too had abandoned me

His eyes no longer had the spark and light

That I had come to know and love

And though he was with me, he was not

His body was there

But his heart was somewhere else

He

Like the stars

Was so close

Yet so far away

He said to me

In no uncertain terms

That he was mine no more.

The words he wrote

That I held close to my heart

And lay under my pillow when I slept

To endure that I dreamt of no other

Were to be writ no more

His loving smile

His sensual caress

And his amber eyes

Were no longer only for me

And with that, he was gone

No sad smile,

No long goodbyes

I looked to the stars for comfort

But they offered none

Remaining aloof

Refusing to intervene, or interfere

I looked into the dark, peaceful waters at my feet

Yes, they were our waters

They held many memories

Of happy frolicking in the springtime

Of gay swimming and splashing

Of heated passion on hot summer nights…

Perhaps if I looked into the cool waters

If I searched deep within them

I would find my love

Perhaps, perhaps…

The stars moved further and further away

Smiling sadly down at me

As I sank deeper and deeper into the abyss

Until they were gone

I felt my head grow light

And my eyes grow misty

Then

All was dark

The moon came out at last

In all her splendour

But she came too late

Sadly, she drifted away

For I

Like the stars

And like my love

Was gone.

There she stands
with her short dark hair
chocolate seas for eyes
soft light skin
delicate and warm to the touch

A smile from her means so much to me

The sound of her voice
The words of her mouth
sing in my heart still

A sigh from her
came clear
Nothing is unclear anymore

I stand ready to open
the door

But the knock is coming slow

Is she coming or not?
I cannot bear losing hope
Is she coming to my spot

I'll wait,
It won't kill my glow

November 2000

As Fall for the Book begins its second decade, we’re once more hosting events at bookstores, restaurants, retail shops, and schools at all levels of the educational spectrum — middle school, high
school, community college, major university — throughout Northern Virginia, D.C., and Maryland.
In all, we’ll have more programs in more venues and collaboration with more businesses and
organizations than ever before in our history,allowing us to:

• Advance children’s education
• Make literature fun
• Connect readers and authors
• Build community
• Encourage cultural diversity

As you may have heard by now, Bantu Mwaura, the renowned Kenyan performing artist, director, playwright, storyteller, poet and university lecture, wasfound dead outside his gate at the Sunlight estate in Nairobi’s Lang’ata area on April 27th.

Read his orbituary and the circumstances leading to his death fromThe Standard, Global Voices,Pambazuka, Nairobi Chronicle,Blogger KenyaPoet, Wikipedia entry, Onyango Oloo on The EastAfrican,Presbyterian News Service

A limited preview his essay "Kenyan Youth and the entropic Destruction of a hopeful social order"  and "Orature of Combat: Cultural aesthetic of song as political action in performance of mau mau songs" is availabe from google books.

His publication: Our Strength is our Hope, Nairobi 1997 (poems)

His poem "The Politician" is attached

CUT OFF MY TONGUE’S WILL PERFORM AT UK'S HAY FESTIVAL ON THE 27TH MAY, 2009.

Written by Sitawa Namwalie and produced by Storymoja, this play/dramatized poetry rants, sweats, and breaks into song and dance as it explores the truths that shape us as Africans: our beliefs, the way we behave and why. Woven with music and dance, Sitawa’s Namwalie’s dramatised poetry is moving and frighteningly honest. It is politics - and love - that bites as it teases.

Cast: Sitawa Namwalie, Muthoni Garland, Alice Karunditu, Amimo Olembo, Chichi Seii, Shan Bartley, Ogutu Muraya, Grand Masese, Henry Anyanga.

UK:  Tickets £15.  Students & Seniors £10.

7pm. Saturday 23rd May, 2009

Hampstead Theatre
Eton Avenue, Swiss Cottage
London NW3 3EU

boxoffice@hampsteadtheatre.com

Telephone: 020-7722-9301

7pm. Thursday 28th May, 2009

Centerprise Trust, Dalston

136 Kingsland High Street,

London E8 2NS.

www.centerprisetrust.org.uk

eamevor@centerprisetrust.org.uk

Telephone:  020 7254 9632

For more information: www.hayfestival.com, http://storymojaafrica.wordpress.com, www.storymojaafrica.co.ke.

Enjoy a limited preview from google books of his essay Constitutions without Constitutionalism published in Constitutionalism and Democracy Edited  Douglas Greenberg, American Council of Learned Societies, Stanley N. Katz.

Also attached are some of his papers.

Information Circulars and Factsheets (US Copyright law)

FL-104, Revised June 2008

If you have written an article, column, or short story that has been published in a magazine, newspaper, or other periodical, you may make a separate registration for your work. This kind of work is called a “contribution to a collective work.”

Under the present copyright law, the copyright in a separate contribution to a published collective work such as a periodical is distinct from the copyright in the collective work as a whole. In the absence of an express transfer from the author of the individual article, the copyright owner in the collective work is presumed to have acquired only the privilege of using the contribution in the collective work and in subsequent revisions and later editions of the collective work.

As is the case with all published works, a contribution, such as a pictorial or graphic work, to a collective work may appear with its own notice of copyright. However, the law does provide that a single notice covering the collective work as a whole can defeat a defense of “innocent infringement.”

If you anticipate publication of a series of contributions during a 12-month period, you may be interested in special provisions that provide for registration of a group of contributions to a periodical. (See adjunct application Form GR?CP and note applicable instructions.)

The deposit will be either one complete copy of the best edition of the entire collective work, the complete section containing the contribution if published in a newspaper, the entire page containing the contribution, the contribution cut from the paper in which it appeared, or a photocopy of the contribution itself as it was published in the collective work.

For further information on registration, see SL-35. For further information on copyright, deposit requirements, and registration procedures, see Circular 1, Copyright Basics.

Contribution to Collective Work

There she stands
with her short dark hair
chocolate seas for eyes
soft light skin
delicate and warm to the touch

A smile from her means so much to me

The sound of her voice
The words of her mouth
sing in my heart still

A sigh from her
came clear
Nothing is unclear anymore

I stand ready to open
the door

But the knock is coming slow

Is she coming or not?
I cannot bear losing hope
Is she coming to my spot

I'll wait,
It won't kill my glow

November 2000

I loved those warm summer nights

They were always so deep and dark

And would easily engulf all

If not for the stars

So right and alive

So near…

Yet so far

Like fireflies trapped in the vast blue net

Of the dark summer sky

And yet

Tonight, as I watched those stars

They held no hope for me

They no longer winked down at me

As I waited for my love

But instead

They seemed cold, dark and distant

Even the moon

Hid herself from view

And somehow

I knew

That my love would not come

When I saw him

My heart skipped a beat

I had not expected it

I had not expected him

And his presence made my heart soar

But

To my dismay

He too had abandoned me

His eyes no longer had the spark and light

That I had come to know and love

And though he was with me, he was not

His body was there

But his heart was somewhere else

He

Like the stars

Was so close

Yet so far away

He said to me

In no uncertain terms

That he was mine no more.

The words he wrote

That I held close to my heart

And lay under my pillow when I slept

To endure that I dreamt of no other

Were to be writ no more

 His loving smile

His sensual caress

And his amber eyes

Were no longer only for me

And with that, he was gone

No sad smile,

No long goodbyes

I looked to the stars for comfort

But they offered none

Remaining aloof

Refusing to intervene, or interfere

I looked into the dark, peaceful waters at my feet

Yes, they were our waters

They held many memories

Of happy frolicking in the springtime

Of gay swimming and splashing

Of heated passion on hot summer nights…

Perhaps if I looked into the cool waters

If I searched deep within them

I would find my love

Perhaps, perhaps…

 The stars moved further and further away

Smiling sadly down at me

As I sank deeper and deeper into the abyss

Until they were gone

I felt my head grow light

And my eyes grow misty

Then

All was dark

The moon came out at last

In all her splendour

But she came too late

Sadly, she drifted away

For I

Like the stars

And like my love

Was gone.

My first love was an image

I loved all I thought he was

When the bubble burst,

The love died.

My second love was a ghost

He didn’t exist

I made love to him

And woke up with a corpse

My third love is a shadow

His shape is all I desire

I turn to the light

To find him real

And always, I smile.

I lost my lover

I will never get him back

He stole my innocence

Impaled on a shaft of brutal ‘truth’

I said truth is relative

He said relative never frees

I said that kind of naked truth

Is easier given than received

He said

‘Honesty’ begets freedom

In the loins of him that gives it

Untangling a knotted web of secrets

Granting relief on him that gives it

I said

But for the person who receives it

Untangling strings do bind

The stain falls off the giver

And bind the heart of her who takes

I said

I care not that I am hurting-

Only that you hurt me!

He said

Please forgive me

Please be my friend again

The sun is at full blast

And a sticky suffocating stench

Of sweat and feces

Is palpable even in the shade

Then God

Heaves and exhales

Blowing up

Plumes of dust

And soil and dirt

From a dry rocky patch

In the only open space

Between shanty shacks

Where bare feet

Kick around a home-made

Plastic-bag ball 

Stitched together with

Sisal strings

The wind intensifies

Collecting the rubbish into a heap

Large rain drops, warm to the skin,

Fall from heaven

Forming tiny rivers

That wash the rubbish heap down gullies

And trenches to the dammed lake

Leaving a clean fragrant freshness

And a clear sky as blue as

The ocean

A bell rings

And excited bare feet scatter

In all directions  

No more school today

The classrooms are too wet 

Walking home yesterday, I had to giggle. I walked past this group of five adults ranging in age from mid-thirties to at least sixty. They were arranged in a large black pajero, some inside, some outside, and all looking utterly frazzled. The car was parked right in front of a house with a large, impenetrable black gate, the kind with a tricircle keyhole. Gates like that lock themselves automatically from the outside, so you need a key to get back in.

From what I could gather, a lady had come to the gate to escort (or receive) her guests, and in the heat of conversation, had let the gate slip shut. And apparently, she had no keys.

I could see that the house was quite far from the gate, so yelling wasn’t doing much good. None of them was using a cell phone, so perhaps the house was empty. So the old man sat helplessly in the car, feigning disinterest, one guy tried to scale the wall [with much amusement and little success], one paced before the gate occasionally peeking in at the cracks for some divine solution. I don’t know how – or if – they got into the house, but they certainly made my day lighter.

In the past, the victors in this mess would be the smartest – the genius who could invent a bulldozer using nothing but a spare pajero wheel, a winch, and a match. Or perhaps the fittest, who could jump over the wall with ease. Or better yet, the strongest, who could ram headfirst into the gate, or throw someone over the wall. Of course in this last case, props would go to the lightest, since he is the one that actually got to the other side.

The sun is at full blast

And the suffocating stench

Of sweat and feces

Is palpable even in the shade

Then God

Heaves and exhales

Blowing up

Plumes of dust

And soil and dirt

From a dry rocky patch

In the only open space

Between shanty shacks

Where bare feet

Kick around a home-made

Plastic-bag ball 

Stitched together with

Sisal strings

The wind intensifies

Collecting the rubbish into a heap

Large rain drops, warm to the skin,

Fall from heaven

Forming tiny rivers

That wash the rubbish heap down gullies

And trenches to the dammed lake

Leaving a clean fragrant freshness

And a clean sky as blue as

The ocean

A bell rings

And excited bare feet scatter

In all directions  

No more school today

The classrooms are too wet 

THE JOMO KENYATTA PRIZE FOR LITERATURE 2009-ENTRY FORM

*All entries must reach the KPA Secretariat not later than 31^st March, 2009

The Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature is the brainchild of the Kenya Publishers Association. It was established in the early 1970’s and is open to Kenyan writers whose work is published in Kenya. The prize is given biennially to the author of the most outstanding new book in any of the following categories:

Adult Fiction: English and Kiswahili

Books for children: English and Kiswahili

Books for youth:  English and b. Kiswahili

PRESENTATION

The Prize will be presented during the 12^th Nairobi International Bookfair to be held in September 2009.

RULES GOVERNING THE AWARD

The following rules must be adhered to:

Eligible entries for the 2009 Prize are those books published in 2007 and 2008

Any original work of fiction written in English or Kiswahili will be eligible.

All entries can be submitted through a publisher

In order to qualify, all entries submitted must be published in Kenya

Generally, any book submitted should have a minimum of 48 pages. However, in certain categories of creative writing and children’s literature, books of shorter length may be considered.

Only published works are eligible.

The quality of content will be the overriding criterion. The following however must be taken into consideration when submitting a title: quality of binding, cover design, quality of paper, quality of illustrations where applicable, and general layout.

non-returnable copies of the submitted title(s), accompanied by an entry form and entry fee must be sent to the undersigned as soon as possible but not later than 31st March, 2009. A summary of the work and reasons for its suitability must be submitted together with the entry form.

The decision of the Committee for the Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature will be final. No further correspondence will be entered into in connection with the Award.

Mailing Address: The Executive Officer

Kenya Publishers Association

P.O. Box 42767, 00100

Nairobi

Physical Address: Kenya Publishers Association

Occidental Plaza 2^nd floor (formerly Muthithi House)

Muthithi Road, Westlands

...and I don't mean me :)

 “If my life is for rent, and I don’t learn to buy, then I deserve nothing more than I get, coz nothing I have is truly mine.” Dido

A lot of us live in rented houses. It’s easier. As long as you find a place within your means, and scrimp to pay it once a month, you can live your 29 days in relative ease and comfort.

But everyone longs to own a home, to buy their own piece of…heaven, if you can call it that. To know that no more angry landlords [or bankers] can bang on your door at midnight, demanding their dues. Peace, rest, and a leak-free roof.

Some documents are attached. Press release

Pre-Trial Chamber I of the International Criminal Court (ICC) issued a warrant for the arrest of Omar Hassan Ahmad Al Bashir, President of Sudan, for war crimes and crimes against humanity. He is suspected of being criminally responsible, as an indirect (co-)perpetrator, for intentionally directing attacks against an important part of the civilian population of Darfur, Sudan, murdering, exterminating, raping, torturing and forcibly transferring large numbers of civilians, and pillaging their property.the files

Treasury Releases Detailed Guidelines on Mortgage Modification Plan.

The Homeowner Affordability and Stability Plan is part of the President's broad, comprehensive strategy to get the economy back on track.  The plan will help up to 7 to 9 million families restructure or refinance their mortgages to avoid foreclosure. In doing so, the plan not only helps responsible homeowners on the verge of defaulting, but prevents neighborhoods and communities from being pulled over the edge too, as defaults and foreclosures contribute to falling home values, failing local businesses, and lost jobs.

The Kenya National Commission on Human Rights (KNCHR) recognizes the existence of the culture of impunity in Kenya and the need to remove this shield. In the preceding chapters of this report, the KNCHRhas made key recommendations including calling upon the Attorney General of the Republic of Kenya and/or the Kenya Police Force to undertake further investigations on various issues that the Report raises.

Sometimes I think I have a beautiful soul, but it's really just the heart of a child. I shut out what I can't undertstand, I pretend it doesn't exist. I can't comprehend the depth of human evil, I can't see why people do the screwed up stuff they do. It's not real. It's not human. I bleed when I think of it, and I cry, so I try not to think, read on it, see it. I don't like dark histories, or black movies.

In my world, bad things happen, but not awful things, not wicked things. I read about people breeding slaves, and forcing children to be whores, and gang rapes during war, and I tell myself it's exaggerated, some story cooked by hollywood and UN to bring in more funding, make more money. No one can be that cruel. I don't want a world where these things happen.

The third world today is what the ‘first world’ was centuries ago. Back then the Angles fought the Saxons fought the Romans fought the Gauls in the same way that Kenyan tribes do. People had the same mistrust, the same biases, the same misconceptions that we have. And they have taken hundreds of years to work through their misguidance and become Europeans.

Yet even now, there are still light and not-so-light jokes about the Irish and the Germans and the English and the French. America is like the UK in teenage – wild, loud and rebellious. The very concept of America is a conscious revolt against everything British, from language, to political systems, to geographical names. Yet the teen, with his Mohawk and piercings and crazy hair, has many elements of the adult. Old American policies of slavery, Native Indian land-use and immigration are an uncanny mirror of the colonist systems of The Empire.

The grammar in these words suggests a five year old, but the strength behind them probably derives from the frustrated adult that first said them. A question that plagues every human over 12 is this: Who’s my boss?

The core issue is careers. What will I do with my life? Where will I spend 8 hours of my day? How will I pay for that new car? Where will I get the money for those Prada shoes or Gameboy or Chidi Benz CD?

A career counselor once told me that people my age are lucky – we get to choose our jobs. She said that people her age stumbled into their careers. They just woke up one morning, found themselves in some office, and stayed there for life. She didn’t seem happy about the office life had thrown her into, despite being a reknowned radio announcer and instructor.

People of her era didn’t know much about career options. Their parents decided what they should be, and did everything possible to get them there. Or they simply filled the first job vacancy they came across. Poaching [and Quarter Life Crisis] hadn’t been invented yet, so you generally kept your job for life.

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious stones myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger ...and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

As a parent, I know it’s pretty easy to love your kids. Not always. It can get tricky to summon that warm fuzzy feeling when they wake you at 3.00 a.m. with colic, or when the toddler breaks your prized trophy, or when your six-year-old craves attention in the loud, inexhaustible way of six-year-olds, or when your teenager gets high on cheap weed and crashes your bosses’ new car. But for the most part, it’s easy to love your children. They share your genes. You see pieces of yourself in them. You carried them inside you for nine months and felt them kick, you saw their tiny eyes the first time they smiled, you know that they belong to you. For adoptive parents, you made a conscious choice to own this little person and love them and raise them. So it’s easy to love your kids.

But what makes our kids love us? When they’re all grown up, they can see themselves in us as they raise their own families, and they finally comprehend the sacrifices we made for them, and they love us for it – mostly they do. But what about when they’re little? They are only vaguely aware that they share our last names, and that our first names are Mum and Dad, but they can’t know what that means. They just accept it as normal, no question, but they have no idea what they ‘own’.

Question

This is a trick questions of course, Herr Paulson and Helicopter Ben have already made the decision for us.

Still it would be interesting to get "Mr and Mrs Joseph and Jane Sixpack's" opinions on the issue.

Enough with the experts, infact whole chunks of  economics text books are being rewritten in the wake of the Bush debacle. From role of government, deficit spending, stimulus packages, bailouts, unemployment.

February '04 (Isaiah 65; 1-2)

Remember when it was beautiful

When my name was your breath

When you knew was wonderful

When my word was your health?

What happened since then?

Why did you suddenly change?

How did you fall and when

Why did you choose to be so strange?

What are you crying about?

Tell me I want to know

Where did you pick up all this doubt?

Come back now; redeem your glow

Go back to where you left me

Just try and I'll find you first

I want lo set you free,

I want to quench your thirst.

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious metals myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger ...and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

CHAPTER 19

It was cheeseburgers that started it all. I had gone to the city on holiday – we must have been about twelve. I was so excited – not so much to see the city, but to see my sister. My twin sister! How I loved my sister Nala. That was her name. My own is Kwata.

Ever since the beginning of science, people have been fascinated with time travel. No one [that I know of] has achieved it, but the theories are similar. They all seem to agree on parallel time and the butterfly effect.

The concept is that while I am here, today, on 4^th December 2008, there is another me living her life in another space, on 4^th December, 2007, and that somewhere in the space of December 4^th, 1981, my mother is sitting somewhere, waiting for me to be born.

Think of space as a giant harp, or a massive guitar. Every year is a string on that guitar. So 2008 is one string, and 1981 is one string. Different dates are different positions on that string. That’s why if I jump from here to the December 2007 string, I will see myself. And of course the 2007 version of me will be shocked beyond repair, and could possibly go mad. Therefore, the first rule of time travel is never see yourself.

As a believer, my explanation for these things is simple: familiar spirits. My faith tells me that there are good angels and bad angels. The bad angels work for the devil, and their goal in life is to discredit faith in God. They do that any way they can, but mostly by encouraging faith in other things like undead spirits [Henry], and superhero magical powers [telekinesis, time travel, flying], UFOs, white magic and so on.

The familiar spirits rebelled against God and were kicked out of heaven. So they have nothing better to do than hover around eavesdropping on people’s conversations and preying on their beliefs to reinforce the false ones. A familiar spirit probably heard the argument Henry had with his father, and came back years later to cause the funeral day mischief. A familiar spirit convinces someone that they have telekinetic powers so that they no longer believe in God or miracles. Instead, they believe in Heroes, that they have somehow evolved and tapped into the 90% of the brain that other humans don’t use.

The grammar in these words suggests a five year old, but the strength behind them probably derives from the frustrated adult that first said them. A question that plagues every human over 12 is this: Who’s my boss?

The core issue is careers. What will I do with my life? Where will I spend 8 hours of my day? How will I pay for that new car? Where will I get the money for those Prada shoes or Gameboy or Chidi Benz CD?

A career counselor once told me that people my age are lucky – we get to choose our jobs. She said that people her age stumbled into their careers. They just woke up one morning, found themselves in some office, and stayed there for life. She didn’t seem happy about the office life had thrown her into, despite being a reknowned radio announcer and instructor.

People of her era didn’t know much about career options. Their parents decided what they should be, and did everything possible to get them there. Or they simply filled the first job vacancy they came across. Poaching [and Quarter Life Crisis] hadn’t been invented yet, so you generally kept your job for life.

When you

Unravel

Do it real-time

Online

Worldwide

If you

Burn out

Make yourself

Dry intrepid fuel

Inflame evil

Then explode

In a fatal

Blaze of glory

If you have to

Fall

First rise high

And touch the sky

Make yourself

A Callous ball

Drop down

Crashing

Systematic Graft

When you

Collapse…

xx

I just told off some twelve year old child for doing something perfectly logical – and all because he made my child cry. For that, I came pretty close to making him cry.

Here’s the scenario. My daughter saves up for two weeks to buy her favourite candy bar. For some reason, she goes to the shop and buys milk instead. Then she changes her mind – as women do – and returns the milk, asking for her money back. The child minding the shop tells her it’s against policy to accept goods once sold, and my child comes home crying.

I then go to the shop and chew the child’s ears off before eventually leaving extremely pissed with neither the milk nor the money.

As it turns, the shop owed her 100 tsh in change, so I did get that.

The situation was resolved when I refunded my child’s money and made her promise not to go to that shop again. But the whole mess got me thinking.

Calmly

Drifting

Away from reality

Succumbing to

Inertia

Half asleep

Through eight hour

Days

Half awake

Through fourteen hour

Nights

Around me

Carols are sang to

A faith-based Santa

Friends 

Congregates at

Festivities

And Parties

Where gifts are

Sacrificially laid

Under an evergreen

Lighted

Tree

 …knowing something is wrong with your child, knowing they are ‘not themselves’, knowing something is bothering them, hearing them say ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ when they are only five, knowing they couldn’t explain even if they wanted to, because they can’t comprehend it themselves, and begging to make it all better…fear is being a parent.

About a year ago. My child asked me a frightening question. ‘Mummy, what happens to me if you die?” I was shocked. It came out of the blue. I tried to find out what prompted it, but got nowhere. Then I tried to brush her off, telling her I wasn’t going to die anytime soon. But she insisted, “I know, but what happens to me when you die?”

I then went round in circles and dropped some red herrings about burial and cremation, and carrying around ashes in handbags filled with chocolate scented envelopes. She giggled, and seemed to like the envelopes. Hours later, when I thought the topic was forgotten, she came and sat beside me, placed her head in my lap and said “Mummy, I don’t want you to be dead.”

That was a year ago.

A lot happened in that one year. I met someone whom I loved, and whom I thought loved me, and who my child was fond of. But then I realized they were not what they seemed, and I bailed. That’s when I got scared.

Ever since then, there’s something I’ve been meaning to do. But somehow I never got round to it. Stuff kept coming up. Excuses maybe, or maybe chicken, but I just never got round to doing it, until today.

A very gifted crew of enterprising Kenyans have made a movie. Coming soon to a DVD near you, watch this space for updates and exclusive sneak previews. The movie is entitled Unseen, Unsung: Unforgotten. It's a full feature film - 2 hours long. It is about people suffering from HIV/AIDs and how it affects them and their families and friends. The movie hopes to show people that HIV is a disease and not a judgement call on those who have it.

Fimbo publishing project reached a major milestone today. The first, hopefully of many, titles is now available in print

at Amazon.com. The book is a novel titled " Against the Gods: Wendy's War " by Crystal Ading'.

The narrative recounts the struggles of Wendy Bakari in her journey to womanhood. After a successful stay in the city to obtain her education, a jilted Wendy returns to a fictional African village called Lufinga where she is forced to confront misogyny, evil spirits, female circumcision and other strange customs. Yet as the granddaughter of the village witch, she must walk a fine line lest she be consumed by her own desires.

Crystal Ading' is a single mother living in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. She won joint third prize in the African Performance Playwriting Competition 2007 for her radio play, The Game Plan. The play was produced and aired on BBC Radio. Against the Gods is her first novel.

Order your copy today at Amazon.com

Fimbo Publishing is running a new campaign based on the historic election of Barack Obama as president of the United States this past Tuesday.

"There are those who will continue to tell us that we can't do this, that we can't have what we're looking  for, that we can't have what we want, that we're peddling false hopes. But here is what I know....Yes,  we can. Yes, we can change. Yes, we can." Sen. Barack Obama's remarks after he won the  Democratic presidential primary in South Carolina.

Please read the Entry rules carefully before submitting

The goal of Fimbo Publishing is to capture a written narrative of African cultural identity, both non-fiction (how things really are) and fiction (how we
see ourselves in the mind's eye)

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Contribution to Collective Work

They say speech is silver but silence is golden. I’m into precious metals myself, so I’d prefer turquoise or topaz. And besides, I’m allergic to metals. They also say silence means consent, though I’m not sure why, because refusal to speak usually means the exact opposite. I think it’s called passive aggression.

While neo-wisdom claims that ‘bricks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me,’ sages warn against the power of the tongue. Broken bones can mend, and wounds can heal, but words are remembered forever, and they cut where no doctor or balm can reach.

So we can agree on the power of words. But there’s one weapon that’s even stronger – and that’s the lack of them. Sulky silence has drawn confessions from unfaithful lovers. Isolation has broken some of the toughest criminals. Most sugar-high hyper-sanguine children [and some adults] can be tamed by the silent treatment.

Quietness does have its positives. People think you’re a lot smarter when you stay quiet. It makes you look deep and contemplative, and hides the less-than-intelligent thoughts that are lurking in your mind. For monks and nuns, silence is salvation itself. And even for the noisy ones among us, a few hours of quiet are necessary for sleep.

 The grammar in these words suggests a five year old, but the strength behind them probably derives from the frustrated adult that first said them. A question that plagues every human over 12 is this: Who’s my boss?

The core issue is careers. What will I do with my life? Where will I spend 8 hours of my day? How will I pay for that new car? Where will I get the money for those Prada shoes or Gameboy or Chidi Benz CD?

A career counselor once told me that people my age are lucky – we get to choose our jobs. She said that people her age stumbled into their careers. They just woke up one morning, found themselves in some office, and stayed there for life. She didn’t seem happy about the office life had thrown her into, despite being a reknowned radio announcer and instructor.

People of her era didn’t know much about career options. Their parents decided what they should be, and did everything possible to get them there. Or they simply filled the first job vacancy they came across. Poaching [and Quarter Life Crisis] hadn’t been invented yet, so you generally kept your job for life.

Colleagues

TGIFing

Traffic snails to the 

Watershed

Where lethargic throats

are washed back to boisterous

carefree and merry life

If the weekend was a president

they have Obama

I’m stuck with Mugabe

my day off was Thursday

Procrastinating on

emails, meetings, conference calls

high level and low level design plans

sales targets and time sheets

Weak weekend

weaker still

my effort to join in

the celebrations

worrying over

the lousy economy and job security

shrinking savings and retirement plans

taxes and bills and overdrafts

and who will be

in this Sundays’

Government bailout

They have forecasted

subzero temperatures

and light snow tomorrow

sunrise at 8:00 am

I report to work at 7:00 am

I only hope the motion sensing

light switch is working

and the coffee machine wasn't locked-in

and my milk wasn’t thrown-out

when they cleaned up the refrigerator

and the AC is set high enough

and that I am not alone

in that big empty office

Copyright © 2008 Cashlink {joscommentenable}

Ever since the beginning of science, people have been fascinated with time travel. No one [that I know of] has achieved it, but the theories are similar. They all seem to agree on parallel time and the butterfly effect.

The concept is that while I am here, today, on 4^th December 2008, there is another me living her life in another space, on 4^th December, 2007, and that somewhere in the space of December 4^th, 1981, my mother is sitting somewhere, waiting for me to be born.

Think of space as a giant harp, or a massive guitar. Every year is a string on that guitar. So 2008 is one string, and 1981 is one string. Different dates are different positions on that string. That’s why if I jump from here to the December 2007 string, I will see myself. And of course the 2007 version of me will be shocked beyond repair, and could possibly go mad. Therefore, the first rule of time travel is never see yourself.

As a believer, my explanation for these things is simple: familiar spirits. My faith tells me that there are good angels and bad angels. The bad angels work for the devil, and their goal in life is to discredit faith in God. They do that any way they can, but mostly by encouraging faith in other things like undead spirits [Henry], and superhero magical powers [telekinesis, time travel, flying], UFOs, white magic and so on.

The familiar spirits rebelled against God and were kicked out of heaven. So they have nothing better to do than hover around eavesdropping on people’s conversations and preying on their beliefs to reinforce the false ones. A familiar spirit probably heard the argument Henry had with his father, and came back years later to cause the funeral day mischief. A familiar spirit convinces someone that they have telekinetic powers so that they no longer believe in God or miracles. Instead, they believe in Heroes, that they have somehow evolved and tapped into the 90% of the brain that other humans don’t use.

What does this have to do with the secrets DVD? Well, time travel is just theory, no proven facts. But all humans believe in some external forces at work in the world. Whether they are aliens or deities or fairies or our inner selves or migrating brainwaves, or even just the power of positive thinking, we believe in forces that affect life.

Religious people believe in God or angels or demons. Indigenous cultures call them ogres or genies or the undead. These forces are used to explain phenomena like telekinesis, precognition [prophesy, fortune telling] or loss of memory, or coincidence.

Fimbo publishing project reached a major milestone today. The first, hopefully of many, titles is now available in print

at Amazon.com. The book is a novel titled " Against the Gods: Wendy's War " by Crystal Ading'.

The narrative recounts the struggles of Wendy Bakari in her journey to womanhood. After a successful stay in the city to obtain her education, a jilted Wendy returns to a fictional African village called Lufinga where she is forced to confront misogyny, evil spirits, female circumcision and other strange customs. Yet as the granddaughter of the village witch, she must walk a fine line lest she be consumed by her own desires.

Crystal Ading' is a single mother living in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. She won joint third prize in the African Performance Playwriting Competition 2007 for her radio play, The Game Plan. The play was produced and aired on BBC Radio. Against the Gods is her first novel.

Order your copy today at Amazon.com

It was cheeseburgers that started it all. I had gone to the city on holiday – we must have been about twelve. I was so excited – not so much to see the city, but to see my sister. My twin sister! How I loved my sister Nala. That was her name. My own is Kwata.

Damn it!

CHAPTER 19

Ndaro raised his head as Leila approached, then nudged a rwaka next to him, and soon the handful of rwaka were staring at Leila. All those eyes made Leila nervous, but she stood her ground. She held her head high, searching the mass of young men. She spotted Tila scrubbing his feet with a pumice stone, and approached him.

He sneered. “Well, well, well,” he said loudly. “What have we here?”

“I need to talk to you,” Leila said softly.

“So talk,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Not here – in private.”

Fimbo Publishing is running a new campaign based on the historic election of Barack Obama as president of the United States this past Tuesday.

"There are those who will continue to tell us that we can't do this, that we can't have what we're looking  for, that we can't have what we want, that we're peddling false hopes. But here is what I know....Yes,  we can. Yes, we can change. Yes, we can." Sen. Barack Obama's remarks after he won the  Democratic presidential primary in South Carolina.

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