Wednesday, March 28, 2007

RETURN OF THE RANT MASTER

The evolution of Potash will not be televised; it will be blogged- Gin Scotch Heroin

I spent too much time seeking- seeking God. I sought him because the bible says: seek and you shall find. He stands knocking at your door, the bible said. So I opened the door and behold it was me.

Now I stand here all alone. Alone because Gods, just like their prophets, are never worshipped in their own land. No chicken heads at my feet saying three ‘Oh my God’s’ as I pour holy come on their bowed heads. I am all alone- Narcissus by the pool- making love to my own image: The image of God!

In times like this, coherence eludes me. I stare vacantly into space pondering over this rapid metamorphosis beyond Kafkaesque parallels. I know who I have been but who knows what I have become?

A shift this from life at seventeen degrees below the poverty line to this unknown level. Back in the day I had the love and adulation of the streets and was shunned by the mainstream; now I am too fabulous for the ghetto yet too rough around the edges for the other side.

On the streets of Nairobi, they say that I changed- that I moved on up. The truth though is, I started out with nothing and I still have most of it. Yeah maybe, I moved on up, moved on to this place 11 degrees below. So I got a little change now and I am buying my own booze but I still do not have a flat in Kileleshwa and yet they will not let me still call the streets home.

***

I run come streaked paws through the kinks on my head. Man I am still a nappy head but now even white girls look through me. Is it because I wear white shirts and my nails are clean? Or because I always want to talk about terra-formation of Mars and discuss post-modernism rather than smoke weed and talk about how hard shit is on these streets?

The black girls will also not let me touch them even with someone else’s eighteen foot dick. Those from the ‘hood say ati I am full of petho these days. Bitch Please! “Bobo I saw you stretched through three gang-bangs. I was there and didn’t hit it because even those days I had petho. How can I respect you if you do not respect yourself?”

The pseudo-middle class girls will not touch me because even though I have a little change now it is still not enough for six movies and four pizzas. And I still don’t buy mixed drinks. “Oh, Katee when I walked in you were nursing a flat bamboocha, now that I am buying your drink has acquired a hyphen! But it is so cool that you ask me to buy you a drink now- Rosso this Bianco that- remember two years ago when you asked me what I could do for you just because I couldn’t afford a round of Coke’s at Recommended Retail Price for you and kina Piree? That was when I was down for Napshizzle at One Love Licker Store, now I am all about premium rate Tuskers.”

Now the yuppie girls will not touch me but who cares- they never did anyway. They will not touch me because I cannot tell a Bullish market from a Bearish one and I would rather buy my greens from Mama Njeri kwa corner rather than from Nekyu-mett.

The yuppies want a young man with prospects but all I have to offer is poisonality. So what if I cannot flash a BarclayCard after our lunch at The Serena… “I am paying cash Nimo. I am from the street and out there, cash is king! And when we talk don’t ask me to state what I do in one word- I told you I am white collar hustler and you said that was an oxymoron, okay so can we move on? And when we are done talking don’t ask for my business card. I need to get a business first, no?”

***

And in such an empty world, all the company I have left is that of writers. Man, how I can’t stand writers. Frankly my issues began when people started calling me a writer. A writer…hmmm! I will ask you one thing: If God doesn’t play dice then pray tell why did he make writers? Why would a compassionate deity make a creature with such a high sense of self worth and deny it talent?

One thing I know is that if writers could write just half as well as their egos told them they could, then the world would read more…

Okay I have run out of beers so let’s do that rant another day. Yes I mean another day. You thought I was going to stop blogging, and do what the fuck else? This is my private rant space where you all come to live out your voyeuristic tendencies. Therefore I feel obliged by my misplaced sense of nobility to let you watch me go to a thousand posts without a single corny line.

For all those waiting for the book, lets get this straight: what book? Most writers want to be widely published, but I am not a writer, all I want is to be widely plagiarized!




13 comments:

AfroM said...

Lol, as some with a penchant for corny lines...please oh please do not eliminate corny altogether! In exchange when you say hi to me online its o.k to chew on a carrot and say 'What's up dork?!'

Fun read as always :)h

bantutu said...

Comment Coming soon...

Spidey/Tato said...

ha i love these rants u almost sound as depressed as i am

-ha ati full of petho tell them to shove it where the fish dont swim.
but its funny how people out there seem to be watching ur step and judging...yaani they analyse and criticise...well they can keep on watchin.

KG@KENYATTAGRAY.COM said...

....ooohhh hee's baaaackk!!! Do the damn thing son!

Vee said...

Welcome back.

betty said...

guilty as charged! actually thought K.U.N was a gonner,phew!!
great post.

ABOUT POTASH said...

Great Potashius- plagiarized worldwide... how ironic. The writing is now on the wall. The only fresh thing you said was Aluta Fuckus Continua... and in this time we scream it right back at you.

We have the manuscripts and we are looking for the dead bodies... okay a bit melodramatic we know, but who knows!

See you online...the saga continues

Klara said...

LOL
This is great! I enjoyed readin this! It's good u r here 2 stay!!

mwangi said...

wow !!

the way you weave them words together ... f**ing amazing. keep it up ... great, great piece.

Keguro said...

Of course, as you know, it is in being plagiarized that one becomes a writer.

Girl next door said...

Glad you feel obliged to keep the rants coming.Thanks for indulging us.

Perhaps the term 'writer' is too restricting,'artist' may be more fitting. Then again, why the need for a label to describe what you do?

I hate that whole business card routine--when pretensious people you barely know and never care to see again demand your card or hurriedly push theirs in your face.

Funny how people react to one's success or progress....

gishungwa said...

Respect must be earned. Fanta at RRP vis a vie the hyphenated cocktails, the business card, the swiping of credit/debit cards the ways of the upwardly mobile or is the one with i?t

alids said...

Wow ! these are terrible. never thought i'd encounter Medioca on this site.