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!
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
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 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!