This is Potash and I am on my last glass of muratina. It is a new year. Maybe you noticed earlier but I just noticed now. Which is to say that after drinking for the last 30 days and waking up to sobriety every once in a while to see what the whole world was saying and trying to engage them on Twitter and Facebook, I realised that I have been speaking to myself.
I have X number of followers on Twitter and I have Z number of friends on Facebook, but that not withstanding, no one listens to me.
Let us face it, I have been on these interwebs too long and the one thing that has remained a constant is that I am one of the few people who does not tweet inanities. I mean, no one knows what my ablution is about. No, that is too low; no one even knows where I live. But still, as bland retweets go, no one mentions me.
The thing is that I know people who are famous. Not, merely famous online but really, famous. Famous in the real world. People who get to sign up for real writing gigs (which is what I want to be doing). And people who are famous for writing about their toilet.
I know people who are not famous but who still get to travel around the world talking about Africa and all that shit. You know, the Africa that doesn’t exist outside a made up space of: AFRICA. Yes, the Africa in capital letters of new media that says: Africa is not a country. Africa is inventing new media gizmos.
I am tired, drunk and incoherent, and my little corner of Nairobi is cold. But most important of all, I am tired of being used. I am tired of people calling me when they want me to do stuff for them. I am tired of people ‘DMing’ and ‘Inboxing’ me just to see they like the way I think. If you like the way I think, for fucks sake do not tell me, tell it to your world. Your 19 friends on Twitter. Why the hell do you want to keep my genius secret as though I was your second wife?
I am talking a lot of crap now but when this muratina is done, one thing will be certain: I am going back to blogging. The other thing, though not as certain now, is that I am purging my ‘followers’ and ‘friends’ list. That is to say that if you are in my virtual space and you do not to seem to like my nonsense enough to share it with your ‘friends’ and ‘followers’, I am cutting you out.
It might sound stupid but what the hell? I am a writer and in this digital media times; these times of ‘press button publishing’ you are as big as your network. And clearly, my network is not as big. Which is to say that POTASH is not big. And, frankly, if I cannot get as big as my friends, then I could as well, get new friends. So, retweet, or bust.
I am out.
A Kenyan Urban Narrative or a variant of it returns as soon as the booze gets out of my head.
In the meantime, thanks to all the people who have kept me in alcohol right through Christmas and new years. I could not have made this decision without you.
For all the people who have failed me in my writing career so far- and you know who you are- *&%^ you. And for all of you who have ignored me online, *&^% you too. And all you that have not paid me for what I wrote: *&^% you too. N.M: *&%$; Dinda; Mambo; Kamwana et al: *&^% you too. Kenyan mainstream media: *&^% you too. Kenyans on Twitter: *&^% you. My friends on Facebook: *&^% you.
Follow me on Twitter only if you are intent on retweeting: @POTASH
P.S: Most important of all, you might have been telling your friends that you know the cat that runs this blog, but between me and you, we know that you do not. You know N.M coz he is a yuppie bastard like you!