Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish

You’ve probably watched this, but all the same, here is a speech considered one of the most inspirational speeches made by Steve. The transcription is below.

This is a prepared text of the Commencement address delivered bySteve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and of Pixar Animation Studios, on June 12, 2005.

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That’s it. No big deal. Just three stories.

The first story is about connecting the dots.

I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?

It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: ”We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?” They said: ”Of course.” My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.

And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents’ savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn’t see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn’t interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.

It wasn’t all romantic. I didn’t have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends’ rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:

Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn’t have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it’s likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.

Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trustthat the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

My second story is about love and loss.

I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn’t know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down – that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn’t see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple’s current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I’m pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.

My third story is about death.

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn’t even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor’s code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you’d have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.

I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I’m fine now.

This was the closest I’ve been to facing death, and I hope it’s the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960′s, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.

Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.” It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Thank you all very much.

Self- Made

I ain’t never pay a nigga to do no dirt for me I was scared to do myself I will never tell even if it means sittin in a cell I ain’t never ran, never will I ain’t never been smacked; a nigga better keep his hands to himself or get clapped for what’s under that man’s belt I never asked for nothin I don’t demand of myself Honesty, loyalty, friends and then wealth Death before dishonor and I tell you what else I tighten my belt ‘fore I beg for help Foolish pride is what held me together through the years I wasn’t felt which is why I ain’t never played myself I just play the hand I’m dealt, I can’t say I’ve never knelt before God and asked for better cards at times to no avail But I never sat back feelin sorry for myself If you don’t give me heaven I’ll raise hell ‘Til it’s heaven

There are times when I am at the bottom of the totem, and feel like this hustle isn’t worth it. But at those times, these 2 words:

SELF MADE

 give me the kick in the seat that I need.

Food for Thought

If a child runs into the room saying “Mummy, mummy! I love Jesus and He loves me! We’re all going to Heaven when we die and God is looking over us!”, people will smile and praise the child. Nobody would say “Don’t be silly. You can’t possibly say that because you don’t fully understand everything about the religion. How can you know that for sure, when you’ve not read the Bible in the original Hebrew?!?”. But if a child (or teenager, or adult) says “I’ve had a good think about it, and have come to the conclusion that Jesus is a myth and nothing in Christianity makes much sense. I declare myself to be a freethinking secular humanist.”, then they are quite likely to receive the latter response. You could have all the theological training of a hedgehog and still get wild applause if you stand up and say you’re a Christian, but it seems that atheists are required to demonstrate more intelligence and Biblical expertise than all the clergymen and theologians that have ever lived before they are allowed to publicly express their doubts. -Adrian Barnett

Random Acts of Kindness

We all know them. We call them names; lout, lay-abouts, good for nothing yuts. Young, brash men that hang around the bus-stops in our neighbourhood, talking, laughing chewing miraa. They take matatus on ‘squodi’, acting as drivers and conductors, touting and soliciting for passengers in exchange for an ashuu or bluu. They hit on the stern-looking working-class woman in the glasses, the well cut skirt suit and the 5-inch heels who seems get offended, but who finds herself, later that evening, thinking about the gruff voice, wondering how those calloused hands would feel against her skin.

They are the people to talk to when you need something; they know where to find weed whatever you need and have no qualms helping you bury a body move boxes, as long as the price is right.

I’ve wondered about them; what do they do all day? Where do they live? Do they pay rent, and how? What kind of existence do they lead? The simplicity of their lives makes me curious; do they have existential worries, the kind we the pseudo-intelligentsia battle all day? Or is one of them Potash in his early days?

I have always been genial to them, and they to me. In fact, the ones in my neighbourhood have taken a liking to me, often giving me free rides in their matatus, inviting me to join them for a beer and asking about how biashara is going. One of them, on meeting me in town, asked me to buy him lunch, and I told him that if he made me laugh, I’d do just that. He told me one of the most hilarious stories I’d ever heard, and earned himself a meal.

This morning, I left the house at about 7 for some meetings in town and in the middle of one, I got a call from my building manager. She never calls unless there is something wrong, and as I excused myself, I racked my mind wondering what the problem might be; had my house been broken into? Had my rent cheque bounced? Was there a woman with her belongings in a green Cowboy paper-bag claiming I was the father of her child?

“Hallo?”

“Good morning, Son. Are you well?” the voice on the other end answered.

” I am. Is everything alright, Mary?” I asked, trying to get to the crux of the matter.

“Everything is,” Mary replied, ” However, there is a gentleman here by the name of Collo who says he has your keys. He’s insisted I call you”

“My keys?” I asked, surprised. My free hand reached for the pocket I expected them to be in. It was empty. My heart skipped a beat.

It turns out that I’d dropped my keys in the matatu  that Collo had given me a ride in earlier this morning. He’d found them and figured they were mine from where I was sitting, and had gone back to my apartment complex and asked the manager to call me and make sure I got them. He didn’t know my name, didn’t know my house but knew the block and went up 10 flights of stairs, probably ruining his high, to make sure the keys got to me. He declined the offer I made to send him some money as a thank you, but wanted one thing in exchange;

“Tukipatana next, dadi, uwe tayari kunichekesha“

Getting Restarted

I’ve decided to take every possible step to write more, one of which is making use of the technology available to me.

I’ve installed the WordPress App on my phone and I hope, with it, I’ll be able to take down ideas, record overhead conversations between lovers, edit old stories and publish.

Here’s to writing; writing more and writing well.

On Reading, on Writing

I love books. For the 20 something years I have walked this earth, I have loved books. As the neighbourhood children climbed and played in the trees, I sat in the shade, pushing my thick glasses up every few minutes, my nose buried in a John Grisham. I was the child that would sneak into my cousin’s parent’s bedroom because it was where they kept the Readers’ Digests. I was the guy with the Hardy Boys novel on my lap as the teacher droned on; the kid with the comic book wrapped in his sweater as parade proceeded.

I am the guy at the corner of the coffee-shop with his coffee growing cold as I click ‘Next Page’ on my Kindle, turn the page to take in the next twist in the tale. The guy who will leave the club in a rush because he’s remembered a new David Bennun book he bought that’s sitting atop the bedside pile of books.

Books for me, are opium. They are a doorway in to Narnia, a world created by another. Through my books, I have traveled the world, had more lovers than Don Juan, and seen more deaths than the Grim Reaper. I have talked to horses, seen the world through the eyes of one, I have ridden dragons and slain men, and ridden men and slain dragons. I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn, a pope and a king. I’ve loved, I’ve lived, I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, I’ve lost my mind and found it, found myself and lost my religion.

In short, I love reading.

Over the last 3 years or so, I have toyed with the dream of being a writer. So much so, that when asked why I am entrepreneur, I tell people is so that I can retire young and rich enough to be a full time writer, writing for the passion and the love of the craft, not for the paycheck. I’ve written all my life; daily compositions in primary school, pieces in high school that once got  Mr. Muchiri to remark ‘You do some great work when you put your mind to it’ (a compliment as high as none other, in retrospect), but before 2008, I’d actually never wanted to be a writer. Then I discovered that I actually enjoyed it, found it fulfilling, and so, now, I want to be a writer. Rather simple, no?

I want to enthrall your mind with the written word, capture your body with the turns of phrases, seduce your soul. I want to make you my friend, make you my lover, make you my enemy. I want to write, and goddamnit, write well.

My drafts folder is full of little snippets of inspiration that never saw the Publish button; my note book, innumerable pieces awaiting me to put the creator’s touch upon them; turn them into living works. I make excuses on a daily basis; that I am busy, that I have no time, that I have no inspiration, that I need the works to be perfect. A lot of words to simply cover that I am lazy.

In my mind’s eye, I see my writing home. My cabin at the edge of the Mount Kenya forest, with my writing table by the window, overlooking the gently sloping lawn that edged by the dark woods. I sit at my writers desk, a scarf around my neck in a thick woolen sweater with leather patches on its elbows. A fire crackles gently in the fire place, and all around -upon shelves, the mantle, the window sills- books declare their titles and their authors. I look around, and tell myself, that one day I will be amongst them.

Maybe, one day, I will write.

Guest Post – Chain Story Start. Join in!

(Got this via email from a friend and decided to publish it here. Why don’t you join the band wagon and continue the story?)

TV sucks! I know its not the remote’s fault that there’s nothing to watch but throwing it across the room makes me feel better. Fine so no tv, what then, a book? I drag my weary body into the bedroom, crawl into bed, pull the covers around me and switch on the bedside lamp. Where is that book anyway, ah under my pillow. I snuggle up in the warm duvet and open the book on the bookmarked page.

Seven minutes later the book is on the floor. Aaah!I can’t concentrate long enough to read a whole paragraph; and since the book has many many paragraphs, I doubt I’ll ever finish it at this rate. Why why can’t I stop thinking about him? Ok, maybe I need a distraction. I should get out of the house. But where can I go at 11.30pm on a Thursday? Aha! The supermarket. So I get up, put on some sandals, grab my bag and head out the door.

Ten minutes later I’m walking into the supermarket. Question is, now that I’m actually here what do I buy? I just did my monthly shopping. Maybe I can pick up this month’s issue of Cosmo, yeah I’ll do that. And so even though the magazines are right next to the cashiers, I walk through ALL isles in the supermarket, surely there has to be at least one cute guy In here.

Dairy section, nothing, detergents, nothing either, alcohol, nothing? Even next to the beer? Really?! Ok let me try upstairs; hardware section, but what kind of guy would be buying a hammer at midnight, that wasn’t to be used as a weapon? Creepy. Back downstairs and finally, a cute guy! But wait, he’s buying diapers! Drat! And he was cute too. One last look through the dairy section, the staff must think I can’t read, there are signs everywhere. Then lo and behold (violins please) there he is, he’s tall, not too dark not too light, not too skinny not too big and there are no diapers in his trolley. Lets see what IS in his trolley. Apples, water melon (oooh I love water melon, see we’re meant for each other) cornflakes (boring but better boring than coco pops; or rice crispies, now that would just be gay) FHM magazine, a six pack of beer and he’s picking up a carton of eggs. Verdict… healthy eater, can read and a he’s a manly man. I can deal.

So now, to get his attention. I could ask for the time but a) there’s a huge-ass clock right there and b) I’m wearing a watch. Plus its so cliché! Drat! So what now, he’s moving away! I cant follow him around until I figure out what to say, he’ll think I’m psycho. Has he even seen me, at least I could smile if he looked my way but does he even know I’m there?

And then, my phone rings, and its that silly new ring tone I set this afternoon, ‘An idiot is calling, hallooooo an idiot is calling!’ It’s quiet around us so the ring tone sounds really loud. Who knew supermarkets had such good acoustics? He looks in my direction and smiles. I smile back pretending to be embarrassed as I pull phone out of my pocket. Its Mina, my best friend.

“Hi! You’re still up?” I say casually, when what I really want to say is “I love you, I love you, you’re a blessing from heaven!” Now, I had better make the most out of this Godsend. So I use the next three minutes of the conversation to do what most people take three hours of a first date to do, sell themselves.

Mina: I know it’s last minute but can you babysit on Saturday, I need to…

Who cares what she needs to do.

Me: Of course I’ll babysit, you know you can depend on me (I’m a good friend). Your kids and I have such a blast when we hang out (kids love me, I’m fun and lovable and can connect with my inner child). We can go watch Madagascar 2 or something. Just as well, I need to relax and have a good laugh .Its been a crazy week at work, the proposal we were working on was rejected in round one talks and my boss has asked me to sort it out. (But I’m not a child myself, I have a serious job with serious responsibilities)

Mina: Excellent! I can drop them off at your place around noon.

Me: No problem. When you come over could you bring that book I left at your place (I read) The Paul Coelho book, The Alchemist (deep, stuff too not silly Mills and Boons)

Mina: Didn’t you read that book like two years ago. Actually weren’t you complaining the other day you lent it to Mark and he lost it? Its not at my place.

Me: Super! And don’t forget to pick up your Prison Break DVD. I loved it by the way (I like rebels but only those with a cause). If you have season three bring it. Can’t get enough of Wentworth Miller. (I’m a red-blooded heterosexual female)

Mina: I didn’t lend you that DVD. You stopped watching Prison Break after season one. You said it didn’t make sense to call it Prison Break when they were no longer in prison.

Me: Saturday night? No, no plans yet. Will probably call Cathy or Wacera and we’ll go have a drink or something. (I’m single)

Mina: Wacera? Wacera is back from Capetown? I thought it was a six month course; it’s only been a month. Didn’t she like it there? What happened?

Me: Yeah speaking of my sister, I know I shouldn’t speak ill of my only sibling (small family, so limited family drama, and no brothers to intimidate you) but that girl works too hard. Pinned her down to lunch on Sunday, I’m cooking, want to join us?(I’m family oriented and domesticated)

Mina: You? Cook? Frankie what the hell is going on?

Me: Great! I’ll see you Saturday then. Tell the kids I cant wait to see them. Bye!

I hang up and toss the phone into my bag. The whole time I’d been on the phone cute guy had been hovering in front of the milk. Cant be that hard to decide, there’s only skimmed and regular. He likes me! Ok, so there’s semi-skimmed too but still!

********

OK so what next, what does he do?

Writing Skill

A college writing class was given an assignment. They had to write a short story in as few words as possible. It had to contain the following three themes: religion, sexuality and mystery. The winning piece:

Good God, I am pregnant! I wonder who did it.

Nairobbery

Anybody who claims to be a citizen of Nairobi must have in one way or another have come into contact with a phenomenon commonly referred to as Nairobbery, in its various forms and/or representations. For those unlucky enough not to have had the pleasure, it is usually in the form of rather bulky characters applying their tree-trunk like appendages to various parts of your anatomy, leaving you gasping for breath, and relieved of assets, commonly cash and cell phones, but in other cases, clothing and occasionally, your life.

I have had quite a few, given my physical stature (which to call slim would be denying oneself the use of the more appropriate word ‘scrawny’) and my tendency to walk with my mind nowhere in the vicinity of my body. My most recent incident happened a couple of years ago. At the time, I was living in Upper Hill and one of the ways to get home was to take a bus from Gill House, the South B terminus, alight at the Baricho Road ‘stage’, then trudge up Bunyala Road, past NIC House, onwards home.

On this particular day, I got to Gill House and the only bus available at the time was one creaky old thing that was probably built from the remnants of Noah’s Ark, and being in a rush to get home, I boarded and the we got underway. On getting to the police roadblock by the Kobil petrol station on Uhuru Highway, the damn omnibus gave up the ghost and we were all asked to alight as the driver and conductor organized for alternative transport. Doing quick arithmetic, I realized it didn’t make sense to wait for a another bus to come from the terminus to give me a ride up one side of the gentle rise over the railway tracks, down the other side till my customary stage so I decided to hoof it. Throwing a glance at my watch and the intended route, I realized it was still relatively early – 6.30PM to be precise – and the road was still patronized by a few good citizens who seemed more intent on taking in the sight of some portly gentlemen whacking small balls with big sticks on the golf course below than dissociating me from my possessions. So making up my mind, I crossed the road and walked on.

I had just got over the crest of the rise when I came across what is another Kenyan phenomenon; a gentleman standing by a bush, feet shoulder-width apart, one arm akimbo, the other somewhere in front of his loins, presumably grasping an appendage, face turned skyward as if the sight below wasn’t to be beheld, lips pursed in a soundless whistle partaking in what has been lovingly referred to as ‘watering the nation’. Slightly amused by the sight, I sidestepped the chap and went on with my trek. I had barely taken two steps when I was shoved off the road and down the side of the hillock. Next thing I knew, I was hurtling downwards , hollering at the top of my voice(more like screaming like a little girl but please note I shall VEHEMENTLY deny any reference to that particular point), and above all wondering whether the ‘waterer’ had wiped his damn hands before putting them on my back.

So there I was, hurtling down the hill, intent on making a getaway (still screaminghollering) when I was confronted with two rather interesting facts. The first was that I was headed straight for a concrete ditch about 6 feet deep and 6 feet wide, in essence a dead end, and the second was that the characters I had assumed were walking home after a hard days work were actually cohorts of the gentleman who had taken upon himself the honour of introducing his hands to my back, and were also running down the same hillside . Quick mental extrapolation of the particular situation led me to realize that I would end up in said ditch with approximately 6 elements of society who lend credence to the paraphrased adage that a Kenyan and his money are soon parted, and remembering that a coward lives to fight another day, as soon as I got to the ditch, I pulled out all the assets on my person, laid them one by one on the side of the ditch and raised my hands as high as they would go.

This move must have startled the goons, because a few of them actually slowed down to first look at the character in the ditch, while the others jumped into the ditch, their eyes darting from the items on the side of the ditch to me and back, as though either of the two would take off any minute.

” Iye!!! Mzeiya, wewe ni mjanja mbaya!”, the ‘waterer ‘ intoned ” Lakini, ni lazima tukukague ka una burungo zingine mfukoni, ama kwa socksi. Oti, fanya vilivyo”

The fellow by the name of Oti then proceeded to frisk me , while the waterer went through my wallet, taking out my cards, and other non-monetary paraphernalia and stuffing it into my pocket, as the other goons hung around to give immoral support. There was a little bit of ka-blingy in my wallet, which I think they found sufficient because they all begun to climb out of the ditch and disappear into the bushy fence bordering the golf course , into which I have whacked many a ball.

Unfortunately, Oti, who was so high you could use him as a GTV satellite, tuned into Violence FM ,punched me in the mid-riff and walked off, leaving me lying there,mouthing like a goldfish and squealing like a trapped piglet. There was considerable difficulty in inducing my lungs to take upon themselves the office of respiration, a troublesome affair that custom has rendered necessary to our existence, but when I did regain diaphragm motion, I got out of the ditch, and walked on home, smiling for having made my contribution to Nairobi’s statistics, and been through yet another episode of 24 – The Nairobi Edition

AOB
“Who is your mother?”
African saying- traditionally used on miscreant children and was precursor to an ass whopping. Trust me, I know.

Dreams

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?
Langston Hughes

The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind. The sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and I am sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live lives trapped in loops, reliving a few days over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out ahead of us. We see the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us.

And no, I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become. But I do know one thing: the solution does not involve watering down my creative impulse for the sake of some day easing my fit into a mold. It does not involve tempering my life to better fit someone’s expectations. It doesn’t involve constantly holding back for fear of shaking things up. This is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can:
SCREW.IT.ALL.
Its my goddamn life.