Beastly-Zombies of Tusker.

I am perplexed.

The judges of Tusker Project Fame are slaves of Tusker, if not Tequila. Instead of promoting ambitious singers, some of the judges, if not all, were the loudest mouths seeking the "fame" at the Sunday episode of the show.

They made Paris Hilton and O. J. Simpson look like pillars of virtues as they falteringly tried to trivialize achievements of some of our notable, already established singers.

I am going to dwell on theircharacter, not skills, which was also questionable at best. Unmistakably, during the show, they came out as people keeping alive the traditions of dismembering and torturing the reputation of the umpires – judges -- seat.

With inflated egos, they showed off their inexcusable ignorance while striving to display absent high-street “understanding of music.” They acted like remorseless “mass murderers” of Kenyan artists struggling, against odds, to put a mark on the crowded, talent-starved African art scene.

Even though I am no supporter of the show, I’m inclined to toss around comments about those annoying socialite judges guilty of “product tampering and some sort of organized crime.” On Sunday, they behaved like Tequila-guzzling zombies: the undead equivalent of the migrant workers. Not sexy. Not indestructible. Lacking free-will and impartial judgment and ultimately under-qualified.

Some of made embarrassing comments -- leaving presenters speechless -- that even newcomers in music might think they can Judge God and get away with it.

At the show, heckler-in-chief, Ian Mbugua, behaved like a hapless show-off, eager to over-shadow everybody for some reason that remain undiscussed. Watching his tantrums, one concludes that the moderately-endowed actor should stick to what he thinks he knows better: Cramming theatre lines, thinking he can sneak to the Broadway.

Just like the rest of the judges, Mbugua was the biggest squeaker from the Blues. His unsavoury character, at least at that moment, portrayed what kind of person he is, or thinks he is. An unsavoury bedfellow he is: advancing personal agenda at the behest of the young wannabe “singers.”

He not only succeeded in displaying his “clueless ness, expressionless and unintentional petulance” in his assessments of the performers, but also came out as a man keen on using the platform to pursue a woman. Or girl friend or … He was like an high school drama teacher.

“We are looking for the voice … we are not looking for mediocrity,” Mbugua said snidely, going on to unleash a torrent of inexplicable outbursts, befitting a death-row crook in mitigation before a conservative judge.

But the girls in the House could and did not take crap, not at all. They were up for the task.

They aimed at him, carefully shot their barbs, without missing and the target was subdued. Courtesy of Mbugua, the show degenerated into a tag of war between the questionable judges and the erudite panel of teachers. If fellows like Mbugua have learnt to fly without missing, then girls like Sheila Mwanyigha (presenter), Achieng Abura (teacher) and Regina Re (teacher) as well as Teddy Josiah (producer) have known to aim without missing.

And they did it, with a dash of dignity peppered with a know-how of their stuff. For keen observers, the losers were the judges. Therefore, they should be changed. They are hopeless. Talentless. And they are a pain in the neck lacking the basics of sitting in the panel.

Mwanyigha, herself, a well-endowed singer started the assault on Mbugua, throwing in a carefully-worded rejoinder: You can say something to the students, she said with her usual smile, adding: “… without being crude.”

Like a feminine relay race, Abura took the button on time, mercilessly undressing the bloke. “I think they (students) are working extra-ordinarily hard … Music is not an easy thing. And I can’t wait to see the judges bring their thing on the stage …” This salvo that sent Mbugua sprawling to unknown ground. His ego balloon was deflated.

“We are looking for a star … ” another judge, David, blabbered, like a robot, again unwittingly “… a star of what singing …" Gimmi a break. Does this man know Tinsel town granddaddies Clint Eastwood, the Hollywood big boy who just grabbed the first Oscar recently, despite having directed and featured in several big-budget productions and Jonathan Alterman?I doubt if he knows them beyond reading entertainment rags.

Challenged and apparently petrified at the fury of womanpower, Mbugua, in yet again another medieval tantrum tried to rationalize his “bullshit,” only ending up plunging into another round of bloodletting and recrimination.

“I haven’t entered the competition and I will have you know that I can sing!!! (gimmi a break) In Kenya and East Africa, we have so many one-hit wonders … I want you to tell me who has released more than five albums … “ he said, apparently his ego bruised by well-intentioned women.

Another judge called Carol shamelessly blabbered: “You can’t be a star if there is nothing different about you…"All we needed were judges sitting quietly, making their assessments in the privacy of their seats and just make decisions as per the performance, not to try to sneak in their armatures standing and weak setting.

While the show in itself is dirty marketing plot by brewing big-daddy, East African Breweries Limited, the judges who – on first impression or by record appear bright – have done a damage to the reality TV genre in Kenya, by behaving like “unremarkable crackpots” trying to revive their flagging careers of occupations.

Well, I can just conclude that the judges behaved like Marilyn Manson, one of the sickest artist in the mainstream record industry. Or even worse.

Or, is a crime committed by all not a crime or a sin committed by all not a sin... just democracy … over to you judges. The jury is out there.

Wrath of 'Black' Orgasims

A few moments ago, my good and wonderful Anne advised to me to "go easy" when I phoned her, bitterly complaining that South Africa had enacted a law welcoming homosexuality into the mainstream. "As long as it does not affect me .., " she told me. My mouth was left open and I feld disgusted.
Anne disappointed me. Just like the land of venerable Nelson Mandela embarrased itself and embarrases me and straight people like me and you. I now no-longer see South Africa as the model of democracy in Africa, but a mis-model of undemocracy in the moral Africa, the one of our forefathers adored.

For sure, apartheid never ended in that country, but rather is now being replaced from the dormant "Black Only -- White Only Street" across the country, with " D*** Only -- and V*** Only Bedrooms, " all over South Africa.
Imagining the scene: Man on Man. Woman on Woman; both convulsing and caressing around. It is like seeing two donkeys seriously on each other when you are going to a morning church session with your mother and baby sister and you meet a pregnant woman by the sidewalk strolling with a pastor.
For that reason, I can no longer eat meat. Never. And I am afraid that in a decade's time, virginity of African damsels will be fleeced by fags. And that is when we shall be saying in a chorus: "What happened in South Africa is equivalent to rewarding violent anal sex with the reputable covenent of marriage."

I am wondering and crying. What happens to the venerable practise of blow jobs in that country? Is this behaviour sneaking to other African parrliaments, notably in Kenya and Nigeria? Nope, I doubt.

Even in 1949, US federal prosecutors in Plymouth, Massachusettes hauled Mary Hammon and Goodwife Norman to court and charged them for committing "lude behavior upon a bed." Ultimately, Norman was convicted of lesbianism -- the most embarrasing form of homosexuality -- and forced to issue a public confession. The world celebrated. So did my grandmother.

I should remind you also of what happened in 1984 in Hollywood: Vanessa Williams, the first black Miss America and the singer of Save the Best for Last, relinquished her coveted crown after Penthouse magazine announced its plans to publish lesbian-themed photos of her in its September issue. Prior to entering the Miss America contest, Williams had certified having committed no embarrassing acts of "moral turpitude."

Or should we believe revered singer Elton John when he mutters and sputters and annoys us by saying there should be democracy in human sexuality? What? Gimmi a break. Are we moving to a world of the idomatic "Man eat Man Society" to the world of "Man fuck Man Society". Or are we at the threshhold of a society where "every opening that can trigger an orgasm is explored and defended by the law." If so, it is diabolical, pathological and illogical.

But I am inclined to believe the Nigerian primate Peter Akinola, a spokesman for Anglican bishops from Asia, Africa and Latin America, who has repeatedly called for the repetence of homosexuals or they will burn in hell. I think we should trust him.

Since when did Africans consider legalising same sex marriages, or even allowing two man -- mikengeles -- to sleep on the same bed and be intimate -- as if they have a right to -- in the name of banishing discrimination from society. I feel I have been discriminated. Abused. Embarrased. Casted to the dogs. And tossed into a pit latrine. I just cannot imagine watching a movie about the opposite of Sharon Stone's Indecent Proposal. Or Can I imagine my sisters staring at the male equivalent of Pamela Anderson.

Read this: "In breaking with our past ... we need to fight and resist all forms of discrimination and prejudice, including homophobia," South African Home Affairs Minister Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula told lawmakers in Cape Town.
"When we attained our democracy, we sought to distinguish ourselves from an unjust painful past, by declaring that never again shall it be that any South African will be discriminated against on the basis of colour, creed, culture and sex," she added.

While I have no political standing to ascent to top of the Times Towers or Empiror State building, it does not alter the fact that God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. And from then, Nature ordered Wildred to marry Winfred and not Wilfred. Paul to marry Pauline and not marry Paul. Joseph to marry Josephine and not Joseph.

Even if South Africa decides to change to rules of natural jiggy-jiggy -- even if it is hosting the 2010 World Cup -- it does not change the fact that until men marry, they will continue eating cold pizza and restaurant breakfast in the morning because there are no wives -- or girlfriends -- at home to cook.

I cannot imagine calling up a man -- Three Legged Creature like a stool -- to buy him fried rice and boneless chicken just because a thousand miles start with the first stone. Or the first lunch. Surely, who starts? Who stays up? Who stays down? What could act as the boobs -- Airbags. And finally who cleans the other with tissue paper? I need no answers because I am suprised. I am mad. I am sad.

Without my exemption, men will continue to howl and brawl in drinking dens until past midnight, only surviving on nuts and crisps because either their utensils are dirty or they just do not know gastronomy. They they go home and sleep, listening to unavoidable and heart-consoling rendetions by Pretenders, Coldplay, Oasis and our own wonderful girls.

Now, what triggered this sudden rush of madness in South Africa? Here we go. After the alleged end of apartheid era in 1994, during which black South Africans were denied the vote, a new constitution was drawn up specifically banning discrimination on the grounds of race, gender and sexual orientation. Under pressure, the government was forced to legislate on same sex marriage after the country's highest court ruled in December that existing laws denied gays and lesbians the same constitutional rights as heterosexual couples.

I agree. God has been mocked.
"The ... (bill) justifies immorality and by inference, calls sexual perversion a legitimate alternative lifestyle that should be openly accepted," African Christian Democratic Party (ACDP) leader Kenneth Meshoe said, shortly after the bill was overwhelmingly adopted on Tuesday, according to reports.
"God is not mocked," he said. "This parliament ... is about to cross the line of God's patience with us as a nation."

Now, Thabo make makes Zimbabwe President Robert Mugabe and ex-Kenyan President Daniel arap Moi look like "semi-gods." Mugabe has openly dismissed gays as "worse than pigs and dogs." And who disagrees?
Apart from Mugabe, let's sample what other leaders said about this act, worse then bestiality and ass-licking.

"I don't want to see this country to go that way. You know what happened to the Greeks. Homosexuality destroyed them. Sure, Aristotle was a homo, we all know that, so was Socrates. [...] Do you know what happened to the Romans? The last six Roman emperors were fags. [...]," blurted former US president Ronald Reagan.
" You know what happened to the poles? It's all right that popes were laying the nuns. That's been going on for years -- centuries. But when the popes, when the Catholic Church went to hell in -- I don't know, three or four centuries ago -- it was homosexual, and it had to be cleaned out. Now, that's what happened to Britain; it happened earlier to France," he added.

In 1992, on his television show The 700 Club, Pat Robertson declared: "It's one thing to say, 'We have rights to jobs... we have rights to be left alone in out little corner of the world to do our thing.' It's an entirely different thing to say, 'Well, we're not only going to go into the schools and we're going to take your children and your grandchildren and turn them into homosexuals.' Now that's wrong."

In a 1993 interview with Molly Ivins, Robertson added: "Just like what Nazi Germany did to the Jews, so liberal America is now doing to the evangelical Christians. It's no different. It is the same thing. It is happening all over again. It is the Democratic Congress, the liberal-based media and the homosexuals who want to destroy the Christians. Wholesale abuse and discrimination and the worst bigotry directed toward any group in America today. More terrible than anything suffered by any minority in history."

In 1993, Robertson declared: "Many of those people involved with Adolf Hitler were Satanists, many of them were Homosexuals -- the two things seem to go together."
In 1995 Robertson said: "[Homosexuals] want to come into churches and disrupt church services and throw blood all around and try to give people AIDS and spit in the face of ministers."

In 1997, San Francisco Chronicle quotes the Dalai Lama as saying: "Homosexuality, whether it is between men or between women, is not improper in itself. What is improper is the use of organs [such as] the mouth and the anus ... already defined as inappropriate for sexual contact."
Now lets see the brief history of Homosexuality.

While homosexuality in a contemporary context is generally regarded as "ass rape" or at least "anal sex", historically and legally the term has had a much broader meaning. Originating in the 11th century, the word sodomy was coined by Saint Peter Damian to replace the earlier term "Sin of Sodom". (Sodom and Gomorrah being those cities in the Bible which were destroyed by God for their unredeemable moral depravity).

Interestingly enough, over the centuries many bible thumpers have forgotten that the "Sin of Sodom" never referred to a singular sin (like ass humping), but rather to a collective of sin The unclean acts that contributed to this cesspool of sin included, but were not limited to: Anal sex, bestiality, oral sex, sex outside wedlock, mutual musturbation and Selling sexual favors in the name of God/Goddesses.

Please, pray for them, hopeless Homosexuals.

Her songlines keeps us on track and in tune ...

It is unbelievable. I rarely listen to music, but somehow I ended up otherwise.
Over the weekend, I was attacked by "brothers in arms", who forcefully shared what I had, including that small gadget we call a cell phone -- I hate it and at the moment, I do not have one.

No regrets though. But when I reached my home "The Palace", I listened to music by several fantastic women to boost my wounded spirits. Outstandingly, I really liked one Kenyan sultry singer Sheila Mwanyigha. The song was Tazama Mbele.

"Surely, her music is the voice of (g)od," I reckoned as I struggled to forget the ordeal I underwent while heading to "The Palace". It was time to concetrate on the motivation of this young girl who is full of life, vitality and power.
Alot has already been said, done and sucked from her music. There are a variety of reasons why lost out during the Channel O Awards in South Africa recently: lack of domestic support and piracy.

Ms. Mwanyigha sounds like she looks: what I occasionally mention when it happens.
She could be one of those attractive, friendly strangers with whom it's easy and fun to strike up a chat in a restaurant or library, usually about the book she's reading or whatever's in the instrument case. From her music, she is engaging and skilled when belting out Swahili ballads -- tales of urban romance and distance love. Just as it is a delight to look at her, it is a delight to listen to her.But, there's some emotional stress -- the failed love in abudance -- in some of her own lyrics, where she clevery and wittingly captures behaviour in the society. When she talks about love, trust and bitterness, it is more or less like a messenger delivering salvation to the youth.

It is easy to compare Mwanyigha with Sandra McCracken's , this Nash-ville women whose songs exude confidence without her ascending the podium to preach on the pillars of ethics and civilization.

"Turn all my rags to white, turn all my words to rhymeTurn all the sorrow to shining facesMake all my dreams satisfied, make all the broken things rightMake all the dead come alive" ('Last Goodbye').

Such longings are expressed in humanist values that don't make a heavy load of the torment, fear and hope some see in a crucifix. She instead appear to admonish the youth about the hopelessness and futility of falling in love without plans, loving and hating pointlessly only to end up in drinking holes with 10-cent booze.

After listening to Ms. Mwanyigha, I made a conclusion that entertainment critics and other hapless masketeers who tried/have tried to shoot down her stuff were/are wasting their ammunition and time, and maybe themselves. With a high-degree of honest, since har days as Nikki, the damsel has always told stories in her songs, her own and other people in and outside her life. Though she has truckloads of fans who seem unsure she's of terrestrial origin (no-wonder her beauty), her world is one where the ways of the human heart, intimate behaviour are remarkably well mapped. Lyrics in Tazama Mbele, come from the heart of Ms. Mwanyigha. They tears apart the frustrations in morden relationships, the hopelessness on relying on mortal beings to shape one future and the sad irony of this world and its fake promises of family and happy life thereafter.

"I am singing and writing from my heart now. A lot of things have happened to me and I just want to look ahead without dwelling old memories," Mwanyigha is reported ( by cybermedia) to have told one writer.
From this statement, which if true, potrays a her a a performer of multiple genre, but has lyrically grown out of the slow-burning anger and sudden stabs of an Oyster to a reflective personality, one you are able to sit down and chat the serious music.
There's nothing wrong at all at anger when it's justified and you know how to channel it, but to be "fuelled by anger" as a governing emotion, anger can hide not only resentment and hurt, but the lack of confidence people feel if they're given a perpetual pounding that induces a sense of helplessness.

There is something about Ms. Mwanyigha -- which comes out in Tazama Mbele -- that is appealing. She has developed self-confidence without complacency, a reassuring quality to foster and to appreciate, just like another singer Sharleen Spiteri of the famous Glasgow band Texas.
"When you become confident you can be naturally sexy. Ooze sex and sexiness," Spiteri told an online rag. This but all standards, especially for me, (maybe) a gentleman, is a pithy platitude, perhaps, but only too true to be ingnored. Luckly, I've plenty more time than some people do for singers of both sexes (especially lady-singers) who search their melancholy souls and work the old magic of sharing their bad times and making them easier to bear with the transforming power of music to stretch out a hand to the solitary.

It's reassuring for such sisters to know they are not alone. Apart from God.

In the context of the quote (attributed to Mwanyigha in an earlir paragrapgh), she is like Spiteri who is able to ooze sex and say how not, because she's as pretty as she is, but since she's been through the rough stuff and still can stand up and give orders where soldiers die. (Like General's do).
Spiteri's hit singles on 'White on Blonde' (1997) made the soccer stadiums, titles like 'Insane' and 'Put Your Arms Around Me' ooze powerful emotions but aren't cheerful, 'Careful What You Wish For' 2003) an electronic edge some found experimental, others commercial, which is to say it's mixed up.

"Just be careful what you wish for"

"Just be careful what you hope for,"

"Your wish, it may come true!"

Dissecting the songs of Mwanyiga, one thinks Heather Nova (home) billboard smashing hitsong that not only explains where this Kenyan woman is just a product for Grammy Awards, if only we have an equivalent in Kenya, if only we supported her and if only we bought her music and drop the firewall habit of hiking to River Road.

"(...)'When you let other people tell you what's right"

"When you leave your instinct and your own truth behind" he said.

"That's a virus of the mind.' That's a virus of the mind"

"I guess it's kind of like losing your sight;

"for aSecond you think that they might be right, and it

"Feeds the doubts you have inside, and it

"Almost starts to feel like a crimeTo follow your own rhythm and rhyme (...)

Yeah I'm pretty happy living in my own sweet time I'm pretty happy

"And I don't need your virus of the mind (...)."

Like, Nova, Ms. Mwanyigha has a staggering vocal range -- a little bit confusing for non-music students -- and the emotional reach down into the troughs of our lives -- when love can hurt like hell -- without which we can't know the rolling crests of joy. But with her, and those others, who have taken the time to separate the chaff from the wheat, will surely understand what it means to sing ...

With such talent, it is awful what a revolting industry that is growing in Kenya is doing. Like others musicians, obviously, Ms. Mwanyigha has agents, record labels and ... "bodyguards" all of whom I do not know and do want to know. Such people are obviously there both to promote and to protect them. But what sickens -- or sometimes make me puke -- is the character of some of this agents "of doom" who are to blame for the downward spiral of the industry. Please save me the fraud in Tusker Project Fame... (that is only keen on selling booze the fragile teenagers ... at the behest of promoting local talent.)

Like in Tinseltown, these outlandish parasites earn a living by compiling lists of the direct contacts you can't always reach and then selling them! It's fair enough to protect musicians from mountains of fan or hate mail. That's what forums are for.
But the downside is odious profiteering when the business overdoes it so people with a job to do need to pay go-betweens to reach the go-betweens. I won't. Next time I wanna speak to Ms. Mwanyigha or any other singer -- who manages to sneak into my tiny list of serious talents, I will call them and not depend on this sewage tunnels.
So folks, when you want somebody around who's simply good, generous and gentle on the ear, Ms. Mwanyigha is that kind of woman.

Man was not born to love alone ...

Anne-belle and Ali-belle are the most amazing women I have ever met in Nairobi.
They are very ambitions and very capable. And maybe, that all they will be. They are fine women.

Since our separate meetings that was by default, I realised -- and they have failed to -- we are very susceptible to useless mood swings and childish emotions in the exercise of our judgement, maybe unaware of the way we can be swayed by such forces unless other people tell us or until we lose it or survival faculties.

In a few occasion we chatted heartly in the Graveyard, they were articulate women who packed punches in their voices and slipped kicks in theiy lyrics I can hardly forget. All tailored to speak the truth like Angelina Jolie in "Mr. and Mrs. Smith."
Their lines of thought, often thoughtful, ambition, often ambitious and dreams, often dreaming, but have helped me stay on track and in tune and eventually see another day in this world where survival is based on the fakest and not on the fittest.

God bless them for the sake of those they are dear to or who are those dear to them or both.
Generally speaking, they are fine ladies but mysterious of sorts because nobody knows whom they sleep with. Who they sleep with. How they sleep. When they sleep. And they like it that way. And thus they have 100 percent of female power intact, ready to manouver a free lunch, beer and taxi home, Monday through Friday.

What an unfair world! They seem to fail to understand that and maybe they may never get it before el - Nino comes.
"It keeps people guessing and wanting to know more," a woman told me, justifying why she likes being, or attempts to be mysterious in an era where being mysterious seems to be the best way to live.
Months earlier, Ali-belle had asked me what my plans, if any, were in this world. I had no answer at that moment because life seem to move on a lopsided part, rewarding those who do not work. My colleague, whom I had mistakenly invited to one night-out confidently answered her: "Sex." "Women are there for sex and procreation, after all, if not, why should people marry." My opinion remains undiscussed, for now.

Guessing? Well, Anne-belle might be right, but she confirms what many people fear to speak out, but agree that sometimes we live in the most pothological and horribly cynical world -- a world that is as awful as Arabian nights where majority hoplessly. "I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult. I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of a 6 year-old again," a woman blogged recently. The belles can now understand.

Or as Pauline, my other friend, says: "We might go to the moon, mars and the Ivy League. We might have shitloads of cash and a line-up of sexy women within a phone call away. We might get a cure for AIDS, cancer and Hepatites. But we will never get happiness in this world unless we get way of reliving the primitive life that our forefathers lived."

Quite honestly, much has happened since I last met them -- and subsequently made desparate attempts to meet again, but in vain -- but mostly deep inside me. Several times I spoke to them about the realities of this cruel world reflected this private quest, but all this blogging and frequent visit to the Graveyard with some of my colleagues have really been about walking my way free of forgotten events, uncertain future and the an unavoidable present.

This two women need to be confronted as one day, very soon, their own denial will bubble to the surface like lava in a volcano -- Mount Nyiragongo in Goma -- than a corpse returning to the surface after nature snuffed life off it.
I am looking forward for another foray with the belles, if any, or a drink with John Michael.

H/wood Hubbies: 'Walk the Line, One More Time'

Hollywood hot-properties Britney Spears and Reese Witherspoon and their virtually unknown hubbies are girding for explosive divorce battles that is sure to be tabloid fodder. Spears is luck: Her shitloads of money is stone-walled by "iron-clan" pre-nuptuals while Witherspoon is facing a 50-50 split with her ex-husband, courtesy of the Californian law.

The two men, who have already proved their fertility capabilities, have been decribed, dismissed and abused and hopeless "gold-diggers" keen on surviving on their ex-wives cash. Embarrasing. We do not do this shit in Africa.
Spears' move to divorce hapless Kevin Federline -- ex back-up dancer -- has refused to get off the front pages in the celebrity bibles. The key issue here is Spear's fortune, and not the custody of their two sons as K-Fed wants it to appear, sources tell Hollywood press.
Fox pop seems to favour Spears, 24, whose separation from Justine Timberlake, provided tabloid fodder. (Imagine Timberlake went ahead to date an older woman (Old Poultry) Cameroon Diaz 34 -- who is reportedly getting a nose job, not for aesthetic to boost to fix her breathing problem).

K-Fed has hired attorney Mark Vincent Kaplan, a well known and widely respected legal dog while Spears has gone for high-flying Laura Wasser, one of the best family lawyers in Tinseltown, who has represented quite a number of high-profile divorce-seekers. (I bet on Wasser).
It is widely believed that K-Fed is eying Spears' fortune reported to be about 120 million dollars (according to Forbes Magazine), but his access to the cash is extremely limited owing to pre-nup agreement. Celebrity watchers believe that the only thing poor K-Fed will get is less than 20 percent of the value of the couple's Malibu sprawling estate, valued at approximately 10 million dollars, and spousal support for one year, which is expected to be about 250,000 dollars or less or nothing.

Poor K-Fed, who has reportedly never been speaking to her wife for weeks -- except in email -- learnt about the divorce through hawk-eyed Hollywood media. Knowing that the chances of circumventing the pre-nup are less, K-Fed made it clear that he will seek the custody of the kids, or at least one.
If he gets the custody, then the court will compell Spears, 24 to surrender a significant amount of child support to K- Fed. Depending on the stamina of the attornies, the two characters have awful parenting skills. Spears has been on the front pages when she was pictured driving while her child was on the lap -- it attracted shitloads of condemnation from child right groups.
While K-Fed is reputed to just a dishonest man and father. Shortly before marrying the songstress, K-Fed left heavily pregnant partner Shar Jackson for Spears , sparkiling howls of protest. In addition, he was reportedly jetted off to Las Vegas for the anniversary of a nightclub just three weeks after the birth of the couple's second son, annoying Spears.

The other high-profile Hollywood divorce is here. Witherspoon has filed for divorce from her equally hapless husband Ryan Philippe, court documents showed this week, confirming the couple's separation after a seven-year marriage.
Lawyers for Witherspoon lodged a divorce petition with a Los Angeles court seeking physical custody of the couple's two children and preventing Philippe from claiming spousal support. Witherspoon, 30, won an Oscar this year for her portrayal of June Carter Cash in "Walk The Line" and is reported to be one of the top three highest-paid actresses in Hollywood, commanding around 25 million dollars a picture.

Hollywood hawks have reported that the couple did not sign a pre-nuptial agreement, which means that under California law, Philippe is entitled to half of the couple's fortune earned since their marriage. Philippe, 32, who has won favourable reviews for his performance in the Clint Eastwood war drama "Flags of our Fathers", met Witherspoon during the filming of "Cruel Intentions". The two announced their separation last month.

Kenyan men, unworry, go ahead any marry celebrity Kenyan women -- they are all poor after all.

R.I.P petticoat, sorry it was genocide

I dare say that petticoats -- or slip skirts -- are facing genocide. These fine under-dresses have met their untimely demise without the benefit of a funeral, a burial or even marking of their graveyards.

It is maddening and saddening because nobody is mourning.
When did the petticoat get lost? Who is responsible for it? Did anybody intervene to stop the mass slaughter, which now threatens conventional underwear, paving the way for the thong and other queer assortment of petite lingerie?

The answers are: I don't know; I don't know and no.

Why did Kenyan fashion houses pull them off the shelves and replaced them with queer sorts of swimsuits called bykers and other ugly clothings that make Catholic and Seventh Day Adventist clerics puke. I need somebody at the Deacons to explain.
This debate has eluded the public, but it keeps on simmering in single-sex clubs, mostly where women gather to discuss their sexual escapades every Friday evening. These are unmarried lawyers, journalists, accountants, secretaries. But not pilots, doctors or engineers.

Facts: Women who do not wear petticoats have false hair, false nails, false eyelashes and their skins are covered by a thick layer of make-up. They look awful, just like a characters in a human-horror movies.

Fact: Women are increasingly desperate to get husbands, but the rules of natural justice won't allow. That is why they ditched petticoats and thought it was a vogue thing to do. I do not know how true that is because I do not wear one.

Fact: Women come to bars wearing bikinis ad miniskirts, not have fun, but to hunt for men. (my Otto Bakano colleague calls it Mkengele). Hey, it is time the hunter became the hunted.

"All disciplined women or girls ... those who do not like bitching around still wear petticoats. They love them because they know their purpose in society," my hometown neighbour Evans told me one day in a debate in the Graveyard, a drinking hole where broken hearts gather.
Evans and many like him, are convinced that the death of petticoats is to blame for the breakdown of self-confidence and perhaps discipline among women; traits that are essential among those who want to be successful mothers.

This is debatable, though, but Evans had a point. He argues that petticoats are a sign of decency and discipline in women. Their absence means we have lost a key pillar of the society, without the benefit of a fair hearing. Just look at primary teachers and deaconess in rural areas.

Let's start with the history of petticoats.

Wearing these undergarments was well underway by the 14-15th century, long before our African ancestors even knew underwears and knickers existed. But when Christian Dior, a well-known designer, re-invented and mordenised them at around 1947, they became an instant hit in the West, especially among teenage girls.

Historians argue that the intimate lingerie -- as they are called in the gossip pages -- were designed to improve the shape of a woman and restore a sense of confidence that is usually tampered with by behavioral change during pregnance or when their sexual hormones riot.
Any woman who wore a petticoat was respected by the society as true woman and accorded full credit. She was not treated like a sex object. If you doubt this, look at modern-day Tinseltown.

Petticoats, then were made of stiff/tough material so as to hold out and mantain the shape of skirts and dresses. ( But today, they are made of satin or cotton.) This created a dome effect around women's clothing. No wonder morden women, so imbued by hipsters and spaghetti tops, lack confident.
At that time, nobody ever thought of looking at the booty of a woman -- which today can get a woman a free beer and a taxi home. The petticoats did the trick and gave women some degree of dignity and decence.
In addition, they would be a complement for a desired large bust or hipsize. A massive, umbrella-like petticoat that was used in movies to depict Victorian fashion, was not just a trick to hide women's limps -- modern-day sex symbols. But when women realised the trick behind attracting men -- and getting a free lunch at Trattoria and coffee at Java House-- was in exposing the legs, the size of the petticoat started to reduce.

Yet again, when they realised the thighs could do the trick, these decent pants started vanished from upmarket stores. But women have never conceded that their desire to be sexual was also to blame for the loss of petticoats.
"Our modern dresses has an inner linings. We do not need petticoats anymore," one erudite lawyer told me recently, insisting to remain unnamed because she did not want her parents to know that she did not wear that revered piece of clothing.

Over the past decade, I hopelessly and needlessly watched girls refuse to wear petticoat, just like they refused to accept that feminism was a platform for ugly women to get to the mainstream.

Now, they said it was time to be sexy. The pill and demale condoms had come, so they had a right to spill their cleavage, shave eye-lashes, pubic hair and apply some brown powder onto their faces.

It is time to explore, expose and unwittingly dispose their anatomy. I remember the yellow silk or nylon petticoat that young girls wore at my elementary school somewhere in the White Highlands, when we were out for Physical Education (PE). They were fine young girls. They looked, acted and behaved like wanna-be decent women. Most of them passed their exams, got educated, got married, raised families and still go to church. I meet some of them these days and they are just the decent women. They are not by deluded by the pretentiousness of modernity. The trick is the petticoat.
But of late, things have changed, just as several people have spurned several theories about the petticoat.
In addition, women say they do not feel sexy in a petticoat. Like fish, men are attracted by bright objects. The more the brightness, the more and more men are attracted.
R.I.P madam petticoat, you were a fine undergarment, once upon a time.

Confessions of a lonely woman

She couldn't stop thinking about it. It was in her mind. It was her new found obsession. She kept looking at the black khaki trouser that I had worn. It darkened her brain, it gave her a brain lock and she never knew the medicine. She couldn't stop second-guessing what was under it, its colour, how many days I had worn it, where I bought it, who had touched it and what kind of laces it had.
She couldn't stand imagining me pulling it down. Washing it. Rinsing it. Hanging it out to dry. Folding it and tossing it a drawer. It was erotic torture in her mind, she thought she was mad and mulled getting help. She even thought of visiting a mental hospital, but she brushed off the idea.

She was a beautiful woman in her late 20s, approaching 30s. She thought of Ken Chick -- that Bullshit chicken eatery -- and its rejection of "Old Poultry". She knew if she got old, nobody would marry her.
All she saw in Nairobi was underwears. It rapidly became a city of underwears. She imagined even police dogs wear underwears. She even thought Harvard Universitity teaches how to make underwears.

Whenever she went to the supermarket, for some reason that remain unexplained, she ended up at the underwear zone. She touched them, fondled them and compared their design. They had a magnetic effect on her.
She even thought of opening a boutique to sell male underwears. She consulted me if I could do marketing for her. She even asked me if I could invite my friends to buy the underwear. She imagined being George Soros or Donald Trump of underwear-making.
She spent hours imagining where such great underwears could be found.

Each morning, she drove down to work thinking about underwears. She nearly caused an accident because she was obsessed by the underwear. She looked at every man -- including the watchmen -- to see if he wore an underwear.

She just wanted to see it again, maybe touch it, feel it, breath it, lick it and put it under the pillow. All the luric details couldn't escape her mind. She started to cry. She cried and thought she had an underear to wipe her tears.
It had wildly fired up her imagination. She feared she could die young, moreso without an husband, who wore an underwear. Her friends were worried about her. They even called to edvice her. They had told her about the advantages of being a career woman. They told her about Margrate Thatcher, Condi Rice and Elmelda Marcos. She imagined whether they wore male underwears. She was getting mad.
But she always suspected her friends had misadvised her. But she imagined she was a strong woman, brushed it off as a feminine feeling. After all Jackline Kennedy and Maddona had the same feeling, she thought they wore male underwears.
But as the feeling was overwhelming her, she opted for overtime writing reports. Her bosses thought she was working hard, but she was trying to bury her depression. People thought atrocities by the Ugandan rebels, the Somali warlords and southern Sudanese militia were the cause of her depression.

She even started thinking about Mungiki and Taliban. She suspected even policemen wore underwears.
She was bright, but her obsession was affecting her, it was ruining her looks, it was ruining her career and she couldn't accept that she would not live a normal life within me my underwear. All the days she sat on her lounge, eating dates, she shed tears of the lost opportunity.
She spoke of her mother, her sisters, her brothers. She tried to be a normal woman, but the thought of my underwear could not be arased from her mind.
Everytime she went to the bathroom, she couldn't stop comparing her thong with my underwear.

All the towels hanged nearby looked like underwears. The tissue paper looked like linen used to make underwears. Bathroom curtains looked like materials to make underwears. She imagined of visiting Tom, Mboya Street to look for a tailor who could make her such an underwear from cotton curtains. She imagined the world was coming to an end.
At one time, she feared she was betraying her God. Her parents. Her friends. But she knew God gives a second chance, but she could'nt figure out how.
At the graveyard, the parlour for broken herts, she held a wine glass with amazing delicacy, her tongue forcefully escaped through her carefully-chiselled lips. She tried to smile, but instead she ended up grinning. She tried to remain composed. She licked the edge of the glass, panning her eyes if anybody saw her desperation.

She spoke about her dreams, her hopes and her failures.
She spoke with caution, fearing not to annoy me. But her eyes momentarily looked at my waistline, hoping to see the underwear, no. My underwear. She drunk a few glasses of red wine, but the underwear made her drunk. Very drunk indeed. But struggled to look sober, but her drunkardness could not stop her eyes from looking at my underwear.
We went dancing. She shook her hips with amazing agility. Everybody looked at her. She was excited, but had not forgotten about the underwear.
She taught she was losing her job because of the thinking too much about the underwear. She thought she was ruining her character because of thinking about the underwear. She thought of calling police because of the underwear. She even taught of organising a feminine conference to discuss the underwear. All her life was about my underwear.
One day, she called and threatened to report me to police because I refused to show her my underwear. I could not show her, it was Maradona No. 10 and yet she was a single woman.

'Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet'... friends slay too

George W. Bush does not think like King George but behaves like man from the Bush.
"Don Rumsfeld's a patriot who served our country with honor and distinction," Bush eulogised his former secretary of defence, who was sacrificed, though modestly, in the White House gardens in the mist of two reging wars -- Iraq and Afghanstan.
"He is a trusted adviser and friend, and I'm deeply grateful for his service to our country."
Wait a minute!
This man, who also served as secretary of defencelessness under Gerald Ford, was a "trusted advisor?" Gimmi a break. This sounds more fondly like a "motherly praise her departed son" than a Commander in Chief eulogising a defence chief who is -- fairly or unfairly or both, rightly or wrongly or both -- blamed for sacrifising thousands of young marines in yet another "Vietman" in the making.
As Senator Goldwaters said in the 70s: The men who perished in Vietman did not die for their country, but were sacrifised as part of the inherited foolishness. Foolishness of believing that feeding teenage soldiers with junk while invading Fallujah can do any better than hardened Ugali-eaters.
We will never know whether Rummy was kicked out or just quit on principle. But we now know, confidently, that, that aged "Old Poultry" Nancy Pelosi must be celebrating and perhaps going for G-string.
As the next democrat speaker -- chief slayer in the House of Representatives -- it is feared that she will bay Bush's waterly blood, but it would be bloody hard to impeach the Bush, a partner in a Bushworld: a cult that is accused of killing, recklessly, in the land of the Oil Sheikhs.
If it means Rummy fell on the swords, just for a "higher course", then I'd rather be an African politicians, despite, as my very good friend Helen calls them (plural) "unsavoury characters." This is an alarm bell to fairly erudite Barrack Obama, -- a lifestylemagazine-loving brother with a tall pretty wife: "Your place in Africa, home to Mugabe, Bokassa, Mandela, Tutu, Mobutu and me."
Here -- where men boycot dinner because their wives have broken the chicken's back for the whole family to share -- we never slay friends and if we do, we bury your body and mark their graves.
Back to Rummy. Figure this: With planeloads of dismembered marine bodies arriving into the western hemisphere -- land of milk and honey and disneyland and abortion -- from the killing fields in and around the "Garden of Eden", it is hard to accept Bush's praise, or perhaps, eulogise the man who met Saddam twice, not to help Iraq kids starving because of US/UN-imposed sanctions, but to hawk weapons.
Saddam was an cruel kitten, who navigated the land between the two rivers, the birth place of mythical Abraham and one of the lightest crude oil. But his big-headedness or no-head-at-all was created by Rummy, when Washington stuffed his garrisons with obsolete M-16s to discipline the Ayatollahs in Iran.
Now, believe it or not, Rummy has paid the price for listening and believing another block-head, convicted bank fraud and conman called Ahmed Chalabi.
Years later, Rummy's weapons were used to slay Kuwaiti women prior to the Gulf war. An Iraq soldier, is reported to have said, shortly after the Kuwaiti invasion. "We fucked Kuwaiti women for 10 dollars." Quite an unsavoury thing to say, but oops, shit happens.
All this unnecessary -- cheese pasted -- drama inside the beltway was midwifed by mid-term elections, where the Republicans were given a "thumping," loosing control of the Congress to the Democrats and started recriminating, with some ultra-conservatives in the Christian south fearing that homosexuality is now sneaking in the US elementary school books.
"The elections have changed many things in Washington, but have not changed my fundamentral responsibility and that is protect American people from attacks," Bush said, going on to sputter and mutter how he will kick the but of Osama, the man who despised the Lady Liberty, like he despited a pork humburger.
So here's a new lesson from Bushville: Protecting American people involves sacrificing of trusted buddies, just as the "arrogant" Rummy -- perhaps the most confidence and colourful character in the Bush league -- learnt.
While Saddam goes to the gallows, dummy-buddy Rummy goes to bad history books -- facing a legacy of failure, sleeping and waking up hopelessly after a nightmare-laden night, spurred by dead marine's souls. This is what arrogant people get: painful dismissal.
America did not go to the Gulf to change Iraq, but they went to be changed by Iraq.
"Don is a tough act to follow," Bush said, hours after CNN reported that US troops were being slaughtered in the Iraq, "the land where none can pay to tour." Latter Rummy answered, positively eulogising the president, then concluding about his staff at the Pentagon :"they have my respect, they will remain in my prayers."
Rummy has gone ... forever Osama has remained.

Spears/Pelosi: A tale of two women

At exactly 1759 hrs today, I just got a call from one of my Graveyard colleague who invited me for the "League" at Nairobi's palour for broken hearts. He wanted us to discuss the 24-year-old, singing sensation Britney Spears.
The fellow, a die-hard hip hop fun, told me that Spears decided to announce her intentions to divorce K-Federline on the day the US traditional media and bloggers were gripped by mid-term elections. By so doing, her disgustingly familiar character will never qualify for acres of newsprint and airtime.

I wish we had such knife-edge brains in Kenya, save our "toilet" politics, strewn with claims rape in parliament, inviting hapless drug addicts and highway robbers who masquerade as Soviet-era mercenaries and where communities are still debating about the merits and demerits of female circumcision.
But, navigating the web, Spears (detailed her travails in earlier blog) coverage has got more viewing that NancyD'Alesandro Pelosi, the steely-nerved Republican hate-figure who is set to become the Congress speaker, the third powerful politician in the US constitution. A sure challenge to Kenyan women ... is it time for a woman to replace Francis Ole Kaparo in howling "Order" in the house.
So who is this Pelosi? Since we all know Spears as funnyman Jon Steward -- US most viewed bogus anchor -- , a product of Northwestern University, just droolled about this "Oops, ... I Did It Again" temptress.

Pelosi is a high-flying liberal from San Francisco, a hotbed of homosexuality. Her tough-talking and fearless demeanor has chilled the Republicans hapless spines. Let's all wait to see how Karl Rove and Dick Cheney react to the earthquake in the US politics.
At 66, this woman, who is married to very rich man, has mothered five children. She entered Congress in 1987, winning a special election in San Francisco's 8th district after the previous incumbent died of reasons that I do not know. From then, she has made this district the safest Democratic base, where you can howl and crawl on shitloads of Republican hogwash and get away with it.
Her CV is pretty impressive. She came out openly against the the China's widely derided 1989 Tienanmen Square crackdown on striking students. Since then, she has rarely shut her rapidly-aged mouth when talking about human rights in that most populous nation.
In addition, Pelosi has served in House Appropriations and Intelligence Committees. One of her most liked attributes is her very successful fund-raising abilities for the never-winning Democratic party as well as a nearly clear-cut liberal voting record.
But despite her stellar qualities, this women failed to get a Democratic Party consensus to block the Blind Master -- George W. Bush -- from routing the Cruel Duck -- Saddam Hussein, seeking weapons of mass destruction.
Thank God, she recently told an interviewer that was a "waste of time" to impeach Bush. I agree. After all, when you fight with a pig, you get dirty and the pig likes it.

Oops, divorce me again, baby one more time

Capping weeks of tabloid speculation, pop-sensation Britney Spears has decided, "one more time," to divorce from her jiggy-jiggy husband Kevin Federline, who assisted her to get two children. Happy him.
Scandal-hungry Hollywood press reported, citing court papers, said there were "irreconcilable differences" between the millionaire Spears and her dancer husband, Kevin Federline, effectively making an end to the controversy-ridden marriage.
In the much-awaited suit, the "Oops ... I Did It Again," and "Baby, One More Time," star seeks the custody of their children, in what legal pundits say is going to be one of the most explosive matrimonial trials in Hollywood.
We are yet to recover from the grueling tussle between Charlie Sheen and Dennise Richards, even though Jennifer Aniston still speaks to Brad Pitt.
Luckily, the 120-million-dollar (according to Forbes Magazine)-worth damsel was stone-walled by a pre-nuptial deal, which protects anything that she acquired before their marriage from getting split into the two.
Hollywood watchers have speculated that the hapless Federline will mount one of the hottest custody battle in Tinseltown, in addition to seeking a pie of the singer cash
As expected in celebrity marriage, the damsel appearing before "The Late Show with David Letterman," Spears denied any fallout with her hubby, who also did the same while in Toronto on Monday.
"She's been with me the whole time," MuchMusic festival quoted the estranged husband as saying. "She's probably my No. 1 fan, you know what I'm saying? We work together as a team and that's what we do."
This divorce, should it turn to be true, will be definitely tabloid fodder. A few years ago, the celebrity media feasted on her break up from Justin Timberlake.
And in January 2004, the gifted singer grabbed front pages and and airtime when she married her childhood buddy Jason Alexander in Las Vegas, only to annul it nearly 60 hours later.
But this marriage was just another divorce in the works despite denials of an impending divorce. In 2005, she denied tabloid fodder that Federline was seeking or planning to seek a 125 million dollar divorce settlement
After all, truckloads of fans launched a website, www.divorcekevin.com, urging spears to kick Federline.
It is a gospel truth that divorce is a post mortem of a dead marriage. And I wonder why this two fellas are ready to spend shit loads of cash and lots of energy instead of using it to save the their hopeless marriage.
For sure, marriage is like treating cancer, all hopeless and unproductive

The three gases and climate change

As Kenya hosts one of the world's most respected conferences, the UN Climate Change conference, I managed a number of dispatches that some of the so-called experienced reporters did.

I was flummoxed that none of them did get right the difference between "Greenhouse Gases," "Heat-Trapping gases" and "Ozone Depleting Gases". Since I was among the few nutcases swaggering with a bullshit UN gate pass, I decided to contact the Science Generals, and to the benefit of a many fruitcakes out there, this is what I did get. People go and read, something beyond "NO FEAST FOR KIUNDU" or "TO KILL A MOCKING BIRD"

-- greenhouse gases and heat-trapping gases are really the same thing. They are gases that trap the Sun's heat, instead of letting it radiate back into space. This creates the famous "greenhouse" effect

-- a rise in atmospheric temperature that then affects the climate system. Some of these gases come from natural sources, but lots (and more and more) come from burning oil, gas and coal. These fuels release carbon dioxide, the principal greenhouse gas.

-- ozone-depleting gases are quite different. They are chemicals that, until they were phased out, were used in industry or in consumer products as aerosol propellants and refrigerants. They gobble up the ozone layer in the stratosphere. As a result, harmful ultraviolet radiation which otherwise is filtered out by the ozone layer reaches the Earth's surface. It can damage DNA (thus causing skin cancer and harming crops). Even though these gases have been barred, the effect they caused is long-term. It will be several decades before the "ozone hole" in the southern hemisphere is repaired.

TUSKER PROJECT FAME: Of spinning talents and smiling to the bank

Tusker Project Fame is neither a project nor fame.
It is a by-product of copying, lying and googling the Internet for lyrics while deluding the society that it is searching and promoting local talent and therefore has nothing to do with making or remaking anybody famous other than inflating the profits of its chief sponsor.
While it is a phenomenon hard to ignore, it is also hardly easy to appreciate given its ties with the brewing behemoth, the East African Breweries Limited (EABL), one of the most successful blue chip firm around.
In short, it is another installment of the cash-soaked, uncreative spins by freewheeling marketers of EABL known for spending millions of shillings to boost its ratings rather than educating the public on the dangers of under-age drinking or helping end malnutrition among children.
For the past weeks, a wide range of ambitious "students" have been shrieking poor imitations of hip hop music, panting and shouting to beats pointlessly thinking that the brewer, which withdrew its sponsorship to our besieged football team, will build new, if not dormant, careers. No doubt the link between drinking and entertainment, but not success.
What brings the event into focus is what it fails to portray publicly: Its aim is boosting sales for its best-selling brand Tusker. But it has narrowed to this: Deluding "students" to believe they are talents en route to the celebrity world, while reaching a television audience of hip hop-crazied teens who pose no questions and seek no answers.
The project's PR wing Scanad says that project is designed to search for local crooners and toss them into a platform creating chance of lifetimes.
"This is the first time we are having reality TV. Give us time," Scanad PR chief Michael Otieno told me recently after a noisy exchange that ended up more or less in confusing that enlightening me.
"After choosing the judges, we have given Kenyans an opportunity to vote on the students who are in the academy. They will do this by calling in or sending SMS – Short Message Service," he snapped, thinking Kenyans will certainly participate in a show, whose judges’ credentials in the entertainment industry, are as a mystery as Coca Cola formula.
"That is what we wanted... sometimes you have to be subjective," Otieno said. But he was cutting and running from the reality -- transparency.
Despite displaying unimpeachable passion in his job of "promoting" the event, Otieno failed to convince the project settled on hip hop instead of promoting local products even after luring me to one of talent-search fetes in an upscale restaurant. Amazingly, as contracted to do, he easily unfurled his feeling on the generosity and perhaps justification why the brewer spends millions to sponsor the event, which, is just another comic screed.
Otieno and EABL miserably miss the point, unfortunately and whimsically, yet they are fast crescendoing, perhaps unwittingly, into the fate that befall local productions: collapsing after toasting on short time and meaningless limelight.
Academically, reality TV, just like Project Fame, is a screen genre based on "original" and unscripted dramatic or musical productions. It features ordinary people rather than professional artistes or singers. But by allowing youngsters to belt out songs already established and have smashed the charts, hitting platinum; whose lyrics are littered in the Internet and whose beats are free for all, the brewer assumes an imaginary moral higher ground while dismissing the would-be audience od downright Dickensian thinkers.
At best, the project is an overdose of fraudulent, incompetent, inept, unprofessional or a combination of all or some of that. At worst, it underestimates the savviness of the Kenyan TV viewership that has steadfastly matured from one-channel TV to satellite and cable TV channels where well-choreographed shows like the American Idol and Survivor are paraded.
From the start, the project was meaningless since its no originality.
You don’t imitate Michael Jackson, Dolly Parton or Ken Latmore and expect to convince viewers that you are talented. What if giant recording studios sue, or only threaten, the local brewer and its supporting team for violation of copyright for commercial purposes? The best scenario is the talents will be a liability and will be be hung to dry.
Indeed what the brewer has done is frolicking and falconing and scheming on how it can boost its sales while failing to transparently participate in social responsibility. At the end of the day, it croons its way to the bank after satisfying one hawk-eyed taxman at Times Towers while seeking new brands to invest its fortune.
Agence France Presse’s Karen Calabria, a smart character writing on the event recently, tossed around questions on its strategy, motive and eventuality.
"Aside from the talent issue, even those with dreams of musical stardom and celebrity are petrified of what the show might mean, despite their avid program viewing habits," Calabria wrote. "... the chances of superstardom are about as likely as those of a struggling artiste coming up with enough money to produce his own radio-ready content."
Maybe , the EABL fears the country might start questioning when, where and how it spends its truckloads of profit, apart of sponsoring talent-baiting, futureless shows that eventually kill local talents in the name of a higher course.
If it has to pump its profit into nurturing local talent, it should do so on local, established gifted local singers like Sheila Mwanyigah, Eric Wainaina, Nyambane and others other than muttering and sputtering that, "we have talents out there." Where?
Why can’t EABL support local stars to record? Or even back the Kenyatta University or the Makongeni SDA church choirs record music that, we all agree, is just patriotic to God and man. Or may be help foot the salaries of our foundering cricket team that, if supported, that scare giants.
In the past, we saw young Kenyans who participated in such reality arrangements elsewhere in the continent slide out of time, fame and frame forever except occassionally featuring on local entertainment magazines whose readership is limited to high school students.
Instead of belting out ballads that fight corruption and seek to mend the tattered social fabric, the ex-reality TV crooners have wasted time surveying cryptic themes of love and sex, subjects that Kenyans are not ready to spent a dime on and FM radio channels are just bored.
The project producers are downrightly giddy. They are failingly struggling to portray themselves as fair and guided by the pillars of moral justice. Yet it is common knowledge that reality TV is based on a mischievous principle deploys exploitative gimmick of fireworks, cheap promotion electronics prizes under the fragile cloak of exploring social justice and giving everybody a chance to be great.
They think they can boost a singing talent, if any, from a wannabe singer nearing 30. Though it rarely happen, it is equivalent to expecting a child from a woman who has reached menopause in an apparent bid to defy the well-researched science on reproductive health.
"That whole show is not well thought-of, presented or even choreographed. I do not think it is worth getting a live coverage," snapped a seasoned TV producer.
I am not sure whether the show presenter, Gaetano Kagwa, an ego-laden ex-Big Brother Africa housemate, whose debatable behaviour in the House, can do any good to the project.
Project Fame just wants to make Tusker famous, not the deluded students. It is grotesque. It is mad, bad and sad.

The Making of Single Women -- "Old Poultry"

Growing up sometimes in the 1980s, I was "old poultry" in the making.
It was a wrong time to be raised, but there was real stuff to enjoy in James Bond movies where truly voluptous and elegant Bond girls were paraded.
I saw young girls struggling to control their sexuality. They fought a dangerous battle, often drifting to unknown places, albeit valiantly, and somewhere in between, they replaced cotton wool with o.b tampons.
They developed a weird love affair with strapped spaghetti tops and hipsters, which were later to be "weapons of mass destruction".
Testing the waters and maybe soaking up emotions, they first wore trousers during weekends. Then they took to few days of the week, but now they wear trousers 24/7. Most women in the country had dresses, once upon a time, but today only a few have one that is misused in attending weedings and funerals.
Few, if any, seriously go to church for spiritual stability, but rather sexual stability. It was survival for wildest.
Strange was the speed at which they adopted thongs, yet some wore them with track suits. I knew we were moving from a confused society to confusing the society.
Some looked ugly, cheap, hapless, eccentric and at worst diabolical, especially when they applied the wrong lipstick. There was a positive note too. They were ambitious, an encouraging trait at a time when the Big Daddy lenders were prescribing poisoned economic recipes.
But now, most red-blooded women think it's sexy to don spaghetti tops, spilling their cleavages all-over and G-strings that expose their bums, thinking a combination makes men jerk-off. Worse, the fashion industry made it a gospel truth that slim women were the best.
This encouraged disastrous weight-cutting antics. I know they envy the "air bags" of Pamela Anderson, the "boot" of Jennifer Lopez or the lips of Angelina Jolie.
This lifestyle change was brought by the passions of "career women". Lawyers, corporate chiefs, editors. Others thought only hard work would make them pilots. A pauper country proved them wrong. Little did they know that they were venturing into a world of gender politics. A world where success is determined by anatomy.
I never heard many dying to work for the UN, which today excites droves in University of Nairobi's Box hostels and USIU, a factory that grinds up-class egos.
That time, many girls wanted to be like Catherine Kasavuli or Maddona, but without adopting kids. Oprah was not as famous as she is now. They thought it was their turn to be sexy and do what men had denied them since the industrial revolution.
The pill had arrived, and so had the results. Never mind, this erotic pill was not sold over the counter, but under the counter. A generation of eroticamaniacs was born.
It was also the time when coconut oil and curly kit were in vogue. "Sokoni" and "Ngoma" -- textile-made ready-to-wear strappless shoes -- and later on Morcussins and velvet high-heels were the only affordable, yet decent shoes in the market. Cable TV was yet to bring the marvels of Tinseltown boutiques.
A cult called "feminism" was in the works, courtesy of a few whose relatives had benefitted from the Kennedy airlifts and brought home a few lifestyle magazines in addition to American accent and a passport with Uncle Sam's Visa. Most valuable were cardigans with Norter Dame University or Morehouse College logo.
Clothing lines, Njiris Stores, Y fashions and Deacons, never stocked girlie-only trousers. Too bad, the main stock was unisex jeans that was imported from South Africa, Malaysia and Singapore, where they had been disposed as "cleared stock."
Meanwhile, men opted for Gikomba to grab T-shirts emblazoned with Michael Jordan, MC Hammer, Diego Maradona and George Bush Sr. I was not among them since mama did shopping for me and I was a villager. Who would accept to be overtaken by events?
That time, mothers could not leave their girls go for a Saturday walk without wearing petticoats. They believed culture, or for that case, stereotype, was the guardian of discipline in society. Most of them were circumcised and they loved it.
Viva, Drum and other lifestyle rags were the magazines of choice for the "modern woman." Then, courtesy of the Marlboro ads, few "wonder" girls cared to start smoking, inflated their bras and padded cotton wool under jeans to enlarge their bottoms -- "VW Passat's rear bonnet," one called it.
Others too poor to afford cutex nail polish, which ran out of stock in upmarket chain stores, plucked Heena from river banks, despite its awful Mogadishu odour. Pedicure and manicure were yet to replace razor blades and table knives in shaping nails. Never mind what they used to clear their vital private parts jungles.
But there was no windfall for all and God was too real for them. With parental advice or threats or both, many tried a hand in the church. Then, houses of worship were a haven of sex predators, some of whom, got their cash from bonuses.
They pretended to have repented to convince no-nonsense village parents to let them out on their "Sunday Best" after preaching. Some were even choir members thinking they would end up like Whitney Houston or Gladys Knight or even Yvonne Chaka Chaka.
For many, the Full Gospel -- where there is a poor imitation of break dance -- was the "christian disco" since Omega was reserved for major trade fairs. These girls danced and flirted on the Holy Floors and met the local "Frank Sinatra" and "Elvis Presley".
I never witnessed explicit sexual activity, but I remember seeing a girl pull a man's hand over her breasts "when the orgasm was still at top gear." The other day, I was told the girl got married and divorced somewhere near Mau Forest. She now has seven children.
I wanted to discuss this with mama, but age mates warned me against shameful curiosity that could be so dangerous. Matters of sexuality were only spoken in parables and in low tones. Kids were not allowed to think sex, talk sex or have sex, at least in public. The only book recommended was the The Book of Bible Stories.
Women's chat could be creative, as it is now especially in weekends at the rural versions of Arboretum or Ngong Hills, where most women and few men believe Eros resides. "When a man is ejaculating, the penis turns red," I overheard one girl say, going on to discuss plans of having sex with a son of a neighbour. I did not follow it up.
At my age, which was not-too-young-to-notice or get-noticed, I was flummoxed. I knew the church as a beacon of discipline in society since, just like my contemporaries, mama usually made sure that we went to SDA's 'mission reading' every Saturday.
The most fascinating set in the SDA was the women's ministry, a Christian version of female circumcision. Girls in courtship thought they were old enough to abandon the youth league and cross over to the ministry, a class where, innocent or naive women could be transformed into professional male molestors and underground grinders of gossip.
The ministry was a purgatory for young ladies. Whoever was in the women ministry and later moved to the city was sure to end up as a single woman.
Botox and cosmetic surgery were movie fodder, leaving room for daily showers, then applying a slim layer of coconut oil for the poor and perfumed Valon for the rich. In poor families, milking cream was the only option. It was odourless and nobody could notice.
In those days, any girl away from domestic chores thought she was middle class and would get a man to date her. Others were old; they had reached their expiry date.
Parents who knew God were against pills or at least pretended to be. After all, sneaky girls got them anyway and had sex in the bush. AIDS had not cut across the population and condoms, Rubber Johnny -- were an anathema.
Burning with ambition to win villagers' respect, the girls baked their skins with Ovacado concoctions and copied the hip-swinging style Yondo Sister and a times Tshala Mwana, a pair of sensual Congolese mucisians with a thick layer of a mixture of cosmetics.
Most of my agemates thought they were beautiful, but later did agree that they could not reach the standards of the Marylin Monroe and Dorothy Dandridge. Leave alone Katharine Hepburn. They believed beauty lied on the size of the bosom and bottom, and not on the much-hyped character.
Rexona and Lux were for beautiful girls or as the ads did say. Tahamaki and Tushauriane were highly-rated in the local scene. New readers like Khadija Ali and Anderson Kalu never stilted their language trying to cut a niche in the bars. Morden newsreaders try wicked coquetishness on the screen. But the truth is, they are barely voluputous. They are mechanical and they know that.
When Ebony, Glamour, Cosmo and Elle magazine hit our news stands, the girls read and thought they were 'independent women'. In them, recipes promised girls new culinary delight that would transform chicken shit into chicken fries.
The real "Drum" magazines, with its dull pages and unappealing font, never dolled out bullshit columns like "sexiest men in Kenya" that are strewn in a recent "True Love," parading a hidious bunch of "misfits" who drink on loan.
It is an omen to remember this.
All the problems that faced our girls was a result of the "feminism" movement that had crossed borders into Kenya in the 1990s.
That was when girls frequented bars recklessly: ceaselessly drinking Tequila and smoking marijuana in the backstreet alleys.
The metamophorsis was a long and sad experience. These days, girls have taken control deciding what they are going to drink on a date, and when to call them and what brand of drink they are taking.
I recently got two women in the PorterHouse drinking Jack Daniels then changing brands of Malibu and finally settling for Tonic Water, before getting drunk enough to expose their G-strings while wearing tight jeans; all along thinking they were being sexy.
Sample this: My colleague Otto Bakano is merciless with women in love. He had advice for me.
At the Graveyard, the name given to PorterHouse because "it is a parlour for broken hearts", I asked him on the way foward to get a girl, Khadija Salat, rejected my overtures.
"Matrix Reloaded," he told me, reffering to the 2003 directed by Andy Wachowski and Larry Wachowski.
"Drop your ego, go and reload and then pursue Salat."
But Salat was no ordinary girl. Middle-class and well-paid, she thought she was in a Paris boutique.
Unfazed and unintimidated, I called her for the hell of it. She responded beautifully, afterall she wanted a free drink which I gave her. I knew my ship had come. Nothing women like a free beer. I wish she knew that the fun is in the chase, not in the catch.
I moved forward, now with turbo-charged zealousness, until everything bursted. And I do regret it because women who wear borrowed, expensive clothes are usually "thick". They cannot cook French delicacies, frequent Kenchic and most commonly, do not know the right lipstick.
Finally the truth hit me. Her boyfriend was an uncircumcised fisherman. And she wanted me to "fix" their shitty relationship. But my agenda was clear. I wanted to get her home for the evening, and just for that since I had learnt that marriage is a hopeless and unproductive career. A white elephant that milks dry men with slim wallets.
A week or so, she called me. "I thought you are very stupid," she said, going on to the lecture me on why I should comb my hair, play "decently" and wait for a girl to crawl from the woodwork of Nairobi.
For three weeks, I pursued her, until one day she threatened to get a restraining order. That relationship lasted eight days with one evening out. She drank my red wine. At first sight, she was a Bond girl, but attitude was a problem.
Then, I knew. We have an epidemic of single women in Nairobi, many living and dying hopelessly, sitting in restaurants from Friday evening through early Sunday, gossiping men. At home, they leave a can full of unpaid utility bills and a long list of men's cell phone numbers.
These cabal of women drive cheap Toyota Corollas and Nissan Sunnys from Japan, brands that an upscale prostitute who frequent luxurius hotels in Nairobi and Mombasa can afford after 17 dates with "Real Men."
Over weekends, these "old poultry," who cannot find a decent man -- either because they are divorced, too ugly, or they wet their beds -- sometimes gather in one's apartment to gossip, fondling teddy bears that are reserved for young kids and hoping that men will drop from heaven like manna.
"They should go back to their traditional values. They should stop going to bars and instead drink from the privacy of their homes," retorted Mwangi Ngamate, a journalist and car seller. "These days, they even fight in bars and abuse men."
Edwin Kagunya, an accountant who sits next to me in office said curtly. "It is very bad, women have chosen to disregard the institution of marriage."
My friend Paul Oyier, a a decent bedfellow running a production firm, told me that image was everything in the morden world of dating.
"You hold off until, many of these girls will come to pursue you," he said. The soft-spoken Oyier, a decent man with an acceptable demeanor, always blamed me for lacking a serious woman. But what for?
How do you expect to spend you evening in bars to raise your family, leave alone your own child? Family lawyers are increasing being pushed out of business to the awful pro bono work, not because families are increasing being stable, but because families are dead.
"People like you are causing the problem of single women because you are not serious," Oyier lectured me. We laughed, but he did not tell me if he knows any woman who uses her brains and uterus at the same time. I am dying to know.
But I pushed on but Salat refused to respond to my e-mails despite "reloading". Eventually, I not only realised that I was chasing "aged poultry," she had already joined the mean, poisonous and dejected league of singly women -- la femme fatale. They can kill to mantain their ego that has been bruised by years of sleeping alone.
Good women however are hard to find. Take one Anne Kiguta, a newsreader at Capital FM. I tried to fix a date with her. "I have no time, I am busy except Tuesday's and Fridays . Anyway, most of these days, I usually have plans," she told me, going on muttering and sputtering. I was told she study's evening's.
Others think that parading their man in public could prove a point. Nope, they should know the aged maxim that 50 percent of a woman's power is taken away when people know who she sleeps with. Either way, just have a look at Sheila Mwanyigah and you will know that you can have a good heart and sexy face. Then conclude the beautiful ones have been born.
Even if all these women decide to be single, men will never venture into the cyberspace in search of sex or somebody to cook or wash socks. Men can do everything, virtually, doing dishes, driving, cooking, cleaning white collars and soaking towels. But they cannot make a family with children. That is when women become necessary -- but for those with no plans of getting kids, why marry?
Or, ask Micheal Otieno, this decent guy who navigates the Scanad PR wing, whether there is time to undergo these grueling dating rituals or we just go for "easy option" after a one-so-many.
Somehow, the sexy bombshells -- hourglass shaped women -- have imploded.