this is a great story of a blogger, but with a relatively sad end to it.
its the story of a blogger.
one who had always been at the edge of being, but never really being. how does it feel to be, is a question that lingers around him like a housefly on pongy socks.
maybe this his whole bloglife was an illussion, but it has been a lovely tale while it has been lasted.
its still the story of the same blogger who fell in poerty so much but it has never been more devastating that he doesont have that shakepearian matrix in his genes.
maybe the create mis-exchanged his love, confused it for another and thus, he thrives as a really lmature port.
funny thing, he never writes any, never have attempted…he just clones, plagiarizes…
immature poets imitate, mature poets STEAL.
should we blame it on philosophy? should we point all our index fingers on idealism? that constant desire to achieve a state…and as his fate slap him hard in the face: it will never be.has never been…but still, the zeal and zest is there, fate always puts him on the edge. it keeps him bothered, bothered to see that he is teetering at the cliff of actualisation, precauriously, expectantly, waiting…with hater-demons shaking their floppy dry cunts on the other side…shrieking that..he wont BE.
maybe he has been. was rather. and if he ever was, it never occured to him that he one was. had been.
since he wrote his alltime high about vagina disectomy….and about meeting someone, his blogging life took another turn..piroutted and spiralled down obscurity path.
till he lost it.
life is about making it. losing it. making it. losing it…and making it, before you lose the ultimate to lucifer. uhm, most likely.
in the end, we are all losers, but with the to the cross and those that have been scared by moralist into doing good in order to avoid a certain ‘hell’ its said that it’s a passage to greater victory.
again, he is an idealist. he doesn’t know where he is headed, but reader, he is right on the way.
many times, he has tried to pick it up. the best works are yet unpublished and his spotainety is still sizzling under…maybe, with the death of on of his three charming personalities, he’ll pick it up. or try to. and aim at being.
today i shared my experience as a blogger. they call them resource persons in lecturng lingo.
and oo yeah…. boyfulani surged out of the shadows of anonimity..and for a lunchlog, he sold his blog!
anyways, blogging is an art i hold dear. though it has greatly thawed my talent as a writer a great deal, i still love it.
some loser called it the cult of the amatuer and yeah as some grow up to have a respected word out there…boyfulani is still at the edge of it.
he is still bothered, but while at it…i gave them the URLs to the blogs that i think make the cut..haha…ok, at least those i visit and they visit me back. i’d also take this kachance to toss one with those who have kept me on the net. without them, i’d not even be on the edge…its called a blogtoss..haha
in between mentions of ‘sketchlog, blogwhoring, moblogging, kbw-ers and celebbloggers..modo, ever the crazy one got a big up. hmmm, dood, though still in mathare upstair wards, is just good.
chiquita, haha, the only female blogga i cud recall..and still on the same why do most kenyan female blogs go with names like.diary of……blah blah?
final line: two more lives to go? can i be?
endnote: maboyfulani hawadedigi..hao huvuta kaya na kufufuka, wanaburuka, kisha wanafyatuka!
back to normal broadcast.0
To be honest, i almost cried that day. I have had humiliating things in my life but these guys managed to crush the self esteem i had accumulated for many years.
Recounting the event years later, it reads like a big joke, but at the moment, it was a matter of your tears, shrilly voice and merciless bullies who seeminglyhad no morsel of mercy left in their footballish heads. Now that it was arule for everyone to shave.
The story of the form two boy who died in a bullying case is yet another blot in this practise that is not about to end. My heart goes out to the affected family.
As for the culprits, ill only phrase one sentence for them, from the most interesting \joka story av ever read “ its a joker plot that will haunt years on.
On the same vein, i think in part, it was kinda fun. The ingenuity and conspiracies hatched to bring you down to the ground level were tottally humbling. Almost foolproof.
I remember one guy strutting into our room dressed in blue carrying a reciept book with mean looking accomplices in tow.
“moooooono!uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuiii..nikiingia kwa cube yako unafaa kusimama atention!”
Tendrils of sleep had started engulfing me and this caught me unawares, so i hesitated. dude, i never made a bigger mistake than to sleki on an order given ‘bigboyshotcaller’.
The whooshing sound of belts landing on my poor self told me better and they were raining them mercilessly…as i threw the blankets as if they were on fire, standing attention as if i had been electrocuted.
Funny enough, they all burst out laughing…and i stood there like a square triangle..terrified by being woken up by brutal belts, and the fools laughing like it was the funniest thing to ever happen in their lives.
“ haiya, mono, kwani unaenda games???? Ehhh? Unaezaje lala na games kit?…ebu kwanza jog…” the crook in blue coughed.
I had blue shorts, and a branded navyblue t-shirt. The school’s prescribed gameskit. Whyhadn\t i brought my mickey mouse pajamas along?
The questione never stopped flooding. On the other hand and In fear of getting another beating , i started spot jogging…on a spring bed that was hammock like…thus i was being thrown up n down, in a cartoon like gesture…they dint tell me to stop and as my world spun on shame and humilation as the goons watched.
unexpectedly, a hot liquid thing rolled down my flushed and red as beetroot cheek. For a moment, i though it was a blood….
It was a teardrop!
I dont like recounting what followed afterwrad after i gave them this resilient stare of like…
niggaz, you made me cry??????”
They walked away, screaming and making jubilations.
a man in tears? i had never heard of that…but if iw as ever a man to them, i was a man on no order: m.o.n.o