The ethos of my times demand that I go to the country side during these festive times. I had been a little homesick in the weeks preceding Christmas and I yearned to be in the country side. So now, I am in a small town in western France called Niort. Niort is my ace in the hole, like Embu. Not the Embu in South America, the Embu in East Africa. Calm, graceful, old and pretty. Like a good pair of sunglasses.
34 Posts By Wambui Gichobi
I love words and music that strike a chord. Music whose grandeur cups the side of my face with its smooth palm. Because, this is how I like to be touched.
Letters that dance and form words.
Words that rhyme.
Words that make disfranchisement sound like sun.
And now Paris is doing the same. Paris is male. He is a man who can get it.
I have heard seriously wrong assumptions that men have about women. I don’t blame them really. A man’s life in my eyes is pretty straightforward. His way of thinking is too. He is born, one hand in his pants, the other on a gadget of his preference. Could be a computer, a phone, or a ball (not intended). Then he grows older and taller. He might feel sad at one point, call a friend and drink whiskey in silence. When he is 40ish, pressure may build up. In a moment of horn madness, he might sell his property and take a 20 year old comfort lady who calls him ‘papi’, to Dubai. To feed sharks. A month later, he comes home broke and begs his wife to take him back. They start all over again. A woman can do all these things in one morning and still have the energy to go fire someone at work.
I had an okay Friday, six months ago. One with a stern face and a stiff back. This piece was shelved in my library until this morning when I read ‘The Quietus’ about the sorry state of pop marketing and I agree. They took away my Joshua Bennet and my long legged Ginuwine and replaced them with Chris Brown. Come on! Someone short-changed me.
Anyway, it’s time to blow the dust off this piece. It’s time to delicately put my hands on it and re-play the song from where we left off. To dance one dance, chest to chest, beat to beat, until the last full stop. I might even get acclimatized to the habit of finishing the pieces I start. And no, this piece is not even about music.