Uncanny Issue 1 Cover & Table of Contents!



Coming in November, THE FIRST ISSUE OF UNCANNY!!!
All of the content will be available in the eBook version on the day of release. The free online content will be released in 2 stages- half on day of release and half in December.

Table of Contents:

Cover by Galen Dara

The Uncanny Valley- Editorial by Lynne M. Thomas & Michael Damian Thomas

New Fiction
Maria Dahvana Headley- “If You Were a Tiger, I’d Have to Wear White”
Kat Howard- “Migration”
Max Gladstone- “Late Nights at the Cape and Cane”
Amelia Beamer- “Celia and the Conservation of Entropy”
Ken Liu- “Presence”
Christopher Barzak- “The Boy Who Grew Up”

Classic Fiction
Jay Lake- “Her Fingers Like Whips, Her Eyes Like Razors”

Sarah Kuhn- “Mars (and Moon and Mercury and Jupiter and Venus) Attacks!”
Worldcon Roundtable featuring Emma England, Michael Lee, Helen Montgomery, Steven H Silver, and Pablo Vazquez

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Miniscule Black Hole – Part II

See Part I of this story.

The trees in Europa are so green they are blue. Seko stared at a willow through his window and made a mental note to pluck some leaves. He had just received a message that he was needed back at earth with immediate effect. The message had come directly from the Universe Ism ruler. Seko already knew it was a matter of magnitude proportions. A summon by the ruler was unheard of. He was so mysterious and scarce that he was almost mythical. After 11 earth years he was going to depart from Europa at last. He was born on earth but came to the island domes as part of his studies. He never went back. He loved it here. There was plenty of unspoiled oxygen and terraformation had created a wonderful environment. The shuttle was leaving in one hour, he already had the special pass authorised from the Ism directorate. The mere sight of the stamp was enough to send the guards scrambling to salute you or even kiss your ass literally.

He felt special. The flight back to earth took 5 hours. It was a shuttle of moderate proportions, not equipped with light speed enabling Alcubierre drives. He liked it that way, ships which contracted space scared the shit out of him. He could take weeks to recover from the journey.

He arrived in Nairobi at the evening just when the sun was setting. He did not miss it. The air was even stuffier than he left it though the pull of gravity was less, way much less than he had imagined it would be. He was almost floating. It was unnatural. He was picked up by a uniformed ism soldier who led him to a vintage limousine from the old earth. ”Will I be bequeathed the ruler’s head in a platter or something”, he joked to the soldier who was weaving past hover-cars at breakneck speed. No answer. Seko gave a light chuckle to himself and continued looking for anything new on the roads since he left. There was nothing, in fact people were less than the norm. This was another very unusual factor. Human beings loved earth beyond logic, many of them since centuries immemorial had adamantly refused to move to new planets and colonization. They held the earth dear, their mother. They arrived at the gleaming towers that housed the Universal Ism headquarters in no time. They were just as he remembered them.  Dreary and scary. The people who worked here were always gloomy as if they held the weight of the world literally on their heads. Right now they did. Seko was ushered in to the office of Earth director in a hurry. The director was a huge man. Broad shoulders, demeaning walrus-moustache, deep booming voice and all. His face was grim. Seko noticed that he had some traces of hair on the top of his head. A very rare occurrence, the feature had been out-evolved. He felt like laughing at him the way the laughed at a boy who had the same back in school. He held it back. ”Seko, we have been expecting you. I hope you are fully nourished.” Seko wondered what this had to do with anything. ”Earth is very dear to us and it would be sacrilegious if one day we lost it. We have discovered an anomaly in our immediate space. In exactly nine months, 2 days and 6 hours, a black hole will form right beside our orbit to the sun. I think you know what happens after that. It is your job to stop it from forming.” The director said with an air of finality.

Seko was confused, he was not an astrophysicist nor was he a scientist by any definition. He willed his time away at Europa by writing poetry and occasionally editing for the news organization there. There must be a mistake somewhere. ”Sir I don’t see how, I am not a scientist and I have very little understanding of how black-holes work.” He said. ”You will be given all the knowledge there is by microchip implantation to your diencephalon. It’s a simple matter. Have you ever been acquainted with time travel? Of-course no, it is illegal”. He answered himself. ”We are the Ism though and after numerous deliberations you have come out as one of the candidates to travel back in time and rectify this problem. We have traced your lineage and we are lucky to find that you have an ancestor who was a scientist and who contributed much to the problem we are having.” The director said. ”With all due respect sir, I have to decline. I am sure there are better people suited for the job other than me.” Seko said. ”You do not understand young man, that option is not available under any circumstances. Doctor Meniz will be with you soon for orientation and implantation. You will leave in one month so that is what you have to familiarise yourself with what the chip does not make clear. Feel free to ask any questions. I believe we have come to an understanding. I am now leaving for my walk. Say hi to your great, great, great grandpa and don’t look up my family when you are there”. The director said as he picked up his cane and walked out leaving Seko perplexed.

Dr Meniz was short and rather pleasant in contrast with the director. He walked with a slight hunch as he led Seko to the lab. The first task was the chip to fall in place. Seko had never been fond of implants but his life had changed dramatically since he received the message in the morning. He was about to do many things he was not very fond of or straight out loathed. In this period he met the other three candidates. Yeggi, the tall engineer who wore old fashioned glasses and mumbled to herself. She was an expert in time travel and also an historian of some sorts. Adua, the only extraterrestrial in the group. He/She, Seko could not differentiate came from a planet in the Andromeda system. Adua was an expert in black-hole formation as well as white holes. He/She was involved in the construction of several of them in Andromeda which were used to keep in place moons and planets which had broken orbit. Why he/she had chosen to work on a dangerous project to save the earth Seko had no clue. There was Kik, a temperamental scientist who always had his brow under sweat. He was responsible for the invention of several deadly weapons and he also relished the idea of blowing up moons.  To his surprise Seko was the leader of the group. He was tasked with making the first contact with his ancestor and making sure the coast is clear.


I woke up the next morning with a massive headache. This was not a good way to start a day promising to be weird. The first thought was of the former human or post-human species lodged in my lab. My shoulders slumped. They were going to stay slumped for a very long time. A frown would also materialise which at last would take a plastic surgeon to wipe off. I took my hover-car to the lab. I walked inside to find Seko hunched over the bench with another creature. This was definitely not a post-human species. It was not bipedal for a start. It floated mysteriously just above the ground and buzzed all over my lab swiftly. This did not give me a second heart attack though. I was past the stage partially due to the events of the previous day and partially due to the fact that I was still a little bit inebriated. ”Hello Seko, who do we have here?” I asked cheerfully. ”Oh, where are my manners, this Adua. Adua, meet my once upon a time ancestor. He will definitely help with these calculations,” he said to the creature which turned to me and made what I presumed was a bow, or an insult. ”Nice to meet you Adua, now Seko, would you for the love of God explain to me what the hell is happening,” ”Chill out mate,” he said cheerfully ”see I familiarised myself with your slang to sound cool, chill out”. I was not about to ‘chill out’. ”No Seko, for the record that slang does not belong to this age and even if it was I do not use slang in my conversations. Now tell me what the hell is going on”. I realised I was getting agitated.

”Okay, okay mate sit down and have your precious coffee.” He said. ”Do you remember a paper you wrote 2 years ago about the formation of artificial worm-holes as a means of space travel?” ”Yes but it was only a theory and it does go against many laws of physics, it is not tenable,” I replied. ”Well, my old man. Some of your former colleagues did not think so and right now as we speak they are in the final stages of setting it up. It will not succeed, not now anyway. It will remain dormant for another four hundred years. When it does form then, in our time, it will not be a worm-hole but a black-hole. A black-hole smack in the middle of the solar system. Its size will be capable of collapsing the whole of the Milky Way. Sucking it unto itself. You would not want that to happen, would you? Your job is to help us stop them.” His cheery self had disappeared with his little speech. ”We need an old rocket which to refurbish as soon as possible, I am sure you can get us one old man”. I was not happy he was calling me old man but then again I was his great, great to infinity grandfather.

Obtaining a rocket discreetly was not an easy task. There were few of them just outside Nairobi in Athi river mines. They were dumped in old missile silos used in the world war three. The good thing is that they were not heavily guarded as they were regarded useless. We transported there in the nightfall by my hover-car loaded with 3D printed confusing contraptions which were to be used in repair. They had spent the whole day printing them with fascinating efficiency. There were two bored guards by the entrance strapped with laser rifles. We alighted and crept by the shadows until they we were a few meters away, then Adua materialised and said hello. They fainted. I summoned the hover-car and we bundled them in an air-lock inside. After that it was a breeze. Once inside they selected an old NASA space plane which was used to transport supplies to the International Space Station and the moon later. Seko said it was more than they had wished for.

We printed several drones and programmed them for the repairs which they did efficiently. In a few hours it was as good as new. The next step was weaponry. It was at that moment that an apparition occurred just beside me and off it went with some of my sight. Out stepped two creatures which looked like Seko. They did not even bother acknowledging me. Later I learned it was Yeggi and Kik. They spoke very little. Kik got down to work installing weird equipment to the sides of the plane. By the time he was done it looked more menacing than a Russian military chopper. We launched in the wee hours of the morning. A few minutes after we did, we got a message from the ground space control that we were not allowed to launch any rockets and especially old ones. We were asked to abort and we promptly declined.

The next warning was not so polite. It was a ground to air missile which missed us by miles. The next one was four heat seeking missiles capable of breaking in to space. The plane responded with its own which destroyed them. Several others were released to the same result. The real battle was ahead of us.

Several satellites in the orbit were already armed in readiness for the rogue plane. Their sheer number was overpowering. Kik’s massive veins on his forehead bulged as he fought them and neutralised them one by one. He was hitting them with missiles of his own creation which de-fragmented them in to several million pieces and to avoid creating space junk sent the scampering back to earth, breaking orbit and in to atmosphere. In a sense he was infecting every piece with smart nanites. Nanites which I had created in my lab. We soon settled on the orbit and started scanning for the construction team. When we saw them they did not seem perturbed. What was a mere space-plane against their five massive spaceships?

One of the spaceships was holding the supercollider which was in the process of accelerating the collision of the particles. The mission was to annihilate it. Remove any trace of it’s existence. We fired a warning shot high above them in the dismal hope that they would move away. They charged their weapons on the four ships and activated defenses on the fifth one. This was not going to be easy. We advanced in what was soon to become a battlefield.

The two ships in the flanks closed on us and simultaneously rained torpedoes on us. It was the time for Kik’s shields to prove their character and they really did. While the force from the attack threw us around, nothing penetrated the hull. It was like stabbing a cerrusite plate. This went on for five long minutes without any retaliation from our side. We took down the lead ship in less than a minute blowing it in to smithereens which like the satellites broke orbit back to earth. This prompted the other ships to form a triangle in defense of the one holding the collider. They made it too easy for us. Kik sent a volley of nanites enhanced photon torpedoes and soon we only had the mother ship remaining. We systematically destroyed it’s propulsion and weaponry system as they intended to take it to the future. Doing so would enable them to track any changes done in the field and disable them from their own time-line going onwards. Kik once again proved useful by equipping the space plane with cloaking mask which enabled me to go back to earth invisible.

Nairobi is in utter chaos now that I am back, and so is every place on earth. There are conspiracy theories on what really happened yesterday but nobody can guess the truth. I will take it to my grave.

Miniscule Black Hole – Part I

This post originally appeared on Storymoja Festival Blog

What Nairobi needs is a flood of heavenly proportions to clean it, wash the filth towards Nairobi river and any other outlet available. Wash away the filaments of delirium inducing weapons from the future. Weapons which have destroyed the present to save the future.

 We are just a semi evolved race hurtling towards its own demise. Accelerating and fanning the risk. Consuming and in turn being consumed by the greed of standing above everybody else’s head. So lonely and single minded, yet none can stand loneliness.
These were the words of Seko, a strange creature who traced his lineage to me. His head is huge. A concave shaped behemoth on the top of his neck. It is also bald giving it a rather ghastly look. His complexion is not like anything I have seen. Sci-Fi channel has given me time to time a picture sub consciously lodged in my mind of what aliens could look like if by any chance in the future they decide to pay us a visit. Green men, men with pixie pointed ears, creatures with multiple limps and complete lack of empathy. That sort of thing. Seko is not an alien. He swears by the Christian and Muslim holy books that he is human. He was not sure of what religion I subscribed to so he learned all the texts as part of crash course on the 21st century earth and the crazy religious zealots everyone is according to their history. He is right by some extend, and wrong too because I don’t subscribe to any religion. His skin feels rubbery to touch, more like touching the outer layer of cobra’s eggs. An activity which nearly killed me a decade or so ago when I bumped in to some by our farm. Fascinating contraptions that held me in awe for some minutes. A strike on my left hand brought me in to senses and it is also the reason I don’t poses the arm any more. He talks, not in any way different to the way I do though the accent is a bit perplexing but it is a bit difficult to focus on the accent when the creature in front of you is 8 ft tall and from the future.I am curious, very curious. The shock of the cavity which opened in my lab does not wear off but my scientific curiosity gets better of me. I never dreamed I would have any children, let alone have a lineage stretching more than four hundred years in to the future. If this thing is talking the truth that means I finally got the courage to chat up girls and even get one in the family way. The future doesn’t look so gloomy after all. My synthetic arm whirs in the struggle of shifting the couch in to a position which Seko can comfortably sit. It is a bit a product of my invention. My research work is based micro and nano robotics. Micro robotics has been fairly successful in the past few years and it is one hell of a scientific leap. My biggest echelon in the field is Squido. The tiny mosquito-like creature which guards my house with an option of paralyzing any biological intruder with one sting. All it takes is one command from my glasses or computer. I have not figured a way to disable fully mechanical robots though. It is a work in progress. I have a friend who has managed to install electronic modules in to the brains of rats, spiking their I.Q and making them excellent spies for several government agencies. I have no interest in that at all. I find it creepy and disrespectful to the laws of nature. These are major lauded accomplishments in the scientific field. The same cannot be said for nano robotics. The control of matter with atomic or molecular precision has proved to be a tough nut to crack. The underlying reason is lack of enough funds in the field rather than insufficient knowledge. Governments all over are afraid of what might come out of it hence tough regulations against it. This has paved way for underground crime and military organizations and corporations to invest in the field away from the prying eyes. Nearly everybody in the scientific community knows what is happening. Some renegades, I am not proud to say I am one of them, have chosen to go ahead with actualizing the thing which has been keeping us awake at night for so long. I have perfected the art of manufacturing and hiding them until the right time when the regulations will be lifted. A few hundred of them are safely lodged on my synthetic arm. One of them though calls my spinal cord his abode in the effort of confusing my neural system in to believing that the synthetic arm is flesh and blood as any other part of my body. So far I have succeeded and my doctor or any other person would immediately report me to the ethics commission if they realized I have done so. This research is one of the reasons Seko was chosen to lead their team to our time line and systematically alter it. If all goes according to plan, 99.98% will not realise they were here. The other 0.02 % percent is made up of scientists handpicked across the globe who nobody will believe if one day they go mental and decide to blurter it out. That is the best case scenario. The worst case scenario involves annihilation of every organic thing on the surface of earth as well as what is contained several hundred kilometers beneath.Seko does not eat; or rather he does not consume nourishment by conventional ways. He digests a mixture of Hydrogen and carbon straight from the atmosphere through the pores on his skin. He does not know what hunger is and neither does anybody alive in the universe during his time. I realise this after I generously offer him a cup of steaming hot coffee believing that coffee, my good old drink, is timeless. Thoughts whir through my mind. I could be having a rather realistic dream. I could have been abducted and my thought processes altered by nanites. I know there is a group in Tokyo really in to mind altering research by the use of illegal nanites. If so, what would they want with me and why go to all the trouble of showing me something as unrealistic as this? I dismiss this as illogical. I might have just gone mental, after all people have been known to say I am mad from time to time. I push my cup subconsciously off my desk and the hot coffee jolts me back to the present when it makes contact with my groin. The hot searing pain cannot be anything else but real. I am in the present, conversing with a post-humanoid creature as if we are just out in the bar sipping martinis. Wait until I write about this. I might be on the verge of a Nobel peace prize. Seko shakes his head disapprovingly and puts his rather short finger relative to his size on his mouth in a silencing gesture. He is telepathic too and he gently informs me I am not to communicate the encounter to anyone. I have to spend my day normally and if possible spent more time in the lecture halls. He is now the custodian of my lab and it will be the nerve centre of his mission. He assures me with a pat in the back that it will not take long than intended and with my full corporation we might even speed it up. This is all confusing and highly uncomfortable. My lab is my baby, my legacy. I would not dream of bequeathing it to anyone, leave alone hand it over by passive aggressive persuasion. Seko reading my thoughts tells me that this is just the beginning of things and it would be wise for me if I put my heart in to it and really cooperated. He is to brief me the next day as well as divulge the details of his mission the next day. Until then I will have to get a good night sleep and come back in the morning fresh, with my bags packed.I make my way out of the lab dejectedly, the orange sun is glowing majestically over the Chinese university tower as it sets. My lab is a smart house and can perform basic functions like real time surveillance on command or even defend itself if the worse comes to the worst. I think this is the time. I do not know if Seko can read a mind which is 200 meters away but I will have to take my chances. I sent a magnetic lockdown command through my glasses to the lab. No response. I activate nerve gas release. No response. The lab has been turned in to a Faraday cage. I am so doomed.

I walk briskly towards city centre and in no time I am at 20th Century cinema wine bar. I usually frequent it on Fridays but this Tuesday calls for special drinking. I would like to see if not so few shots of whisky will clear my brain which is very cloudy at the moment. Thoughts and counter thoughts on time travel criss-cross it. It is a paradox and a scientific impossibility. Sure, since time immemorial people have burned the mid night oil trying to come up with calculations which can enable it but it is just too complex and still impossible. I am really not sure how this future race did it but they must be pretty good to pull it through. It is surprisingly hot where I am seated and I endeavour to move to another corner. I pick up my glass and but I trip with the first step I take and go sprawling towards the counter. This day is not getting any better. My artificial limp luckily hits the ground first so there is no real damage other than my deflated ego. Rising up I realise the nights mission is already accomplished, I cannot keep my balance and hell and Seko know what tomorrow will bring. I summon my hover car to take me home.

The Collective

This was originally published on Storymoja Festival blog

The first thing that you notice is the smell, nay stench. It hit me smack in the face. I was reeling back when my senses and manners thrust me onwards.  It wasn’t enough to turn me around though.  Soon I got used to it and realized it was not so bad after all. Many guys had lived with it for long I was not special. I could survive. That was my resolve.  A further investigation later revealed that it came from the two bathrooms at the end of the hall.  Rarely washed, they have an open door policy. It gave them a steady stream of characters lining up to avoid the few coins required at the community dump.

Welcome to the ‘hood community creative space’, or simply the collective. Conjures memories of the sadistic, advanced semi-biological alien race from the Star Trek universe, the Borg collective. The main hall is about 30sq ft. The four walls are riddled with mostly badly done graffiti. The colours are peeling and it looks like whoever did it was in a particular hurry or was just horrible at it. A striking one near the middle catches my attention. It looks like a rip off out of a hentai clip. A massive humanoid naked form is depicted chasing a small girl in what I can assume is on a fiery forest.  It is inappropriate and I am sure many people might find it offensive. It is still the most striking piece of the wall art here anyway. In retrospect, that should have been sign enough for me to bolt out running.  But I am an art activist, or the ‘cool’ dress up I preferred then, artivist.  I believed all forms of art must be expressed, even the most offensive ones.  If anybody doesn’t agree it should be shoved up un to their backward faces.  There were several groups scattered all over the place engaged in discussions, singing, dancing or just willing the time away.

‘Are you Erik?’’ Someone tapped me on the shoulder. ‘This way, we were expecting you’. He showed me in to the small office tucked at the corner just next to the washrooms. Joge, as I came to find out his name was, was small in stature. He had broad shoulders and a mean look. His demeanour suggested that in another life he might have been a boxer or a quarterback for a rugby team.  Right now he was just one of the ‘creative’ here with a speciality in playing delirium ridden Kamba traditional drums, ‘kilumi’. He led me in to the office which had a lock-less door. He pushed it open and showed me a seat to perch on. It leaned immediately on one side and were it not for some quick movement I could have a got myself a good dent somewhere on my body. This maybe should have the second sign that I was not meant to be here.

I came to know of the collective community creative space through my buddy Wino. He was a college mate where we were English and Literature majors. He described it as an open space where creative’s meet, strategise and hone their skills with the help of more advanced members. ‘ I mean, we have been in operation for years now and there have been success stories, I know of some musicians who have been getting playing gigs regularly and they are all part of the collective. ‘Wino said to me in explanation.  This sounded pretty cool to a kid fresh out of high school where we saw ourselves as superstars without the opportunity yet. Forming rock and rap groups and coming up with ingenious monikers which now sound really silly when I remember them.  Wino told me they had space for everybody to express their creative genius. As a wannabe writer, I wanted to meet people with similar interests. Get some mentors and who knows, I could even get published there.  I took up the chance immediately. I gave a call to the chairman who told me I could drop in any time I felt like. No appointment, no background checks, nothing. This should have been the third red light which I ignored. When you are 18 you are bound to ignore many things or simply find norm in the absurd.  This was also fuelled by the fact that I was new in the city. A first year in the university who had failed miserably at making friends. I was lonely and homesick so when the only friend I had managed to make came up with a plan I was all for it. Damn the consequences.

After I had steadied myself I looked up to the other side of the desk in front of me. The ‘chairman’ I gave a call was seated there. His voice was no doubt masculine. His appearance wasn’t though. Meet Jean, the resident tomboy and a lesbian to boot. The fact that he was referred to as a ‘he’ perplexed me. She was seated so I couldn’t make out any other features apart from her face which was angular. Perfectly sculpted to bring out her domineering jaw bone. Her pointed nose had hints of Caucasian. Her hair was cropped short completing her ‘manly’ look. She did not spot any make up. Her chest heaved up and down slowly. I was bound to look and it was definitely not masculine. Her smile was inviting and she stretched her hand for me to shake. Definitely a masculine handshake. ‘New blood heh?’ She boomed. I assumed that was meant for me and nodded. ‘Welcome to our cool collective, I believe we talked on the phone, Erik, right? Let me tell you about us….She droned on and on. I took the opportunity to examine my surroundings. There were several guitars hanging precariously on the wall above her. They looked as if they needed a single shove to come crashing on her hair deficient head. There was also a lone nyatiti and two djembes. These guys really loved their music if this was any indication. Unlike the hall, there was no vomit inducing graffiti here. They had gone as far as they could to make it look official. Apart from the music instruments hanging on the wall there was no other wall decorations here. Several shelves stacked up with papers, books and an old computer monitor occupied one wall entirely. ….‘I said you are to refer to me as Chairman, it’s a gender non-sensitive community here’ this brought me back to the one sided conversation. Gender non-sensitive? This was definitely a ploy of her own making to make her feel manlier. I wanted to ask her if they were gender indifferent why was she chairman and not chairperson. I refrained though because when you go to Rome you toe the Roman line. You are not bound to step out of it when you are talking to Caesar. All this time Joge was standing behind me, mean and straight-faced like a bodyguard.

The monologue was soon over and once again my hand was jerked in to a choking grip that was handshake or semblance of to Jean.  Joge took me on a tour of the facility. Artistes and wannabe artistes where everywhere. It was crowded and most of the characters seemed sneaky. I had glimpses of some who I was sure where the ones who taped you on the shoulder in the CBD and proceeded to request you of your belongings amicably. Failure to which they will produce a gun or simply stab you smack in the middle of the street. Agreement occurs because fear is a great motivation and you don’t want to call in their bluff.

I came upon Mwaf, with a goatee which occupied his hands whenever he wasn’t doing anything else. The other thing he did is play a guitar. He was scrawny and outspoken. A sort of person who always has a say in everything, thinks he knows it all yet his superficial trivial knowledge comes out as dumb. Well, his ego took care of this.

I got used to the stench as the days went by. For a lonely country boy who never got around the trick of making friends. It became easier. I could even smile to rough looking ghetto girls who pride in being referred to as hood rats. The guys accepted me and I was part of the collective. Dropping in any time I felt like and I got to feel like a real artiste for the first time in my life. It wasn’t a space conducive for writing though. There was always someone shouting, someone playing some ear-drum shattering instrument. The collective was devoid of any order apart from the ever present Chairman who reminded you time and again that she was one.

The building which housed the collective was an incomplete flat giving it a rather jagged rooftop. It is here that we held parties which spanned weekends. To a casual observer or a naive member like I was, the guys here loved music. This was an unfair observation misplacing credit. Everybody here was a stoner; they loved their weed with divine enthusiasm. Those who strayed away from the smoky pleasures had unparalleled love for the bottle. They sneaked cheap spirits and gins in to practice sessions on daily basis. These are the items which made weekend parties last so long. Come Monday mornings, the bulk of us were hangovered in the main hall. Jean’s booming voice usually came to the rescue, waking us up as her timberland boots made contact with any poor soul’s ribs lying on the way. Looking back at it now it was only lack of funds which made us not seek more potent drugs, say cocaine or heroin.

I do not remember when Wino left the collective but since he had inducted me as a member we had grown apart. My constant complains of ‘the collective’ not being a creative space worth its graffiti put him off. That was until we fell for different misuses, I took up my love for the frothy drinks a notch higher and he smoke his way in to stratosphere. This really thrust a wedge upon us, there was no going back. The old days were forgotten. We saw each other, nodded at each other and that was enough salutation for a week. To this day I have no idea where he went to. That is the least I can say for other members, especially our revered chairman.

Since I joined the collective word was that she usually had sex in her office in the evenings after we had left. Nobody had photographic evidence so it remained an unfounded rumour. I had seen her make out with her girlfriends during the long rooftop parties after several swigs of cheap vodka but that was that.

Approximately a year and a half after I had been inducted I arrived at the collective to find a sizable crowd at the entrance. I shoved my way through to the front where I was confronted with a police crime scene tape. A few meters from the tape lay Jean in a pool of blood which was beginning to cake. A few meters ahead was a scrawny girl wrapped in a towel shivering considerably. I seen her several times but never paid attention to her. She was not striking on any way. In the wee hours of the morning her boyfriend had found Jean having carnal knowledge of her body. Apparently better than he ever did. He was angry and humiliated. He took it up with Jean, they wrestled, broke several guitars. Pummelled each other with anything in sight, the boyfriend was losing the fight. He took it a notch higher and produced a pocket knife and in a matter of seconds the fight was over. The chairman died when the blade tore off the jugular vein. All this while their joint bi-sexual girlfriend was transfixed watching and she only came to her senses when she realised her male boyfriend was making a run for it. Her scream pierced the night echoing through the hall but it was too late. The killer went in to hiding. That was much of the story the police managed to coerce from her before they took her to the station.

That was the screeching halt of the collective. We disappeared with our heads low and tails tucked between our legs never to come again. I have met a few former members down the line. One did make away with my side-mirror while I was willing the time away in the crazy Uhuru highway traffic. I could not forget the face. I let it go for the old time’s sake. I met Joge too, in a seedy strip club at river road where he is a bouncer tasked with making sure that your hands don’t stray. You watch, continue watching and then pay. I was happy for him and threw him a round, at last he had got a career which utilized his ability of standing mean faced his fingers twitching for a punch.

Satao – a legend

I really had to repost this.

Mark Deeble

Satao - legend just title

When I last wrote about Satao, I felt that I couldn’t use his name. I could refer to him only as a ‘magnificent tusker’ or an ‘iconic Tsavo bull’. I feared that naming him would risk revealing where he lived. Now that I can use it, I wish that that I couldn’t.

On the 30th May, poachers finally caught up with Satao. An arrow smeared with Acokanthera poison hit him in his left flank and penetrated his body cavity. It travelled right through to his vital organs. To begin with, he might have run, to get deeper inside the park, where he felt safe. Running would have made the poison work faster. He didn’t get very far. Eventually he stood still in open ground, not a mile from the park boundary – with the potent cardio-toxin coursing through him. Without any cover to hide his tusks, he’d have felt exposed…

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A weekend to Mombasa, the city of bangs

The good government, for the past not-so-few days has managed to whip up the countrymen and women as well as bigots who have a foot on the fence; into a domestic tourism frenzy.  There is nothing wrong with this and it has all good intentions plastered on the side some crawling in to the microscopic level that is vanity central. Twitter. It all sounds colourful and bound to instigate some sense of pride and patriotism to anyone who for some moment ignores the underlying issues. I don’t.

A certain friend of mine is in huge trouble for watching one too many ‘twende tujivinjari’ commercials and taking them literally. Wonderful animation while we are on the subject and a wrong choice of score if anything from the original song is to go by. Scenes of bestiality with that fat hippo aren’t cute.

He is a proud owner of this Volkswagen GT which is powerful but has a tendency of guzzling too much fuel and breaking down from time to time. He decided to swap it for a jeep to walk the talk of magical Kenya albeit for a few days. A choice which can be admired by a patriot of your calibre. Before then he had paid several uncountable visits to the only place outside of Nairobi which is like most places in Nairobi. Ole-polos, the nyama choma heaven which Nairobians usually mistake for a wildlife park. Rightfully so, that amount of Nyam chom can only be available in a wildlife park for anybody who hasn’t been to any. Many Nairobians haven’t. The KWS ad was a wake up call. His ignorance slumber of his own country had been disturbed. He was not going to take this lying down.  He decided to test the waters from the deep end and promptly signed up for bungee jumping somewhere past Thika. As if driving there with the guidance of Irish whiskey isn’t a danger enough. Rumour is that if you are caught you will be stripped naked, placed in a freezer and your bank accounts raided to pay for the fine of stupidity and blatant ignorance.  He soldiered on.

The bungee jumping was uneventful, as it has been for the thousands of others which happened all over the earth prior to that one. It had a feeling of anticlimax. He got dizzy and disoriented. I was disappointed that the elastic bungee rope did not give in to the forces that be, gravity and wishes. Snapped in half and let him hurtle downwards like a speeding bullet. I gave up my chance and went back to my drink. Karma isn’t trustworthy and could just decide to get back to me by having such an inspired thought.  He had tasted the thrill and was not about to back down. The whole of Kenya had just opened up before him. He looked like a newborn baby who has discovered the only thing standing between him and fulfilment is a flimsy cloth.

Lets backtrack a bit, the major reason why our wrong government is calling upon the poor citizens to start saving for holidays is that Uncle Sam and the ilk withdrew en-masse from the Kenyan coast. Several spirited attacks from the thin, ugly, illiterate but surprisingly persistent militias from Somalia left us dazed. Tourists don’t want to stick in an area where different sorts of explosives go off randomly blowing up stuff to kingdom come. They left. Hotels closed. Kenyans were left broke and jobless. The government took this on stride, called U.K, U.S, France, Australia even N.A.TO bleeding cowards and told them that they had nothing on China who are set to become our premier tourism trade partners. The only slight problem is that the Chinese are not interested in watching wildlife. Which we have in plenty. They have more important uses like dietary supplements’, decorations and medicine. All their uses leave the animals dead. Still, it’s a risk our government has already taken. This worries many patriotic Kenyans, but not my friend. He decided he was just going to replace our departed tourists in a very odd way.

He took a road trip to Garissa. Why Garissa? You may ask. I don’t know either. Garissa as far as Kenyans are concerned is that frontier town holed up in part of Kenya which should be owned by Somalia. This view is also held by some high ranking government officials who are allergic to knowledge. He packed up and set off dragging his sweet Nairobi girlfriend with him. Nairobi girls are a special breed. They are averse to hardships, whether natural or artificial like this one. That is root of his troubles. She had acquired exclusive knowledge from her friends and ‘The Nation’ to some extend that the lonely road stretching from somewhere past Juja up to Garissa is full of bandits. The vomit of the society who will spill your guts while you painfully watch and if you are not dead already feed them to you. All that for some few bottles of water. Apart from these psychopaths there was Al-Hijra and Al-Shabaab who are the authority on this no-man’s land. They are more lenient in that they will set invisible landmines to blow your car to smithereens. Alternatively, they can practice marksmanship with the top of your head. You will not even notice you are about to die before you already are. Her knowledge dictated that the only safe way to drive there is to use Uhuru’s RCV Survivor. Since this was not available, they should have dropped that idea long time ago.

Uhuru's RCV Survivor which is a symbol of the generous amount of security our good government is providing to it's poor citizens.
Uhuru’s RCV Survivor which is a symbol of the generous amount of security our good government is providing to it’s poor citizens.

He chose to ignore the highly informed views and hurtled off to coast via Garissa on a Jeep. There have been a few surprises along the road more so for the girlfriend who hasn’t met any sick bandits yet. Still her heart floats close to the mouth and she has been having persistent stomach rumbles.  They encountered another breed of bandits in the name of Kenyan Police, luck was on their side as they both look like they originate from the innermost part of Bwindi Impenetrable forest and en-route to kenya immersed on coal mines for a good measure. There was no doubt that they were Kenyans of non-somali/arabic origin. Not in any way fit for Kasarani Concentration Camp. Their jeep was ransacked though and they parted with a few thousand shillings. That particular standard procedure has happened several times in the course of their journey.

Garissa was extremely hot. In his own words ”I think I have been a little misled by the magical kenya P.R assault, this heat is depressing and I think I am growing an extra layer of above my epidermis to act as a heat shield. I was under the impression that the whole of Kenya is a magical narnia which improves my sex life as the bonus. This heat is killing me.” He spend several hours on this hazy, dreamy town where you get the feeling of touching the heat physically and they sped off towards Malindi with gloomy faces.

The all-weather road in between has not been kind to them as well as the heat and humidity which seems to multiply by the minute. He is stuck somewhere in Garsen dreaming of the sandy beaches in Malindi. Did I say the girlfriend took a bus back to Nairobi at Garissa?

Bush Tales

It’s past midnight at the farthest end of Maasai Mara. Right next to the Serengeti. I have several shots of Smirnoff inside my system so it feels pretty awesome writing this. The funny thing is that I did dream of writing the same depressing/motivating sentences a few weeks back in the sweltering Nairobi heat. It’s cold here. Freaking cold considering I am lodged up in a tent. The vodka in the system wishes that a scrawny underfed lion would brush past the tent and say hi. No fangs. Just hi. Well, the coward homo sapien in me is scared and tipsy wishing Kalawa Jazmee  compilation playing on my laptop does not bring a bull buffalo to the tent. Curious on who is stupid enough to disturb it’s night of after mating beauty sleep.

Let me tell you a short story about buffaloes. These herbivores have the rage of an enraged Leopard. Top this up with a horny and clueless rhino. You have the recipe for a disaster. Buffaloes can maul you in a second. No, they don’t care that you are erect on two feet and holding a gun. They come full speed aiming for your frail body. A good natured, respectful bull will not stop stomping until the grass is gone as well as that deep red colour associated with blood. Your dermatologist would be disappointed. All those years of caring for your damn skin and the good old buffalo won’t stop for how good and blemish less it looks. The bush is just fantastic.

Yesterday driving here I got stuck in Sand River. Sand River is the imaginary or physical border between Mara and Serengeti. Whichever way you look at it. I was driving to my favorite camp as well as my workplace. Cottars 1920s Camp. It’s really exclusive. I won’t delve in to the details. I found the usually dry river flooded. A result of torrential rain I encountered between Mahi Mahiu and Narok. The thick smog did not allow me to see 3 meters ahead and I am 100 percent convinced that fate had to do more with how I got here than precision driving. Fate and coffee from the square. (Remind me to blog about the square and their meager servings of potato chips next time, I have a huge bone to pick with them)

There is a rustle of leaves outside. If I happened to be of a Buick derivation my long Vulcan-like ears would prick up. They don’t, just my heart racing up to my mouth. They have come for me. The elephants I cursed and recursed when they filled my path yesterday and trumpeted arrogantly to the annoyance of my spotlights and my ears. They have come for the revenge. (It’s amazing what good old vodka can do to your brain). The camp was abuzz today with the Masai warriors reporting that the Eles are chasing herders sheep away in various parts of the conservancy. For some reason I don’t know elephants don’t like sheep. I think it’s their ovine characteristics, brainless and trudging along to the unknown. They will chance upon a herd of elephants and keep moving rather than taking a u-turn. If you were several tons in weight and a brainless simpleton brushed at your gigantic feet you would resist the urge to trample them just long enough until your patience wanes. Then go all bulldozer over the feeble backs. Maasais don’t like this prospect. They must protect the sheep the only way they know. Their arrows are poisoned with a powerful concoction which can bring down a bull elephant easily. It’s not poaching. They have no interest in the ivory. Rangers were send to drive away the elephants to a safe distance. I hoped in to the jeep looking forward to the action.  As I said, elephants are not scared of bipedals, or any quadrupedal  for that matter. It takes a lot of effort to scare one off. One is finding a beehive and setting angry bees upon the herd. They will run like hell. This option is just as hard as walking up to them and nudging them while imitating Ludacris  ‘move bitch, get out the way…..’’ You get my drift. The second is shooting in the sky, which is what happened. It is a good thing that they are afraid of gun shots as this enables them to escape the murderers we all loath. Poachers looking to make a quick dime out of flourishing Sino-Kenya partnership. We moved the away from the Maasai herds and I have a feeling several of them earmarked me as the chap who sat there looking out of place. They understand that the rangers were doing their job, but who was I? They have come for me in order to necessitate interrogations. Once again, vodka.

I have to go pee. It’s the thought that comes to my brain. My bladder backs it up.

A brief description of my tent. This is no ordinary camping. I am lying in a four poster bed in a luxuriously furnished bedroom. The decor is of the old. I bet my long gone grandpa would really hate it because of the period it is derived from. I love it, and I bet you would. It throws you to all those history classes you attended in high school and campus. Bringing them to life and if you loved them like me you would not just like it here, you would love. Love it to the extent of wishing you lived here, rolled you bacon here, and sun downed watching the sun set over the hills in Loliondo. The large orange ball is mesmerizing but I digress.


The right side harbours the wash-rooms, fully integrated. The other side separated by a tent wall has a living room. Luxuriously equipped than the one you would find in a high end apartment. The doors/entrance? You zip it up. Sort of an old school STD commercial.

The rustle, the scuttle, really hoping that it does not grow in to a commotion.  Maybe they have sent an armature who is not sure if I am that clueless chap unless he finds a way to peek in. This is a small consolation. My heart, or rather the feeling of a lump steadily makes it’s way up my oesophagus. I am not about to throw up but I am sure about to give birth with my mouth. To a timid infant called fear.