Keep eye on Ball

Watch the video, the interesting bit starts from 1:20 :

To paraphrase crudely:

“Kenya’s Ball landed in bunker. Big trouble. Lots of problems getting Ball out of hazard/bunker. Me and the Prez used the right club to thrash the ball out of the bunker”

Nothing sexier than watching 2 macho men in suits talk about playing with balls, using right-sized clubs, action-reaction on balls, golf etc.

Note: my balls hurt. Care to recommend a good ball doctor?

Why didn’t the BBC call me ?

New born rhino named after Kofi Annan A new-born rhinoceros in Kenya has been named Kofi Annan in honour of the former UN Secretary General. Baby Kofi was born at the weekend in the community-owned Ol Choro Oirogua Conservancy….

Wonder why the BBC didn’t call me. Among my small menagerie of pet animals, I have this eclectic pair of golden hamsters. One is named Raila, and the other Kibaki. They live together in the same cage, are well behaved, and display a bottomless appetite for the tiny morsels I throw at them.

(The only odd note in all this is umm…. they repeatedly  mount each other with reckless abandon. I did not know I had the privilege of owning two gay hamsters – not that its bad)

Note: It struck me that this is a most appropriate post as today is Valentines Day

The aftermath of tea

In view of this post and some of the associated commentary, I have had to do some deep introspection.

There is a fire burning inside of me, where it ought not to burn. I am talking about the hell-fires of lust. And when I look at my visage in the mirror, all I see is le yeux perdus.

I have realized I am in love with the first lady. I find it most difficult express with adequate force the impact of this passionate recognition. To profess my passion in a honorable manner, I have decided to ask for the first lady’s hand in holy matrimony.

I contacted the presidential secretary (the same ange noir who had provided her formal vestments to me during my earlier visit for tea with the president) , but my hopes were dashed as I was told that all such requests (clearly, I was not the first making such an appeal) would have to be routed formally via the “office of the spokesman for the president”.

So I called up the office of the spokesman, and the gentleman notified me that my wishes must be expressed in writing (in triplicate, duly attested). I have done so now. I await on tenterhooks, as I have no more words to play with.

Tea with the President

Recently, three weeks ago to be precise, I had the privilege of being invited for Tea and Crumpets with the President and his family. As you can very well imagine, for a stranger living in a strange land, such an invitation constitutes an event of great excitement and honor, and so I prepared for my visit with religious fervor.

When I am older, with nothing left to do but thumb through the miserable memories that constitute my life, this visit from a remote summer, shall glimmer as one of its highlights.

The president occupies a magnificent edifice in the heart of Nairobi – an area ubiquitously named “StateHouse”.
(Just like the area around the American president’s residence is called the “WhiteHouse”, though this is decidedly a more modest affair).

After the perfunctory security checks (large uniformed man, rubber gloves, a bowl of luke-warm water), I was very carefully briefed on protocol matters by the president’s secretary (“the correct way to address the first lady is ….”).
Unfortunately it became apparent that I had dressed improperly for the event (italian suit, flared trousers, bow tie), and would have to turn back.

Here is where I came face-to-face with the human side of presidential hospitality. Not wishing to dampen my childlike excitement (I was about to burst into tears), the stellar secretary promptly undressed and loaned me her “protocol attire”. Miraculously, the borrowed “protocol attire” was a perfect fit ! (I must explain that the secretary was a tall and very well endowed à la gamine, which accounted for her having similar physical dimensions to mine)

Below: The first lady, the president, and yours truly “the man in the middle”
clad in full “presidential protocol attire”

As there were pressing matters of national and international importance, the actual tea event with the president and the first lady was brutally short. Much like that famous day 23 years ago when I first mislaid my virginity, some of life’s most cherished moments are but fleeting, and so will this event be forever etched in my mind.

I was led into a small garden adjoining the presidential study. Here a carved wooden table had been laid with various silver implements for the purpose of preparing and serving tea.

The first lady dropping all manner of presidential imperiousness insisted on kissing me thrice on either cheek (presumably she had known that this was a custom from my home country reserved for only the closest family members). I tried valiantly to return the favor, but this was no easy matter given the nature of the “protocol attire” (I had been warned by the secretary that divesting myself of any part of the “protocol attire” would be at my own risk). The president welcomed me with a limp, but friendly hand-shake.

While the First Lady is chatty, and demands detailed answers to every question posed by her, the President is a demure man content to butt in with a profound “Okay..”, “Ahaa….”, “I see….” in the course of the conversation. It struck me that the president was a man possessing almost super-human self control, a quality I believe which can only arise from years of secret suffering.

I must also note that the spread for Tea was très excellente (Quality Darjeeling tea from the himalayas, baked croissants from the best bakery on the Rue Conti in Paris, creamy soufflé from Geneva). The only sour note was struck by a servile but incompetent waiter who forgot to bring a tea-cozy, for this impertinence he was sacked summarily on-the-spot. Quel dommage!

As I left the farewell again involved the procedure of kissing on either cheeks. The president and the first lady graciously agreed to pose for a photograph to commemorate our meeting. The portrait (pictured above) of that memorable day now graces my study.

(EDIT: For my friend from the Big Apple, who wanted some background for this post, here it is)

Public Interest Notice

So the president and his nemesis have agreed to talk.

Since one of the main issues on the agenda is the issue of foreskins, or the absence of it – I believe it is *imperative* for the public to establish without doubt, the exact status of the preputial anatomies of these two gentlemen – i.e. if the president is missing a foreskin, and his nemesis retains it intact.

What if it revealed that the president was not, but his nemesis was, circumcised – would the two then change sides?

A knotty matter indeed, for the highest judge of the land.