Chuck Norris has nothing on a spear wielding Maasai Moran. Not even if he teamed up with Jack Bauer. See last week a team of Maasai Morans confronted a pack of lions and speared six of them to death. Now these guys did not go lion huntingbecause the wild cats had invaded their village and made away with their children, no, they went all macho because a pack of lions had attacked and killed a few of their sheep. Talk of being spiteful!
Just to be clear, we’re talking about six grown ass jungle lions here. Not the ones you would find sitting on stools in the Circus. Nah! These are lions that had grown tired of buffalo meat and were seeking some sheep cuisine! Those Maasai boys are not your usual blokes. That’s a tough bunch right there. Even the Alshabaab in Kismayu would drop their RPGs and run for the hills if they got wind that Kenya was sending over these Ninjas. I mean who wouldn’t?
I know a thing or two things about the Maasai culture. For one, I know that they treasure their livestock. They live, eat and breathe their cows, goats and sheep. A Maasai gets out of his shack in the morning, looks at his herd and he feels like freaking Richard Branson. In the Maasai community, a man doesn’t need to drive a Range Rover to feel like a boss. If you have a sizeable herd, then you might as well be Rick Ross. Anyone who tries to unjustfully take away a Maasai’s animal risks being speared dead. And Mufasa is no exception.
If a lion attacks a farm animal, then according to the Maasai constitution, it should be hunted to the depths of Maasai Mara (or Kitengela) and speared to death. No compromises. If the unfathomable happens, a group of strong and energetic youth is mobilized and they set out to seek revenge. I suppose there is an enlisting process. And I have a feeling boys there do not need to be begged to enlist. I imagine they show up in large numbers, each eager to serve his community. Each eager to shove a spear up a lion’s gut. I imagine the boys who are deemed unfit walk home with downcast eyes. They feel like they’ve not only let themselves down, but their sheep as well.
I am glad I wasn’t born in the Maasai community. I can’t kill a lion. Not even with a sniper rifle. Heck I only show up at goat eating parties after the goat has already been converted to meat. If I lived among the Maasais and killing a lion was the rite of passage that would usher me into manhood, I would pass. I would rather go fetch water with the ladies. No way in hell I’m I coming face to face with a lion.
I suppose constructing an impregnable barricade to protect their herd would only cost each family like what, four cows? But no. Maasai folks don’t think along those lines. They believe in respect; even from wild animals. I imagine as soon as one of them saw the sheep massacre that morning, he yelled, “Oh no they didn’t!” He then let out a loud piercing cry that woke the entire village. A war cry for that matter not a sissy cry. Men raced out of their Manyattas with spears in hand ready to face the enemy.
It must have been a gloomy day in the village. I imagine people were engulfed in sorrow as they mourned their dead sheep. They thought of the pain their beloved animals had gone through at the paws of the lions. And they swore to revenge. I imagine the village elder had a difficult time trying to make some men understand that they would not be part of the lion hunting party; that they didn’t make the cut. And I imagine these men felt like they had been dropped out of the Olympics dream team.
Apparently during the lion hunt one Moran got his arm mauled by a lion. I do not suppose he as much as let out a cry in agony. From what I hear, the guy talked down on the beast. He looked the lion in the eye and bellowed, “Is that all you’ve got b!tch? What are you trying to give me a love bite? My teething daughter bites harder.” Then he proceeded to shove a spear down the lion’s throat.
These guys are so bad ass, the government did not intervene because they feared for the lives of the villagers, they intervened to protect the lions. The government official was like, “I’m sure we can work something out folks. Those lions didn’t mean to kill your sheep. Maybe it’s the sheep that provoked them. Anyway the lions have learnt their lesson so please don’t go killing any more of them. Deal?”
There’s a video by BBC where three Maasai men snatch prey from a pack of fifteen lions. That’s right guys you heard me right. And it’s not like the lions were lying on the ground basking after having eaten to their fill, they were actually tearing into their brunch when the men rudely interrupted. More like the way a bully snatches lunch from a wimp. I mean why spend your energy hunting and chasing after game while you can have the lions do it for you?
In the video, the men walk briskly towards the lions. They do not falter even when the lions pause and stare intimidatingly, probably thinking ‘Who the hell those, do they know that we run shit around here?’ But as the men draw nearer the lions see the unyielding looks on their faces and they realize that if they do not make a run for it, they would be someone else’s dinner. They therefore take off and watch from a safe distance as one of the men cuts off a chunk of meat and places it on his shoulder. The men then saunter away, probably thinking ‘what a bunch of pansies’.
Now that’s gangster!
These guys deserve one of those honorary badges that are given to brave men after wars. I bet they sit and wonder how come it’s taking so long for the Kenya Defense Force to oust the Al-Shabaab in Somalia. If I was driving and I happened to knock dead a Maasai’s sheep, I’d relocate to a foreign country. I wouldn’t wait to see my fate. Not from a guy who has slain a lion!
White folk, don’t try that stunt. Please don’t. If you’re sitting there thinking you are tough because you’ve got a tattoo on your neck, think again. The lions will make mayonnaise out of you.
Given the choice between calling up their dads to wish them a happy Father’s Day, and carrying a handbag for the next two weeks, most men would find themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place. I bet I am not the only man out there who has no idea how Father’s Day should be celebrated. This has got to be the most confusing celebration for the men.
You see, African fathers are not like what we see on TV. Well at least mine wasn’t. My dad never sat with me over a cup of tea and offered dating advice (I could have used some of that by the way – dating advice, not the cup of tea). He would never wink at me and give me a thumbs up whenever he spotted me with the neighborhood hottie. He could never explain to me what the Trust Condom advert was all about. We never had that father-son talk that initiates a boy to manhood. My dad was all about action, talking was a waste of time.
As far as I can remember, my father has always had a stern look. He did not LOL at silly jokes. He did not grin sheepishly. He always wore a tough face that would have scared away a kitten. At some point when I was a kid I thought he could read my mind because every time I thought of something naughty, like biting the buttons off the remote, I would be met by a grim, set look. A look that said, I know what you’re thinking boy and you better erase that thought or I will smack you into the future.
At home, it was either my father’s way or… well… my father’s way. If you didn’t agree with him you always had the option of showing yourself out of his house. If he was against something I wouldn’t even bother trying to change his mind. I would never sweet talk him into seeing my point of view. If I wanted to go for a night out and he said no, his word was final. There was no way I would sit around and try to make him understand that we were all a bunch of nice, virgin boys who would never engage in anything naughty.
Like I said, my dad was all about action. Whenever I messed up he would take off his belt and flog the crap out of me. In fact, he would whip me first for messing up, then again for crying! I don’t know if I sounded like a wounded hyena when I cried, or he simply expected to be a man about it and say, “thanks a lot for the lashing dad. I deeply appreciate it.” That’s a puzzle that will always remain unsolved. All I know is that my dad’s belt was more devastating than Thor’s hammer.
There’s a time I broke the coffee table and my dad noticed when he came home from work. I was in the shower when he asked and I heard my sister selling me out (It was every man for himself in that house). That is the longest shower I have ever taken. If my skin didn’t become lighter that day then it never will (I am quite dark by the way). There’s no feeling as dreadful as expecting an ass-whooping. That anxiety is insufferable. It’s actually worse than the actual ass-whooping. Of course when I got out he was awaiting me with a belt in hand. The three pairs of underwear that I wore were not of much help.
“By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.” – Charles Wadsworth
I don’t have a son yet but I know that all the lashing was for my own good. I might not have turned out to be an angel but I guess I turned out okay. I did folks. I mean I am law-abiding, I am honest, I am… ummm… ok I can’t think of anything else but you get the point. I blame my friends for whichever blemishes I possess; and their dads for not being as tough as mine.
But I now understand why my dad had to be a dictator. There was nothing new I would have told him. He’s been there and done all that. He probably knew what lie I was going to tell even before I opened my mouth. And his sharp eyes made the situation even worse. The stare made me so nervous I would get mixed up in my lies. Case in point:
“Joel! Who broke the window?” Dad exclaims.
It was always Joel despite the fact that I have three other siblings.
“What? Which window? Oh that one. I was actually wondering where the cold breeze was coming from.”
He gives me the stare…
“I swear I don’t know who broke it…. Eerrr… it looks like a tennis ball went through it, right? I don’t own a tennis ball.”
The stare starts piercing… and I start trembling.
“Umm… if you saw a tennis ball at the parking… it’s not mine… it’s probably the neighbor’s.”
Dad takes off his belt.
Apart from whooping my behind, my old man was also very intellectual. All through primary school, before learning about Albert Einstein, I thought my dad was the smartest man to ever grace the face of the earth. There’s no math problem that my dad couldn’t solve. When it came to English, he was my talking dictionary. My dad knew it all. I would always complete my homework and at times I would be the only pupil with the correct solution to a math problem. Of course I never gave the credit to my genius dad… I was tiny so that’s the only way I would attention from the girls.
I sometimes sit and wonder how I would fare as a father. For one, I would make sure my son is no sissy. I could teach him how to throw a decent punch, and I would probably high-five him if he beat up the neighbor’s plump kid. Like my dad, I would beat him senseless if he grows a big head. I’d get him on a dhow and send him over to Somalia if he came home with a Mohawk on his head. The daughters would always be my little angels. Any punk who came to pick up my daughter would be treated like an enemy of the state. I will grab the guy, tie him up on a chair and torture him.
Anyway, I haven’t called my dad today. I cannot call him up to wish him a happy Father’s Day; he’ll think I’m dying. I guess this is one of those occasions when it’s applicable to say that you cannot set apart one day to celebrate someone so significant (that’s the excuse broke people use on Valentine’s Day). All I can say is, long live my paps.
Any interesting daddy stories out there? Feel free to share.
Last week I got victimized by some readers who felt short-changed because I happened to bring up the provoking subject of stripping then sort of diverted. Apparently some folks felt cheated. Well, accept my sincere apologies naughty boys and girls. It was not my intention to arouse anyone. Well since the topic brought about quite a bit of excitement, I feel obliged to bring it to the table; this time not as an appetizer but as the main course. Sit tight folks.
Allow me to first conclude the story of the two ladies that were seated behind me in the bus. These girls had some strong opinions regarding the business of stripping. One exalted the whole idea of shaking what her momma gave her and making men drool, while the other despised the concept. Well I just sat there eavesdropping while trying not to cheer whenever one of them made a good point. I didn’t catch their names so for the sake of this blog post, let’s name the pro-stripping chick Miss Cummings and the anti-stripping one, Sister Elizabeth.
Miss Cummings passionately defended her fantasy profession. She said that she loathed the way men always act bossy and domineering and that nothing would give her more joy than making a grown man sing to her tune just because she displayed some skin. At this point I was itching to contest her inaccurate argument. Really lady? Really? It’s all about skin now? Footballs are made of skin too but you don’t see us drooling over them, do you? I would have turned and asked her those questions but again, I didn’t want to blow my cover.
Sister Elizabeth argued that a woman’s body should be treated with more respect. That it should not be objectified. She further argued that men who visit strip clubs are perverts and it would be wrong for a woman to degrade herself to such levels. I was tempted to politely interrupt her and throw in a comment. Thing is, all men are perverts. It’s only that some are good at concealing it while others, well, others simply can’t help but ogle at scantily dressed ladies doing splits and sliding down poles.
Miss Cummings begged to differ. She did not find stripping demeaning in any way. She argued that unlike a sex worker, a stripper is not compelled to sleep with her clients. She assertively said that she wouldn’t mind getting a few handprints on her as long as it made men empty their wallets. I was itching once more: What if after some time the handprints became permanently printed on those parts of her body that were frequently groped?
I must have fallen asleep at some point because I can’t remember how the argument ended. Maybe Sister Elizabeth started quoting verses… I can’t really recall. Sorry peeps next time I’ll be sure to take coffee. Lucky for you, I have a personal story to tell about sliding down poles. Gays, don’t get excited; I was not the one that was up there getting naughty, I simply happened to visit a strip club. It was in my early years of campus when I first had this experience.
I am not wired to be one of those party pooper sissies. I believe in trying everything once. Ok almost everything – there are some strange people out there with some very strange ideas. So when my pals suggested we go to a strip club one Saturday evening, I was like “hell yeah! Let’s do this!” I had only seen these things on tv so the idea of getting the experience was invigorating.
Venue of choice was F3. If you’ve been to F3 before – and I know most of you have – you know there’s a long flight of stairs that leads to the main entrance. I must have ran up those flights. I was quite eager. Those of you who have been following this blog for some time already know that as soon as I got to the entrance the bouncer stopped me on my tracks. Mr. Bigfoot placed his gargantuan hand on my chest and demanded to see my ID. They always did that in my earlier years! Even when I carried a copy of the Daily Nation under my arm just to look mature. I would have bought a moustache if I had a donor. Lucky for me, they had no qualms with 18 year olds.
My walking style changed as I got in the club. You don’t walk like that Shaggy dude from Scooby Doo as you check into a strip club. No. You got to walk like a boss. You adopt a Lil Wayne walk and you stroll in. When I was finally inside I came close to raising my arms and screaming, “Woooohooo!” But I couldn’t risk getting thrown out before getting some action. I therefore kept my cool as we searched around from empty seats. I sat strategically sat at the counter – you know where drinks are easily accessible and seats are raised, meaning a better view.
Strippers have mad talent folks. Circling down a pole takes pure skill. Especially in an upside down position. That’s a calling. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was an ambulance waiting by just in case one of them accidentally dropped and broke her neck. They ought to sign up for emergency services those managers. Those girls put their bodies at risk. Men are at risk too you know. There’s always the possibility of a man getting a stroke and collapsing due to shortage of blood flow in his brain.
I am inquisitive kind of guy and I couldn’t wait for breaktime so I could grab one of them for a chat. And I insist folks… a chat. I actually had several questions in mind. I was curious to know why a chick would decide to be a striptease artist. I was curious to know if she loved her work. I wanted to know if the talent came naturally or if there’s some special institution that instills that kind of skill. And most importantly, I wanted to know if those were real.
As soon as I got my chance, I grabbed one (by her arm) and offered to buy her a drink. I’d never really talked to a stripper before and I might have said something awkward like “uko smart.” Mind you she was in a bra and a g-string. Anyway a few awkward statements later, I managed to break the ice. During our chitchat, Madam Stripper (let’s call her Destiny because I can’t really remember her name) told me some things that shocked the earlobes off my ears.
Destiny told me that she was in a committed relationship with a man whom she deeply loved! At first I thought it was a joke and I burst out laughing before seeing the stern look on her face. I cleared my throat and asked her if her man knew what she did. She said he had no idea. I asked her if she felt guilty when random men buried their faces in her bosom all night long. I mean that is cheating right? She said she didn’t look at it that way. As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t cheating since she had no emotional connection with those men, and she never slept with them. According to her, what she did was a job like any other. More or less like modeling.
Just to test her resolve, I asked her if she would join me for drinks on her off day. Her answer: Not in a million years! Guys, being rejected by a half naked chick is humiliating. I therefore told her a made up story about having connections with Ogopa Djs and how I was responsible for scouting talented chicks to feature in music videos. That got her attention. She however left me in the cold when I burst out laughing and revealed that I was merely a first year campus student and had no idea where Ogopa offices were located.
Well, that’s my story. I wouldn’t mind getting to know yours. Feel free to share your thoughts on the topic. That would make my week bearable. If you’ve ever visited a strip club and you have an experience worth sharing, do share. Don’t shy off even if you fell in love like T-Pain.
While traveling in a bus on Thursday night, I happened to eavesdrop on a steamy conversation between two chicks that were seated behind me. It all started when one chick told the other that she secretly wishes she were a professional stripper. Now that statement wiped the sleep right out of my eyes! I was itching to turn around and see if she was cut out for the job but I didn’t want to blow my cover lest they change the topic to less interesting discussions like shoes and handbags.
Unfortunately for the dudes, this post is not about my take on strippers. The point I’m actually trying to drive home is that we all have that one thing that they wish they could engage in. It doesn’t have to be naughty. I think even the folks that are happy with their jobs wish they could create time for some other activity. I have a pal who believes that if he ever got his hands on a golf club, it would not be long before Tiger Woods changes that intimidating name to Pussy Bush.
Another one sees himself being a hot-shot soccer coach despite the fact that he is currently pursuing a master’s degree in Architecture. Well this chick in the bus with me just wanted to strip-tease the hell out of men. She thought she had untapped stripping potential. You would be surprised to learn that Obama secretly wishes he were a bling-wearing hiphop artiste featuring in one of those dj Khaleed records.
As for me, I wish I were a renowned novelist. I wish I authored bestselling novels like the John Grishams and Robert Ludlums of this world. I wish I wrote books that dazzled readers around the world. The idea of writing came to me while I was jobless after I had just cleared campus. Feeling all inspired, I grabbed my laptop and started working on my best seller. Two hours later, I only had two paragraphs. I gave up and went to bed. Years later, it occurred to me that I could start small and the blog joeytales was born.
To date I have written 30 posts! I think that is a heck of an achievement. Every Sunday since late October (apart from the Christmas and Easter break) I have sat with a laptop and tried to get creative. It has become a ritual. Whenever I have an itching story, regardless of how I’m feeling, I can’t get in bed on a Sunday before writing it.
As I write this post, I’ve only had two hours of sleep in the last 36 hours. The 34 hours have been spent swimming, clubbing and driving/co-driving from a town 500kms away. I’m so tired my head feels like it has been exchanged with Kwach’s (dude has quite a massive head on him). But I still feel obliged to bang a few words. The truth is, I probably wouldn’t have gotten to my 30th post were it not for you guys.
When I decided that I was going to start writing I sought advice from a friend who already had a blog. I was however confused when he told me that he doesn’t write for the masses. The guy told me that he writes for his own personal fulfillment, and the fact that his blog gets few views doesn’t bother him in the least bit.
Well unlike my friend, I write for the masses. I write hoping that people get to identify with what I’m trying to say. That’s the reason at the end of each day I go to my wordpress dashboard to see how many people visited my blog. That’s why joeytales has a facebook fanpage and recently got onto twitter. If you are among those that come here every week, you are much appreciated. You are the reason this blog exists.
By the way, according to the stats on dashboard, I’ve got quite a number of readers from Iceland who drop by every week. Apparently there’s an ambassador who is putting in a good word for me on that side of the globe. These guys are among my shadow readers. I tried provoking them on this post but I guess Icelanders just don’t like typing. Well it’s great to have you here folks.
There are many other shadow readers that drop by the site, read through the week’s post and leave quietly. There are those who leave anonymous comments. There are the shy ones that prefer contacting me directly through texts and emails. You are all much appreciated. Of course there are the outspoken ones that don’t shy away from airing their views: The likes of Nyambura, Sarah, Linda, thatguy, Mercy and Sikalily. Thank you for being bold and letting me know what you think… even if it’s pointing out writing mistakes.
If you have any observations or if you have something interesting to say, you can drop by my fanpage. You can also interact with me on twitter. Did I mention that joeytales is now on twitter? Twitter is defined as a micro-blogging application so it’s only fair joeytales goes micro when Monday seems too far way. If you are the shy kind and you don’t want people to see what you have to say, feel free to drop me an email on the address firstname.lastname@example.org.
I might have digressed. This post was supposed to be about those things that we secretly wish we could do. I would like to hear from you guys. I would like to know what you are currently engaged in, and what you wish you could do. I swear I won’t judge – not even if you are a sadist and you secretly wish you were a hangman. I have a feeling my fan by the name thatguy secretly wishes he were a hairdresser.