David Omboke Blog

Whats up everybody! Hope y’all doing great. So, do you have two phone numbers and you’d like them all to be registered on WhatsApp but you don’t have cash to buy another phone, or maybe you have a dual sim card phone and you’d like to use both numbers on WhatsApp, or maybe you just wonder if its possible to run two WhatsApp accounts on one phone?  Well, Thanks to OsamaGhareeb for making this possible. You can now run two different WhatsApp accounts on one phone/tablet. No root needed, so no need to root your phone for this.

All you need is to download and install OGWhatsApp, (this a modded version of WhatsApp for Android that allows you to use 2 numbers of WhatsApp in one device and run all in one time)


Download it here. (but DON’T install it yet at this point)

Procedure For Installation.


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So how cool is your prayer?

Just what would you do for something/someone that you really like? Die? Live? Catch a falling star? Humour me a little here, pay their debt? Perform a flash mob dance (this is on my bucket list, don’t ask, hehe).  Ok, I will prattle about what I would do first then you go next, deal?

Mmmh , with the flooding maybe it’s not a bright idea to say i would cross oceans or any other water bodies for that matter,  so no to that one. Catch a grenade, well, those things aren’t to be messed with let’s look for feasible activities here, none found hehe. Then I guess what remains is that i would do anything that isn’t labelled because we know what tags do, they make us detest things. Go figure. Anyway that’s just me.

Then I met Fenton Bland in a book am reading called a dancing bear by David free quite the title right?  Fenton is the kind of guy who isn’t afraid of labelling things he would do when it comes to that which he likes. This man really goes big with the titles, for instance, wet boy.

Fenton deciphers for him to get to this girl he fancies he has to join a group that prides itself in being terrorists.  The only problem with the plan is that the ring leader of the group, Gus happens to be Fenton’s dream girl boyfriend. Fenton rationalizes his crazy idea of going after her by entertaining thoughts like in the crazy world where Gus could have her; he too stood a fair shot. In his flawless plan he didn’t see a point he would be required to engage in the group’s activities but as the story develops he has to make a choice between getting her and not getting his hands dirty.

Fenton is that college student you wished you were or at least were friends with, the cool guy with lots of opinion on most things.  The book is less than 400 pages but with a dancing bear you don’t want to rush through, what if it misses a step? (Pun intended).

Reading this book I always  get a warm fuzzy feeling that comes close to sipping hot porridge at home on a stormy evening. The book has a buzz to it that is almost like the tingle that runs all over your head when sour hot porridge runs through your gob kissing the rings of your mouth glands as it pays homage.

These warm feeling often lets my mind wander into ideologies that i firmly believe haven’t been paid due attention. For example as i watch the rain drops pelt earth i wonder if its birth or death for the rain drops. Is it a generation cast forth to do well on earth within its allocated time or is it passing of guard at the home of the rain maker; old guard rushing to be one with earth they probably so longed for.  Or is it a festival over at the kingdom of the rain maker, an Olympics of sorts.

This book makes you appreciate sarcasm and how it can quickly transform a normal read into a great read, so go on and get yourself this delight.

A little while ago I attended this concert, well I was doing a family favour (like how I demand, ask of my family and friends to follow this blog) it was a gospel concert, rather it was a church based concert that is linked to an education foundation. The foundation helps out the needy bright kids get through school by paying their school fees. Anyway being in church it had to be a service or at least resemble a service, we got to prayer and there this lady who said a prayer I got thinking as to just how i talk to God.

There was a worship song before prayer, a song about how awesome, good and wonderful God is. She took hold of the microphone and began by saying, ‘you know God we say all these things to you because they are true, because in your awesomeness we find peace and rest….. Initially It was as though she was just making conversation, connecting with the crowd and all, how wrong! For she was deep in prayer. I kicked myself a little for not being as cool with the big guy upstairs.

But then there are truly times we are so taken to the maxim of always being ‘it’ we think we need a personality transplant and a few more decibels in our voices to be heard in heaven, which is not always true.  Times when we cry in bitterness when it feel like he is too far away, like our crying will get his attention, when we simply mumble because honestly we don’t believe he will hear us.

Periods we harbour deep confessions in our hearts that we cannot mouth because, well, we simply don’t know how to start for so much water has run under the bridge, we aren’t sure of how to go back.

Still, in our uncertainties God knows us and our desires even before we utter them and even though we feel like we need to express ourselves in better ways God really doesn’t mind it, after all he made us. And being cool has never hurt anyone that we know of.

One wise man once told me the most powerful prayer he has ever prayed wasn’t when he shouted the highest or was most dramatic but one where he prayed back to the Lord his promises in the bible.


A good deed.

I love going to Thika, it’s the one place I probably will never tire going to. Thika is like 50kms from town, fare is roughly 100 bob one way, and it’s the one place if you are keen enough you will hear the last ten shillings of your fare get spent, right at a place called Kahuho. Plus a journey that long I get the luxury of stewing in my thoughts and contemplating on how to look at the neighbour who insists on playing riddims right in the middle of the night, what is that urge to remind yourself that you are badder than most at one o’clock?

When I go to thika it has to be in the morning, if am lucky I will get a window seat, then I settle in for the ride. Again if the constellation is aligned right, I find some Kikuyu morning soap opera on radio. Usually a story of a family feud or a badder than most (am beginning to get my neighbour Hehe) business man narrating his trek to the top but one who still plays victim to some eccentric presenter. The story will have the passengers hooked on like its charm. If it is juicy enough the driver will make witty remarks that will generate a discussion amongst the travellers. I have grown so accustomed to the radio operas; I always stand at the rank a little longer before bounding to tell if the one am about to hop into has a good one going.

The folks at thika are hospitable, industrious too but mostly enterprising, that comes as no surprise though but stay with a Kikuyu for a few moments and you will appreciate that money is fungible. That there isn’t a special kind of money, whether it comes from trade or labour, none is treated with disdain, or played about with.

The ladies of thika have this admirable gut that doesn’t allow a man to be a wuss, well unless he is hell-bent on it.  A man in thika has to provide, call it gold digging or otherwise, the girls down there aren’t too concerned with definitions. Once I was in this matatu, a lady probably in her sixties, turned to the conductor and demanded a smokie, Hehe. I blushed at the request but the lady wasn’t about to bulge until she got her meaty treat. The young man was tongue-tied he didn’t have time to say no. I admire that, a man is to provide, no beating about the bush.

Then sometime back on one of my trips, them from the snatcher’s club paid me a visit.  I was in a matatu, joyously looking outside, someone put their hand in my bag and drew my purse, realized it on alighting. Slowly I began to avoid thika, while I thought hard about that believe of money being fungible. Now I had to sit through a police interview to get an abstract, and deal with police men who thought part of my hard-earned money was destined to grace their digestive systems.  I got my abstract but I was too lazy to make an application for a new Id.

Then, a few weeks ago, I got this call. A bubbly lady called purity came on the line as soon as the connection was complete and announced she had my documents; some mechanic gave them to her because she looks like a Meru. How does a Meru look like? I asked, but she wasn’t in the mood for funny touches she cut straight to the point where she wanted to know when I would pick them up. Thought this was too good to be true, I asked to call her back later to get further detail; she said I could call her.

So we arranged to meet on Saturday, said she worked Saturdays, at a garage called Kilimani in Thika. My room mates were glad I got my documents back; a friend suggested she should be the thief, a sceptical friend. My idea of a drop off was somewhat from the making of a movie, I appear with my crew, she shows up with her crew, my crew regards her crew by showing our weapons, we exchange whatever we were trading and walk away forever.

But instead I found a warm sister, and a friendly one at that. I mean what kind of person walks a stranger to their business premise and serve them a drink? She wasn’t in a hurry either she watched as I sipped the drink, like she was surveying my skin to tell the kind of knife that would be appropriate for skinning, (You know how first impressions can be misleading Hehe).

After what seemed like ages she slowly began the questioning,

Purity: Umesema unatoka Nairobi? (Why do kikuyus refer to Tao as Nairobi instead of calling it Tao like the rest of us??)

I: Mmmh.

Purity: Unaishi huko ama?

I: Mmmh.

Purity: Basi ulipoteza aje documents kwa gari za Kilimambogo?

I: (Mentally, I can go wherever the heck I want to, I didn’t know thieves around here gave restraining orders) Nilikuwa nimetembea tu.

Purity: (Regarding me with her eyes and settling on her seat), I see.

She then explained how she landed the documents, and asked me if I was going to press charges. I was a little confused. Apparently she had the mind of my sceptical friend.

Purity I came to later learn is a kind-hearted Embu girl who didn’t fancy running in with the law for being kind. She runs a motor spare parts shop; her own hustle, started from the bottom now she is close to the top. She run me through her re-order model, which basically is a weekly trip to Nairobi early before the posh birds of Nairobi wrap up their beauty sleep, told me she knows Kirinyaga road like the back of her hand.

She also told me of a loan she had just finished servicing, 100k, the reason it took so long, she was bedridden for the better part of last year; some misdiagnosis that almost killed her. She really was a good person; tell me, what kind of person tells you half their life story in less than an hour of meeting?

In her eyes i realized cruelty of this world would go down a notch if we did good deeds just because we wanted to.

As I was leaving it occurred  she  probably expected me to share my life story; how I thought I deserved a bigger pay rise or how my house leaks at times and every time  the caretaker generates a new story of why he will not be available to have a look at it. Or how I gave my little sister some money that I expect paid in full though she doesn’t have a job. But then I realized what I really needed to be doing was being grateful that I  met someone who was nice just for the heck of it.

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To love in truth.

Something has got to be said about people who dance at home, recreationally.  The courageous men and women who stand in front of their loved ones and make them to watch the eerie movies they call dance. The women and the men who aren’t afraid their children’s memories will be scarred by their wilful acts on the floor.

One who dances at home cannot be that good, (been there done that).  But then i pause and worry what shall i answer to the master when on the day of judgement he wants to know what i did about 2 Samuel 6:14. Dancing to the Lord with might like King David did.


So every time I hear a song that I think I can flow into, I download it  then ferry it home. In the safety of our four walls, I make a conscious decision to show my helpless furniture and rugged carpet how it’s done. I change into something nice and easy, something that will not get in the way of swaying and gyrations; at times it’s a whirlwind Hehe. Next up i turn it up real high and then I break it down like a boss, anything goes, so long as I can mentally conceive it.

My room mates have long given up on any chance for a real change on this front, but I swear its palatable dance (no wicked socket dance or the tasking gullicripper), only it’s taking them a little while to appreciate good moves.

Being the dance warrior that I have come to be (tongue in cheek) doesn’t mean am flippant, am just a girl tired of imaginary dance. Honestly though what is good music if you can only hum along? Music is our carrier to far far away lands. It gives us an escape, circumvention of reality.

When we are happy we dance, laugh and hum to the beats and at times do not hear the words, we rush to be one with the tempo, to be in the moment of the song. When we are sad we hear the words, the tempo is the string with which we bind the moment’s emotion. Any time the song is played the forlorn memories line up obediently all over again taking us to that place, we would like to quickly forget.

Today, to the kin and friends of Garrissa attack victims, a song they were listening to when the sad news was relayed, howls like a banshee, the lyrics tearing through their serenity. They are afraid; they feel pain caress them all over again breaking them down into senseless pain that could be avoided only if we loved in truth. We are faithful al right, but there isn’t truth in our relations.

We aren’t perfect and neither are our friends but we can stand up for truth whenever falsehood is glaring at us.  Probably there were friends who stood on the sidelines and watched the attackers walk into the university to kill and saw no wrong in looking away. Their rationalization was that since the snare wasn’t set on their path they earned the right to look away. These friends probably swear to date to have loved the attackers; this is not love, rather it is a love that isn’t true.

We are friends with people with vendettas but hardly ever say a thing even if the feud is the venom that will eventually claim them from us. We look the other way and blame a third-party while we are on the first line of defence in case of an eruption from those that we love.

When we love we earn a right to speak the truth, a right we do not exercise often, its girth bulges indecent.

Well, as much as I want to be the devil’s advocate, we cannot mark the soles of our friends so that we track everywhere they go and what they do there. Still you and i can try to love in truth.

This truth isn’t hidden or encrypt so hard we cannot figure it out, no. Its in the books we read, the people we interact with and in music we listen to. If the music we listened to bore the message of peace and not war, and patience with those around us then these are the exact sound tracks that will play at the back of our minds when faced with such. Music will be our balm of Gilead.

Song credit: Casting crowns.

An altar of remembrance.

I swear soon I shall have a bulge at my nape if I keep this up. Lately I have adopted this poor posture that involves me always arching my back and digging my nose into my phone. This poor pose is usually accompanied by its vanity sibling – a sheepish grin that keeps playing on my lips. The reason i am this fixated is that I have moved higher up the mobile phone indifference curve. (Sagacious chuckle)

Indifference curve, sounds like a term a thin, bespectacled economist would throw at you and expect that you will catch and balance honourably, but you don’t. The term simply slips your mind and knocks you over into a heap of shameful dust because it was just thrown, no warning, or heads up, just hurled.

Through the cloud of dust you peer up and you are confronted by his suspenders dangling wistfully at his belly. A belly pulled inwards like it’s scandalized by the revolting splash of colour on the suspenders. You pity the blues, pinks and greens and think of a million better ways they would have been used.

For a better perspective you shift gaze to his thick frames that hold the panes through which he sees the world.  At that moment you walk the Lord to the side walk and wonder openly to him why he would  let bad things happen to good people, you.

Then you remember you own a gadget that wipes clean the slate of shame in our society, you dip hands into your pocket and emerge with a huge smart phone that  is supposed to make up for your screaming flaws and goggle IC. This you realize is some curve that means the consumer doesn’t mind his consumption combinations because utility is same.

I will try to take a stab at this IC theory, say you have a simple Nokia phone, 3310 comes the top of my head some ties one can never severe completely , you have the same annoying Nokia ringtone with say someone with a sophisticated Nokia phone, donge? the kind of phone that purrs the tone instead of screaming like a maniac, 3310.  You both have a ringtone you may be indifferent, but is utility really the same?

You see this is how I kept kidding myself I was doing fine, after all si a phone is just a phone so long as it’s got basic functionality? true until I found a phone I could download candy crash on. I hear you asking how old I am with your eyebrow raised up, but then again age is just a number, i seek that we move forward brethren.  Thank you.

Naturally I like to be left to thoughts, an introvert by birth, but with this phone I have taken that a little too far. I will politely pull out my phone and innocently make faces as if reading a life saving message but all the while am down at candy crash stores, dragging theoretical sweets from one level to the next. I will be so absorbed I will not listen to anyone or anything, when time is up, I up and leave without so much of a good-bye because well I got to ace level 29 and prove to a clown I got smart moves. As you may have rightly noticed, stupidity has taken over and  I am having trouble stopping him.

Am yet to put the phone into some morally upright use like reading a book, but I promise I shall, soon in fact, well, just after I crack Sudoku.

Anyway, you know those bible readings in the Old Testament that you read and wonder what they could mean to you today? Those verses you hear of and think well, am not an Israelite thus I can scoot away happily? The ones you read and try to place in the Middle East but then aren’t convinced you know what you are doing you dismiss the effort? Well we had such this past Sunday check it out.

We read in from the book of Joshua Chapter 4 going forth, the crossing of river Jordan by the Israelites. Jordan was the last river before the Israelites got into the land that was to be flowing with milk and honey. It was recorded that during harvest time the river would flood thus making it impassable.

Moses had passed on; the Israelites were being led by Joshua, his previously faithful sidekick. You see that story of Ruto in 2022 isn’t just a dream, no?  The Levities were tasked with carrying the Ark of the Covenant wherever the Israelites went because it symbolized the presence of the Lord.

Just as the Israelites were about to get to river Jordan, the lord instructed Joshua to have the priests carrying the ark stand by the shore of river Jordan, when they did so the water piled up in a heap at a safe distance. The Israelites then were able to cross on dry land. The Lord commanded Joshua to have 12 men from the 12 Israelite tribes pick stones from where the priests stood and bring them across; they would use these stones to build an altar for the Lord when they crossed over. This altar would be a reminder to the people of Israel of the deliverance of the lord.


A reading like that I would almost think, good! the Israelites  crossed over river Jordan!, and then move on but then our pastor had a different message, that we are called to leave altars that tell  future generations of the doings of the Lord in our lives.

So when our children ask of what happened we may not pretend to have been astute individuals well able to do anything and everything but to tell of the Lords deliverance.

Chances are that the Israelites would have coined cheesy recounts of being world-class swimmers they were able to get across or how they were able to build sturdy boats, but then we are reminded to never forget of the Lord’s deliverance over our lives.



Talking words

What startups can learn from Steve Jobs.
“You are now done with campus, congratulations! However, expect no one to employ you.” Those were the last words of our professor during her last Entrepreneurship class. Two years after college, those words still ring a bell in my ears. Yes! It has been 1 and half years- looking for a nice job and I now got reason to believe satisfaction does not come that easily.
Just like journey, building entrepreneurial culture is a continuous process.

Here are some of the key points that makes enterprenuership better than employement.
a.) Financial independence:
As an enterprenuer, you are completely incharge of your finances through various issues in your business enterprise, you are the one to determine how much or less you are going to earn.
Unlike when you are employed, by say a company, you are to earn a certain amount…

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Run for the bible less.

My siblings and I grew up in a moderately religious family. To mean we hardly sat on the same row in church as a family unit. Nor did we have song presentations in church as a family. Church to us was an extension of the playground. We whined when we grew hungry and avoided the catechist like plague because well, he gave us a hard time learning catechism. We hid offertory and dropped in imaginary gifts at the altar then dashed out to make banana purchases. We came to church to show off our new outfits and meet our crashes albeit from a distance.

As far back as I can recall our parents hardly forced on to us  anything church related. They just narrowed our choices by having one means of transport to church Hehe. Mum was brought up in a protestant setting but at the aisle she give up the fight and joined the liberals, literally. She still kept the faith though, see mum is the kind of girl who was brought up the way she should go thus when she grew up she never departed from it. Though she didn’t have church stories to go round her young ones, she hinted grandma never played when it came to church, you simply had to go to church no questions asked.

Dad on the other hand was a practising catholic, taught to strictly observe the events of the liturgical calendar. I remember him carolling out catholic tunes as he worked. Hollowly, solemn, pious, songs that asked of the singer to bellow from the pit of his stomach. Songs originally composed in Latin, later Hebrew, English and finally Kimeru. Supplication let out in pain and anguish. Still he enjoyed it, praises to the most high.

Like a true performer he would conclude the song by announcing proudly to mum where he had picked up his great ability to align vocal chords so well it they made a joyful noise to the Lord -some missionary school  mum then would politely smile and carry on with whatever she was doing.

Wise girl, because had she as much as let out a sigh in a manner to suggest she was interested I and my siblings would  have been dragged into the church choir. I probably would be a nun by now, already with my first name changed  into something  saintly like Domiciano. I probably would be in a remote village serving the Lord without growing bitter at the locals for forgetting to address me by my swanky first name.

I probably would be assigned library duty where one fateful stormy evening I would land on a rusty bulky looking book, my interest piqued and I would flip the pages and pleasantly find Sidney Sheldon’s sands of time. I would then tuck it safely away maybe in my knickers and sneak it into my bunker because I would be a rebel who got dragged into a convent because my mother was interested in learning a catholic hymn.

At the crack of dawn I would slide into the shoes of the errant sisters in sands of time and then all day  i would bedevilled by raunchy evil thoughts. I would then share the book with my two nun friends and on one lose Saturday evening we would break out in pursuit of the pleasures of the night.

The head nun,  probably a sister Lucita would discover our escape and send us back home. My mother would be crashed by the disappointment on learning the news but still would come to pick me up because she would understand that I would only be bent not broken. She would pray her rosary daily for my restoration.

Later on after fighting  the monsters in my head  I would meet this man who looks a lot like a Mr. Mulwa probably on his teaching practice at a local school. He would daily pass by the village kindergarten where I would be the head cook and make me promises I would have trouble saying no to, then later follow him to his ukambani abode and live happily ever after. My mother would rest easy knowing her daughter did actually amount to something a Mrs. Mulwa. Nothing wrong with this just that I would be different would we want that? No, good boys and girls. Hehe.

Mum had brought us I and my sister this big glossy bible story book that we so treasured, brought it wherever we played. The book had the words al right but I would have sworn it was authored in Greek for not a day did we read from it, just grazed through the pictures languidly day after day.

What really mattered to us then were the pictures, pictures that kept us company when we couldn’t pull through an afternoon of sleep. Pictures we would cram when it was cold and weren’t allowed to play out, pictures that have for long remained edged in our memories. These pictures are the shadows that that develop into images whenever we sit through a sermon that we can relate to.

A few weeks past we had a guest from bible translation and literacy come to church to talk to us about a run for the Bible less. A group whose role is to translate the bible for all the tribes in Kenya in their local languages. A cool idea that costs money. To translate one bible verse costs Kes 1,000, now multiply that with all the verses of the bible, that’s an arm and a leg, still achievable.

Thus this lassie here registered on Monday to run 10kms this past Saturday. Apparently a friend caught up with her after work and managed to convince her. She was supporting a worthy course, something bigger than herself something she  could never get payback for. She was being kind even if it meant waking up at the crack of dawn, and paying to run on a fine Saturday morning instead of sleeping in.


She wanted to be the bearer of good news for the one person in some village who hardly knew of the Lord’s goodness and mercies that are as sure as the sunrise. The word that would remind a generation that Jesus is friend who sticks closer than a brother.  The one place a parent to an errant child can go and read that children are a heritage, they are like a warrior’s quiver full of arrows, for the parent to know it is not a lost course for their child. She sought to be the part of those who would deliver a book that will whose pictures would remain edged into a child’s memory for ever.

It’s probably no big deal to have the bible translated in one’s local language but believe me there are times one needs to hear the truth spoken in a tongue they can best understand. A tongue that means the problem has a local solution that it can be sorted out. Nothing can beat reassurance given in a local language, for when we veer off course we seek the familiar to get back, we pull from that place were first knew of a perfect love that drove out all fear, the bible.

Our faith is built when we are interaction with the source which is the word, so little lassie in her little way sought to be the salt of the earth. After all we were called to spread the word from Jerusalem, Judea, and Samaria and to the ends of the earth.

The Love


The other day I and the last born of my mother were musing at our high school deeds and we couldn’t help but chortle at our sins that have washed away by time. High school was mostly fun because we thought well, work and no play makes jack a dull boy thus majored at play; the things that would get us out of the class, either mischief or just unnecessary distraction. We sought to be sealed, labelled and placed in the high shelf of the ‘cool girls’.

Our parents were both high school teachers so we couldn’t get off with the all common crime of re tailoring our skirts into short tight little things that resembled our school uniform or have our hair relaxed, no, they would hear none of this so we devised other types of crimes.

The last born of my mother had watched in great detail mum make her carrot smoothie time after time. She must have been nonchalant all the times she watched and drunk off mum’s production line. But bay girl had a plan up her sleeve.  For she stole the copyright, patent and trademark to the smoothie and run like a cured leper and placed it in the able hands of their science congress department, neatly disguised as a project.  The department geeks soon after slipping their Er gear went to work. After hours gutting it open, testing, tasting and proofing it of technical failure they handed her the badge of honour to represent her school at the science fair. All the while she let mama believe this was an independently researched project though am sure mum knew where she got it but let it slip.  So my sister had an express pass to all levels of the science fair, her way out of the, slow school days. Today however, the heir to my mother’s kitchen cannot envisage a drink of the frothy carrot mix, what with her development of taste buds for finer things in life; fully processed juice.

Look at the pot call the kettle black! I wasn’t any better for I stole my dad’s literature guide books and sold them to prop my pocket money, direct foreign investment. I had this trick of getting a copy out and let my classmates peek at it for free and just when they began getting comfortable I withdrew the sample and then put it up for sale. Of course I kid myself he didn’t notice but am certain he did notice and let me think I was smarter. Good times.

Nothing honourable about these missteps but they, School trips and symposiums all played cast to the fun scenes of our high school production.

Part of this fun production was career day; days the school would open its gates to professionals who were meant to come in and inspire us to follow in their steps. To show us what our dreams would look like if they were actualized. They came in brandishing tips on how to land an interview and hopefully a job, how to dress and strut into an interview, how to smile why not to chew into the interview, how to cross our legs like ladies, when offered a sit, the works.

One thing they didn’t tell us though was that if we landed jobs we would need to daily forge relationships with our colleagues, we would have to put up with gossip and undertones from our colleagues and while at it make life long friendships.  We at some point would be required to work outside our job description because our boss said so and put in lots of efforts while at it.

We would encounter bosses who are mean and learn how to avoid their glare, we would find moody bosses who would teach us how to tip toe around egos. Gracious bosses who truly want to see us grow into their organizations, bosses who would rally us for a good course, and those who will lead us to the path of wrong doing, only God saves us.

Still I did pick a lasting gem there,101

Okay, enough of this trip down memory lane. So last Sunday we had quite the sermon, check it out.

We read in the story of Adam and eve. The story of how sin came into the world.

At some point we have all heard of the story and each time it is read, I peer in familiarity and wonder what  if on that fateful day the snake had taken the afternoon off to lay on some random rock to ogle  female snakes. Had Eve been hustling her hubby like all normal women do maybe wouldn’t she have avoided the crafty snake and we would all be at the Garden of Eden tree hoping for meals, Bliss.

But that would mean that the greatest love story would never have been written and if there is anything the Cinderella story and mills and boon (toothy grin) has taught us, the greatest love stories do not begin and end on the first page.

Our preacher sought to teach us the great love and mercy of God upon us. When Adam and Eve ate from the tree of life, the story was not over yet, because God in his love gave them and us all a second chance at living in his plan. He forgave them and they lived another day despite their misdeed. When we sin, it’s not the end; rather a second chance is given to redeem ourselves.

We were reminded of King Manasseh who took reign at 12 years of age and for 55 years he brought sin like never witnessed before. So the Lord brought against them (the Israelites) the army commanders of the king of Assyria, who took Manasseh prisoner, put a hook in his nose, bound him with bronze shackles and took him to Babylon. But then he called out the name of the Lord and the Lord heard him and rescued him and brought him back to Jerusalem to his Kingdom. For God it’s not how many times you have sinned but the one time you called out for his help.

Further we were taught of Samson, the man who bore his strength in his hairs. He sinned by telling the secret of his to Delilah the Philistine. He had his eyes gorged out by the Philistines when they captured him. He then prayed to the lord saying (Judges 16:28) “Sovereign Lord, remember me. Please, God, strengthen me just once more, and let me with one blow get revenge on the Philistines for my two eyes.” 29 Then Samson reached toward the two central pillars on which the temple stood. Bracing himself against them, his right hand on the one and his left hand on the other, 30 Samson said, “Let me die with the Philistines!” Then he pushed with all his might, and down came the temple on the rulers and all the people in it. Thus he killed many more when he died than while he lived.

The bible says our God he is slow in anger and abounding in love,  and if we call unto him he shall answer us and tell us great and wondrous things that we know nothing about.

#Homeless of Nairobi: Spare a dime

Learning in its wake leaves something of a cult for the followers; unabating thirst for more, something that is not white or black, it’s a shade, the controlling desire to never let go.

how to shit on humans

Maybe it is the curve of words as they roll out of a tongue of the learned, the poise with which they are hoisted by wisdom and the ease with which the bearer’s character is spoken for by the words. Or it is the inhibition of manner of the learned. Probably it is the tone of confidence in the words that is far removed from arrogance; the humility that is borne from the knowledge that x does not always mark the spot.

Maybe it’s what is exemplified in Philippians 4:8, that which is noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable and praiseworthy.

Remember days you thought it was wise to scratch and spit at anyone disagreed with you? Or the days you welded your pencil like a machete? Carrying your lunch box barefoot to school? Days you would bawl like a lunatic because you wanted to get home be babied. When you knew heaven was your home and hell just didn’t exist. Days you thought hanging by the river was a cool afternoon gate away, swimming in the local river was the epitome of sophistication.

And then you sat in class and learnt pens were the mightier than machete, only gripped by the trinity of three fingers.  If you disagreed with anyone all you had to do was walk away with decorum and human decency intact. In school you learnt heaven was a creation that not only existed in your nest but anywhere and hell was that too. The river was no longer cool, the library quickly unseating it from the throne of glamour.

Lucky for us learning is a lifelong process. We leave home fools and get home wiser fools; we learn and appreciate other people’s cultures and views. We drop our high self-regard and empathize with strangers; we give a little and take a little. We share in the struggle, we become part of a group, we herd together the good times, the not so good times fly into the record of our sojourn on earth, we move on.

We travel to new places learn new words, master their pronunciations, and watch the character of our teachers as they peel the words from their tongues and learn; we accommodate more.

We witness fights we learn, we see people love in ways we thought one would never love we learn, we see pain and suffering we never thought possible we appreciate what we sometimes loathe. We see unshakable faith of strangers; we gravitate a little to what we believe in our lives.

We watch 50 shades of grey the movie and realize, the book was way juicier  compared to the movie and smile at its ban. The book left room for imagination , self –creation, and exploration the movie;  a fixation of ideas in a box.

Learning we realize is the one amour our guardians equipped us with, to fight the battles of this world.  Better fools we become daily in our interaction.

This past Sunday we learnt something new with regards to giving. That we give not because we are wealthy but because by stretching out our hand in giving we receive, in giving we never lack and in giving we are healed.

Remember the bible story of the widow who gave a few pennies? The bible records that she gave out of her poverty while the others gave out of their surplus she gave out of poverty. It’s the attitude; it’s the air, the modus operandi of giving not so much the of the quantity.

The rogue preachers of this world make us weigh giving against our gullibility. We give what we do not mind losing, spare change. We give and try not to think too hard of the pockets the money will find its way in. We read Malachi 3: 10 and recall the infamous 310 preacher.

In reality this coin bears two sides. By giving we fulfil God’s will that we share that which we have, what happens after giving is not ours to worry about, the bible says mind about obedience.

And that is a little bit of what came to mind when I read this great piece, about street kids wanting to help that would make a world of difference if they got it.

I look at myself and think, what really kept me from the streets? Was it because I was raised in a village far removed from the town even if I wanted to be a street urchin I wouldn’t have made it to the big town?, no. Is it because my great grandfather paid a price so I would never have to scavenge out in the streets and depend on strangers? No, he probably didn’t have the salt or cowrie shells to trade back then.

The kids am sure are nauseated by having to pick up shit and use it as currency but they do it because that’s the only way they know how to find a meal. Their upper lips have the appendage of a glue bottle because it’s the only way they know how to feel in a world they see is painted grim by difficulty- they forget to feel.

But the fact that some ask for help to go to school shows it’s not a lost course that if they had help they would trade in shit and bottles of glue for books and biros and hopefully pen a happy ending to their story.

Bread and milk may not sound like much, but its joy and true happiness to a kid out on the street. It’s the energy to work meagre jobs so their hands sweat for that which is honourable; it’s the thought that someone out there actually gives a heck. It is the thought that the records of their sojourn on earth aren’t just punctuated by pain and suffering, someone was kind at one point.

So,kindly spare a dime.

Poor by giving