All new radio - more coming soon

Hey all
Have you Checked out our newly launched radio site, http://www.angazafamilyradio.org
Hope you all have been doing fine. More work is in progress and for all who would wish to be part of the radio family, and blessing souls you are all invited to register and share with the world. Everyone can know enjoy the music, we now have a kisii gospel page, african gospel, acapella and our kids are not forgotten. Its just a beggining, lets keep checking. Sermons are in progress.

Blessings to you all

Jobjow
AFR

A real blessing here at AFR more blessings more power

Hey all

Here at Angaza Family Radio we are taking care of your spiritual growth.
Checkout all newly added messages from our own Ev Mukangara.
http://www.angazafamilyradio.org/sermons/mukangara.html
The messages are Pre recorded at crusades and Mornning star Radio Broadcast, TZ
every Friday.
Also be blessed by messages by our own Reuben Kigame. keep checking more messages
and Fish FM broadcasts coming soon. Work in progress.

Dont for get you are in the right place for 24 Hrs Christian swahili, African, Gospel Music station

For all your inspiration needs. Did I forget Videos. You can enjoy and be blessed by a whole collection
of Gospel videos.

Much blessings and Pass the message. Its all about Jesus.

Job

 

A wise person says something when  He has something to say;

 A fool says something because He has to say something.

JOB

To see God face-to-face you must be wide awake

I regularly visit Trinidad, the Caribbean's economic hub. The USA, or President Bush to be precise, announced last week that Trinidad would no longer be eligible to receive financial aid as he considered it a rich country. It has oil and being the economic hub of the Caribbean, one can term it to be not a very poor country. But even in this supposedly rich county, just like we have it in other rich countries, not everyone owns a car. Many people in Trinidad own cars, but more do not. However, this is a special country that places the interest of its not so rich people very high on the agenda.

The rich stretch out in their cars as they go to work, parading some of the latest models, while those who cannot afford to own cars have to fight for space either on the government provided public buses, or the privately owned matatus. However in Trinidad they do not call them matatus. They call them maxi taxis. They are so called because salon cars (four passengers) are also allowed to operate as matatus. These are called communal taxis. Then there are those one-passenger taxis which charge high rates and only operate from designated areas.

Trinidad has some of the worst traffic jams that I have known. These traffic jams are caused not by bad driving as is the case with Nairobi, but due to the fact that there are too many vehicles on the roads. The result is that a lot of people wake up too early to go to work so as to avoid the jams. My Trini (that is what we call the people of Trinidad) friend, Allan Christopher, is always in his office by 6:30 am. But what about the poor people who have to use the maxi taxis? No problem, as the government has set aside a road which is called the 'priority bus route' meaning that only maxi taxis can use it, and a few privileged vehicles which must have special passes to use it. Other motorists have to fight out for space on the other overcrowded roads.

When I am in Trinidad I prefer to use the maxi taxis for they will take you to your destination on time and you will never get late due to traffic jams. People without cars only get late to work if they have overslept. What I have noted is that all the maxi taxis have similar signs posted on the inside, reminding passengers not to smoke, eat or drink while on the maxi taxis. I felt that was a well-thought polite message, until I saw one which had an addition. Apart from the reminder not to smoke, eat or drink, it had a fourth one – not to sleep.

That kind of interested me and since I was in the front seat, I asked the driver why he felt that people should not sleep on his maxi taxi. He said to me: "Some people sleep on the bus and when you get to their destination, they are still asleep and they end up going to my final destination. When they wake up at the final destination, they refuse to pay the extra amount incurred by the excess journey, and then they demand to be taken back to their destination at no charge. I lose twice and that is why every passenger must be fully awake."

The driver's narrative brought back some memories of my days as I grew up in the town perched at 6161 feet above the sea level, yet it was on the floor of the Rift Valley. As was like any other day in our action packed schedule, this day we went to the railway station at about 4:00 pm when the upper-class passenger train from Nairobi to Kampala would stop at our station. Passengers in the first and second class, and mostly Indians used to give us Indian foods which we relished as much as our parents detested the habit which they termed as begging. To us, we saw it as receiving and we did not feel ashamed of receiving what had been given to us.

On this particular day, after the train had pulled out of the station, we saw a strange old man standing on the other side of the railway line, which did not have a platform. We gazed in his direction and because of that he asked us whether we knew Kĩmwaki's home (not his real name). Two of Kĩmwaki's sons were with us. They came forward and he said to them that he was their father's friend and that he had come from Maji Mazuri. We chuckled because we knew that the train was going to Maji Mazuri on its way to Kampala and we could not comprehend how he could be coming from a town where the train had not even reached. Having seen our dilemma he said: "I actually came on the morning train from Kampala, but when it arrived here, I was asleep and did not wake up until it arrived in Nakuru. So, I disembarked and had to wait for this one going to Kampala to bring me back. They charged me for travelling from Nakuru to here even though it was not my mistake that I had fallen asleep because the Gacherũ (ticket examiner) should have awoken me."

I therefore do not blame the maxi taxi driver in Trinidad who ensures that his passengers do not sleep. However, Tanzanian songstress and soloist with the New Life Crusade Choir of Tabata, Dar es Salaam, Ms Neema Mwaipopo, looks at life just the way passengers on a matatu, bus or even a train should do to avoid going past their destinations. Others are not as lucky for they even end up sleeping while at the bus stop and so when the matatu arrives, they miss it because they were fast asleep.



Neema is not only a great soloist as she has portrayed her prowess as she guides her members in the song Sipati Picha, but is also the writer of its lyrics. When asked why she chose that title for the song, which she wrote three years ago, she said that she was trying to visualise how things will be when Jesus will come back to take those that are His. She was guided by the Scriptures in Matthew 24:41 where the Bible talks of two women who would be grinding and one would be taken away and the other left behind. Although the scriptures do not state that the one left behind was physically asleep, but we could say that she was indeed spiritually asleep because she had not prepared for Jesus' second coming.

It also reminds me of events that took place in Nairobi about three or so months ago, when the Internal Security Permanent Secretary Cyrus Gituai ended up confessing that the police were outsmarted by the resurgent Mŭngiki gangs who had tipped the public that they would strike at 5:00 am, but ended up striking at 3:00 am causing mayhem in the city and leaving the entire police force flatfooted. The training the police guys undergo prepares them to be on the alert 24 hours, but here they became alert at 5:00 am after Mŭngiki had struck and damage already done.

In the song Sipati Picha, apart from the message Neema Mwaipopo has given in its lyrics, it has a melody that takes the listener to a higher level of enjoyment. Arrangement of the music is also by Neema, and the choir members have executed it in a forceful and elaborate way. There are only two men in the choir, and from their movements, it is good to report that there were only two of them and not more, as they have been completely outclassed by their female folks, so much so that they appear almost (but not quite) flatfooted.

Sipati Picha is very well choreographed and according to Neema, the style is called 'South Style'. Playing the organ is Paul Sagenge who keeps the choir members on their toes from the opening of the song to the end. Neema, who is also the choir teacher, has some body movements that actually 'talk'. She appears very convincing as she says that she looks forward to meeting the Lord face to face. I asked her why there was footage of her in a swimming pool and her answer was: "I was swimming so as to get the picture of the joy that I will experience in heaven. I also love swimming." I, also, guess that it is her way of ensuring that she remains alert as it is hard to fall asleep while in a swimming pool that has cold water. The New Life Crusade Choir, which is made up of members from different denominations is a special choir. Their song Sipati Picha deserves full marks and is therefore awarded our five green stars. Keep it up Neema Mwaipopo – you will never miss the train to heaven and neither will you pass the destination.

You are never down for long:

God has novel plans to lift you

Big town dwellers, especially journalists, like referring small towns as being sleepy. But I wish they would know how much we did not sleep in our 6161 feet above the sea level small town on the floor of the Rift Valley. The residents were and are still vibrant. In the years I was growing up, a young man hit town and life was never the same. His name was Kipruto, but because of our diverse ethnic composition, we called him all manner of names, including Giburuto, Kĩvuruto, and Gip or even Buruto. But we the young ones called him Kip, which sounded cool in those days before the emergency of Sheng.

Kip was like a man caught up in between two worlds. I am not sure we knew his exact age, but suffice is to say that he was older than us, but younger than the grownups. He had a smile fixed on his face that showed off his milky white teeth. His skin was jet-black it was almost navy blue and smooth like that of a baby, and he was fat enough to be nearly overweight. Those days we did not know that a word like 'obese' ever existed. When asked why he was so well rounded (as to suggest fat), he would say that he had just returned from 'Chondoni'. We told him we did not know where that town was situated. He said that Chondoni was not a town, but rather a secluded place where newly circumcised boys spent nearly two months in the bush being fed on the best food the world could offer.

While most of us would normally bathe two days in a week (at 6161 feet above the sea level it can be very cold sometimes), Kip used to bathe twice a day. He would comb his hair in a manner that left it looking like a shiny black skull cap on his head. People talked about Kip. Not in a bad way, but in a manner to want to know more about him. Most of us said he was from Kericho and that he was Kipsigis, but he corrected us and said he was from Kaptumo, near Kapsabet and that he was Nandi.


He fascinated us even more because apart from speaking Kipsigis, Nandi, Elgeiyo and Tugen (little did we then know that they were sister languages belonging to the Kalenjin group), and of course Swahili and English, he could also speak Dholuo, Luhya, Gĩkũyũ, and Kisii. He said that he lived in the midst of tea estates and members of those tribes who worked on the estates were his neighbours and friends and that he learnt their languages.


One day he fell ill and was bedridden. He did not have money to go to the dispensary that we all called 'hospital'. Odongo, his roommate at Fort Jesus where he lived, quickly diagnosed the illness as malaria but could only manage to get some herbs and roots which he boiled and forced Kip to gulp down the resultant concoction. People talked. They said he was sick because he used to bathe twice in a day. Others said it was because he drank mursik, which is fermented milk, mixed with soot from a certain vine. The slightly enlightened ones said it was because Odongo made him eat fish and that Nandi people did not eat fish, while the more enlightened ones blamed Kip's illness on an insect called a mosquito. But no one offered to take Kip to the hospital in Nakuru as his illness was now beyond the scope of the dispensary perched at 6161 feet above the sea level. His name stopped being Kipruto and everyone referred to him as 'Mgonjwa' (the sick one).

Back in town, an Indian who owned the biggest shop and whom we called Kĩhara (I want to believe it is because he did not have hair on his head that we called him so, for I have never known Kĩhara to be an Indian name) called his assistant, named Ngigĩ and said to him: "Ngingi, konda na mita Mgonjwa." Poor Ngigĩ was at first surprised to learn that even Kĩhara had known that Kip was mgonjwa, and then wondered how he was going to bring him all the way from Fort Jesus to town.


In his wisdom, Ngigĩ borrowed a bicycle and pedalled to Fort Jesus where he found the mgonjwa vomiting, but only producing a whitish substance because he had not eaten for four days. He had lost weight. Ngigĩ said to him: "Kĩvuruto, Kĩhara wants to see you. I think he wants to take you to the hospital because he knows that you are sick. He asked me to bring the mgonjwa." He hoisted the sick man on the bicycle and asked him to hold on to him lest he fell off. He pedalled carefully and got to town without spilling his human cargo. But when he reached the entrance of the shop, Kĩhara came out to find out why Ngigĩ had taken such a long time and at that moment Kip lost his grip on Ngigĩ's body and fell in a heap on the ground. Ngigĩ lost control of the bicycle which fell on Kip, and as Ngigĩ tried to stop the bicycle falling on Kip, he got entangled with its wheels and he too fell on Kip.

Kĩhara looked in trepidation and said: "If you had to kill him, did you have to do it in my presence? You have made me witness an aggravated case of murder." Ngigĩ, now mortified by what had happened, profusely apologised to Kip who was not dead yet. Before he could tell Kĩhara that he had brought the mgonjwa, Kĩhara asked him: "Wapi hii Mgonjwa". Perplexed by the turn of events and wondering why Kĩhara could not see that the mgonjwa had been brought, he told the now agitated Kĩhara "Si mgonjwa ndio huyu?" Kĩhara replied, "Mimi nataka Mgonjwa ile fundi ya nguo."


With that pronouncement, Ngigĩ realised that it was Mũgwanja the tailor that Kĩhara wanted to see and not Kip the mgonjwa (the sick one). But that confusion led Kĩhara to order his driver to take Kip to the Rift Valley Provincial General Hospital in Nakuru, twenty miles away. The sick man was put in the back seat of Kĩhara's car, a Simca (I don't see those cars anymore) whose registration was KCP, but I cannot remember the numerals. The driver was given money to go and pay for the hospital admission, while Kip was given twenty shillings for his pocket money. That was a lot of money because adults used to pay one shilling and twenty cents to travel to Nakuru by train; a mandazi cost only ten cents and a cup of tea was twenty cents. After one and a half weeks, Kip was back in town looking well and flashing his trademark white teeth as he smiled; only that he had lost some weight.



For our review, let us look at Pastor Joan Wairimũ's video, Mungu Amekusudia Kukubariki, where she is ejected from a matatu because she could not afford the required Shs.30.00 for her fare.


The poor woman eats the humble pie and with face down she steps out from the matatu before it speeds off. But in a twist of fate, Wairimũ ends up driving one of the most expensive cars in the world, a Mercedes Benz, and dining at the five-star Safari Park Hotel! I want to believe that is what they call a 'rags to riches' story.



The song's melody is appealing and lyrics are uplifting. There is nothing as assuring to a hungry and needy person when he/she learns that God will take care of their problem coming with the rider that 'kucheleweshwa siyo kunyimwa' which roughly translates to 'delay does not mean denial'. She could never be further from the truth. I commend her highly for taking the act to the slums where she belts out the song with appealing body movements along with the slum dwellers. The video has mixed footage of extremes (in lifestyles) that Kenya is famed for. Her lyrics give slum dwellers the optimism that their time of hardships in the slums will soon be gone.

But while Pastor Wairimũ's message is one of hope, how practical is it? The Bible teaches us of the need to work hard for our daily bread. God promises abundant harvest to those who sow more. Pastor Wairimũ does not send that message across, which would then give those people an illusion that they could just sit there waiting to get those blessings from the Lord. That is her major shortcoming. Also God gives according to one's ability, a simple fact that is ably illustrated by the parable of the talents, where the one with ten made ten, and the one with five made five, and the one who failed to make use of his one, it was taken away from him and given not to the one with five (as simple logic would dictate) but rather to the one with ten. To give slum dwellers the illusion that they too will drive a Mercedes Benz soon, while it is possible, is rather misleading under our prevailing situation.

As a Pastor, Joan Wairimũ should also have taken time to thank God by giving back to Him by way of tithing and assisting those in need. She has instead shown us how to lavishly spend that money. She goes for an extremely expensive car. Buying bottles of wine (I want to assume so because bottles of water are different from what we see in the video) from a supermarket, dining at the Safari Park Hotel instead of cooking a wholesome meal at home. She is doing this while those she involved in the filming of her video continue to earn less than one hundred shillings a day. Yes, her message is good, but is should not have stopped where it did. It is not as holistic as the Lord would wish for it to be according to His teachings as contained in the Bible. She earns three of our green stars.

Handle with compassion: The enemy is also a child of God

President Mwai Kĩbakĩ, I believe when he was still a dashing minister before the rigors of higher office started wiping hair from his head, was quoted to have said that every market place has a mad person. While not scientifically proven, I want to think he was right. Even my small town in the Rift Valley, perched at 6161 feet above the sea level, when I was growing up it had a mad person. Actually a mad woman. At times we used to feel that she was not mad, because she used to arrive at the market at 11:00 am each day, but Sunday, even though she did not have a watch. But we also thought she was mad because she never used to bathe, and would still come to the market even when it would be raining.

We knew her by her Christian name only, Rakeri (Rachel - although that is not her real name). As children, we were afraid of her, even though she was never known to be violent. She would sing the whole day while collecting sticks and pieces of wood that she would later take home to use for firewood. Women vendors at the market used to give her food, and so she was never hungry. Apart from fearing her, we also hated her because women vendors would give her ripe sweet bananas, but they never gave us any. One day we got fed up, and one of my companions, who I will call Wakaba (also not real name) said he was going to teach Rakeri a lesson, and that we would miss her for a few days if not weeks, and we might be given bananas meant for her.

The plan was simple. Since one could set their watch by the time Rakeri arrived at the market, Wakaba plotted to have nails planted in soft soil in the ground with their sharp ends facing up on the path she used. He got about six nails, which he buried in the ground disguised the scene with the soft soil, and he ran home expecting to hear screams coming from a woman with paining foot or feet since she never wore shoes. He was right, because five minutes before the hour of 11:00 in the morning, he heard very loud screams. But instead of celebrating, he started sweating and nearly collapsed. It was his grandmother screaming. To make the matters worse, she was yelling his name.

He sheepishly walked to where his grandmother was groaning with pain as one of the nails had literally gone through her foot, and he asked her in dismay: "What business brought you here Cũcũ?" The old woman did not take that lying down: "Excuse me young man, are you suggesting that I should not use this path, or are you saying you are the one who planted the nails? They do not have any rust." Wakaba's sight became blurred. A lump in his throat threatened to suffocate him. His insides became jelly, and he had to rush to the toilet to take care of the sudden episode of endesha (diarrhea), while his grandmother was screaming at the top of her voice, this time not because of pain from the nail, but the pain of seeing her grandson running away from her.

Before he bolted the toilet door, he asked me to take some paraffin to his grandmother to use as a disinfectant, as we used to do in those days. I took some paraffin and an old piece of cloth. She had pulled out the nail, and the bleeding had stopped. I wet the piece of cloth with paraffin and she cleaned the punctured skin and tied the wound. As that was happening, Rakeri walked past singing that God is good, and did not even notice us. I could not disagree with her. He was so good to her that she missed danger that was meant for her.

In the West Indies, West Indians, just like their relatives in Africa have very many sayings. They will not finish any short talk without invoking one of them. A popular one is that when you dig a hole (for someone), dig two. They go on to expound and say that when you wish someone bad luck, the same will befall you. The Bible has a similar saying, only that it does not mention two holes. It says that when you dig a hole (for someone) you will fall into it (Psalm 7:15). If I must pick the lesser evil, I would rather go for the Bible option. Look at it this way, if I dig two holes (one meant for me) and the other one for Jobjow, then the two of us will get in and there will be no one to assist us. But if I dig one and instead of Jobjow falling into it, I end up inside there, I will call him and he will rescue me. Of course I will tell him that I had dug the hole to trap a buffalo. Being the good guy he is, Jobjow won't even waste a minute trying to figure out that buffalos do not live in towns. He might even give me money to send me to a hospital for medical checkup.

Before I let you go, please take time and understand that you could dig as many holes as it may please you, but you can only succeed in falling in one – you won't be able to come out of that one to fall in the next. The reason is because God also loves the other guy. But He does not hate you. You are the one who is in the business of disobeying Him by hating the people He loves.

With a name like Peace, it then comes as no surprise when she exhorts us to pray for our enemies. Evangelist Peace Mulu has a video under the title Ombea Adui Yako in which she has put on the table very serious issues that we take for granted. When people make it their business to talk evil about you, plotting against you and deciding what will happen to you, they are then not the friends you need. Peace Mulu has good counsel for you – pray for them. God has many good things in store for you, and she advises that no amount of badmouthing (including going to wagangas) will help them as God will continue dishing out blessings to you without stopping.



The song's refrain is however not very encouraging. She says that you should pray for your enemies to live long enough for them to see God's blessings coming your way. There is nothing wrong with that. But Evangelist Peace should preach what God commands us to do and that is to pray for our enemies for them to turn from their bad ways and join us. Her lyrics do not address to that. She simply requests that they live long, not to be saved, but to see how you have been blessed. That can be counterproductive in our efforts to win more souls for the Lord as the enemy will feel that God does not love him. We might send the wrong signal to our enemies.

To make music videos more appealing, all manner of footage is added. Some of it is relevant to the song's message and some leaves the viewer rather puzzled. The Masai of Kenya and Tanzania have been known to be a very aggressive people. So much so that we misunderstand them. I know that they are aggressive to lions that kill their cattle. It is lions that fear the Masai. I also know that they defend their animals so much that they cannot stand cattle rustlers. If you are not a cattle rustler, you have no reason to fear a Masai, as they are some of the most respectful people in the world. My sister is married to a cool Masai man, who smiles even to strangers, so much so that a number of people have asked if there is anything wrong with him. The footage of Masai morans wielding their rungus in Peace Mulu's video might make some people assume that they are the enemies she is singing about. But please note that I have not said that is what she intended. While Peace Mulu's song has an appealing melody and its message is noble, its presentation could catch some viewers on the wrong footing. We give her three of our green stars for her effort.

After unceasing prayers the Kenyan train is back in motion

It is a well known fact that boys play hard, sometimes with consequences that leave entire communities awestruck. This brings back to memory my glorious school days in the peaceful Rift Valley where I grew up in a town perched up 6161 feet above the sea level. Yet they said I lived in a valley. Mbũgua (no relation to Jobjow) and Madaka were two boys who although in the same class with us, were much older. One afternoon, when all others were busy with extra-curriculum activities, the two went by the railway line that goes to Uganda. Before long a goods train on its way to Uganda stopped where it never was supposed to stop. We saw Mbũgua and Madaka scampering for cover and hiding in a class that was not even theirs.

Just like the train, the entire school came to a standstill. We saw a man running into the school compound asking to be shown the headmaster's office. He did not need to be shown as the headmaster came out to find out what was happening. The man said that he was the train driver and that he had been stoned by two schoolboys. The headmaster demanded to know who the boys were, but most of us who had seen Mbũgua and Madaka running away from the railway line said nothing. However, the innocent boys and girls of standard two, in whose class the two boys had taken shelter, reported that it was Mbũgua and Madaka who had done it and that they were hiding in the classroom.

Soon the train moved off, and the two boys were whisked to the local police station. They were immediately transferred to Nakuru as my home town did not have Railway Police who were supposed to handle such an issue. Three days later they were arraigned in a court where they faced a mean looking magistrate. Their parents came along. The train driver who had allegedly been stoned was also present. A wire-thin policeman, whose uniform was threatening to fall off his body, was prosecuting. He told the magistrate that the boys had thrown a huge stone that hit the driver of a goods train and that the driver, in a lot of pain, had to stop the train at an unscheduled place. He showed the court a large stone that must have been two pounds or thereabouts. He said that the boys had committed a crime aimed at causing grievous harm on the train driver. He actually called it attempted murder.

When the boys were called to defend themselves, Madaka told the magistrate that they were by the railway line trying to shoot down some meek birds we called olulu, using a catapult and tiny stones. He said that there was no way such a huge stone could have been thrown by use of a small catapult. He also pointed out that there was no sign of injury on the train driver's face. He then pulled out the handmade catapult from his hind pocket and showed it to the magistrate, who looked at the boy and shook his head furiously. From the way he behaved, everyone in the courtroom thought the boys were going to face very long jail sentences. But when he opened his mouth, the courtroom froze. He gave the train driver a tongue lashing for wasting the court's time, and the resources of East African Railways and Harbours for having stopped a goods train in the bush to harass boys who were playing legitimate and harmless games.

While everyone applauded the magistrate after he ordered the train driver to make sure that in future his train only stopped at railway stations, the father to one of the boys did not take it very kindly. I will not say which father because I do not want to embarrass that particular boy. He stood and shouted at the magistrate: "Wee Jaji, funga huyu mtoto wangu. Yeye anapigaga mama yake" (You Judge, jail my son. He beats his mother). Police officers quickly frog marched the shouting man out, with his feet barely touching the ground. The mother of the boy stood and shouted "Shetani ashindwe!" (Down with the devil). Instead of the policemen taking her out, they held her and told the magistrate that she had called them devils. The magistrate, who had witnessed what transpired, reprimanded the policemen by telling them that the woman was right because the devil who had tried to use the train driver to have her son go to jail for an offence he had not committed had been defeated.

The best news coming out of Kenya is that over the weekend President Mwai Kĩbakĩ and Opposition leader Raila Odinga had finally agreed on the composition of a Grand Coalition where he named Odinga the Prime Minister. It was further good tidings for Kenyans when Prime Minister Odinga went to his official office on Monday (April 14) where, according to a report carried by the Daily Nation, he took his new office with a promise to ensure that the country got back to its feet following the destruction caused by the post-election violence. The cherished Kenyan train, which had been running seamlessly for over 40 years, had been forced to stop at an unscheduled stop. This act that had left hundreds of our country men dead and thousands displaced. Good sense has prevailed and the Prime Minister has promised that no amount of intimidation would stop the Kenyan train. Shetani ameshidwa!

Ev. Nathaniel Nyagol of King's Ministers Melodies in Michigan is a Kenyan who decided to leave the comfort of his adopted home in the US to return to a burning Kenya to ensure that the Kenyan train did not stop for too long. For his deep love of mother country, he ministered by song, as he has done in the past (he is better known for his Gospel track "Piny Orumo" The world is getting finished) and produced a new thought provoking song, Mungu Ongoza Kenya (God Lead Kenya).



In this song, whose video Jobjow has managed to upload on the Angaza website, Ev. Nyagol (just like the magistrate above) is telling Kenyans that their train had stopped where it was not supposed to stop and hence wasting a country's most valuable resource – its people.

The patriot he is, his song opens with a flag of Kenya flaunting in the wind followed by the clips of wildlife, which has put Kenya on the world map, and of great vistas of the country. When he appears 100% he has the backdrop of the towering Kenyatta International Conference Centre. The melody is slow and reassuring while the lyrics are prayerful. He prays for our politicians to look to God the Creator citing that in unity the people would draw the strength needed to build the country. He calls for love among all the Kenyans.

He is gracefully joined by Mrs Nyagol in rendering this skillfully written piece. The footage in the video is spontaneous in nature and he cannot be accused of shying away from things that happened on the ground. There is the powerful and telling footage of Nyagol with displaced people, crying with them and playing with their children. He implores the country's leaders to take action and avoid empty words. The video was put together before the Grand Coalition was agreed upon and I would not be surprised if Kĩbakĩ and Raila had watched it before coming out with the much awaited agreement when they met at the Sagana State Lodge for the final meeting. For having spurred our leaders into putting the Kenyan train back in motion, Ev. Nathaniel Nyagol deserves full marks and takes home five of our green stars.

God does not misspeak!

There happened to be this poor guy, whose name I will not mention because I never got to know it. His wife heavy with their first child fell sick, and the man did not have money to hire a taxi to take her to the hospital because in her condition she could not ride in a matatu. It was in the 1970s. He went to his boss and explained the case. His kind boss wrote him a cheque of Shs.150. The man looked at the cheque and the only words he must have seen written on it (other than the amount) were 'bank' and Kenyatta Avenue, Nairobi.

He walked from the Industrial Area, over the Railway Bridge near Kenya Polytechnic and soon found himself on Kenyatta Avenue. He saw a bank and entered. There were many people in the queue and he had to wait for almost 45 minutes before he could be served. But on presenting the cheque, and his kipande to prove that he was the real owner of the cheque, the young cashier said that he was in the wrong bank (Barclays), and pointing across the street, she told him: "You see that bank across the road? That is where you will get paid." He looked in the direction she had pointed, and he saw Kenya Commercial Bank.

Thanking the cashier profusely, he walked towards the right bank, and the next thing everybody in the bank heard was a very loud bang as the man walked into those glass windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. Momentarily people thought there was a bank robbery and some even dived for cover. The man fell heavily and it took the security man to pull him up and showed him the door. The security guard later told the manager that those 'glass walls' would kill people because they used to be cleaned daily making them appear as if there were not there, but they were there (not borrowing from Alex Haley's Roots). The following week the manager put some flower boxes by those glass windows, to avoid further mishaps.

Our man got paid at Kenya Commercial, but initially he had thought the girl at Barclays had misspoken or that he was seeing a mirage, where money was there, yet it was not there when he needed it. I recently suffered a similar fate when I thought I had clinched a publishing deal. It coincided with the Valentines' Day and I thought it was my best ever gift, after I had complained I felt like a man in a desert where I kept on seeing mirages instead of water. The man making offer told me not to worry as it was in the desert that the boy Ishmael and his mother Hagar saw a well. The attached message said: "His (God's) ways are not our ways". That brightened my day, but soon after finding the well, and as I rushed to drink from it, I hit an imaginary glass barrier around the well with a thunderous bang such that my head felt like it had been detached from the shoulders. I was warned: "Hold your horses. Not yet!" He had misspoken.

That soured my life until last week Friday which happened to be my birthday, when I received two personal birthday wishes, and two on-line birthday wishes from persons I do not know. (In a world of over six billion human beings, I could only be recognised by four - 4 - people!) Of the personal birthday wishes, the first came from a lady who I will not comprise her integrity by mentioning her name because apart from being a senior manager in one of the most successful financial institutions in the entire Eastern Caribbean, she is also a pastor in her church. Here is a person, who though not close to me, allowed herself to be used by God as a vessel to pass on His blessings to me. The next person was Jobjow, who apart from sending me an e-card in the form of an animated cartoon; he also sent me a package of goodies. I won't elaborate, so as to save him from being overwhelmed by fan mail from persons wanting him to know their birthdates. Jobjow you truly are a blessing – endelea hivyo hivyo.

A few days before my birthday, I had checked on the new videos Jobjow had posted, and lo and behold, one literally swept me off the floor, both by its melody and lyrics. Hagari (Hagar) by Sarah Mwangi.

This is a song with words of hope; lyrics that tell you God sees your suffering and never fails to deliver on His promises. God heard the cries of the man whose wife was sick. He heard the cries of Hagar's son in the desert. He heard my cries after I could not drink from a well I had been told about. He hears the cries of all of us any time we cry upon Him. We only fail to get His blessings because we never cry out for them. Sarah Mwangi's Hagari has pacified me for the pain I experienced. Jobjow could not have posted the video at a better time.

Let me not be carried away by my own joy. I am aware that I had taken an unauthorized sabbatical from my duties, but Jobjow being the good man he is, has accepted me back on the job, without any conditions attached. Here I am reviewing some of the songs he has posted on the Angaza Family Radio's website. There are so many new and good songs that I did not know where to start, until Sarah Mwangi's Hagari hit me like the force of angels coming to take us to our heavenly abode. I still do not know where (and how) Jobjow gets these videos. The only thing I will say is that he gets some of the best our Gospel artists are able to churn out.

Hagari is a title that does not explicitly point out to the greatness of the song. If I were Sarah Mwangi's song writer, I would have gone for a more potent and eye-catching title; one that would tell anyone seeing it that she is about to preach the best God has in store for us. I do not need to suggest any now because the video is already out. Listening to its melody, it tells me that she has been able to fuse two genres to bring out one of the most powerful contemporary Gospel songs to have come out of Kenya. Those who are well versed with Kikuyu genres will without doubt not miss the classic mũthĩrĩgũ beats in the song. She sways in calculated synchronisation to the beats. So do the choreographed backups by the young dancers. They could have, however, polished their act. She then introduces the keyboard, whose powerful and enchanting rhythm brings in the next genre that has been the living pillar with our East African contemporary Gospel artists.

While the language of music is universal, singing in Kikuyu does not stop anyone from grasping Sarah Mwangi's message. It is crystal clear leaving no one with the unfortunate prospects of seeing a mirage. Her lyrics have moved away from the norm where many artists are known to lift verses from the Bible and quote them verbatim without examining the context. She has not just quoted Hagar's predicament in the desert, but has gone further to teach us the lesson God intends for us, while using very simple language. She has compared her thirst for God to an antelope (thwariga) panting for water. No one should accuse her of borrowing from As The Deer Panteth for Water, as we do not have them in Kenya.

Sarah's enactment of the episode for the video is equally powerful, even though the child she has portrayed as Ishmael is rather too young, taking into consideration that before they were forced from Abraham's homestead, he had been circumcised (along with his father) at age 13. Sarah Mwangi has introduced her family (I want to believe so), but they have only managed to slow down the song's cadence, as some are at times out of step and others not looking very serious. However the two young children captured separately (2:24-2:28 and 4:20-4:23) attempting to dance to the beat have come out with flying colours. Video clip mixing is of a high standard, especially with the dropping in of clips where she is singing the refrain mimicking the young Ishmael crying out for water (1:12-1:14 and others). If one listens carefully at the opening of the video, one will hear the sound of water flowing!

The underlying message by Sarah, and that is what makes the song great, is that just as Ishmael's cries were heard in the desert, your cries today have been heard by God. This goes on to confirm that God does not misspeak, and that His promises are true. For her superlative effort, Sarah Mwangi gets four and a half (4 ½) of our green stars. We need more singers like Sarah to communicate God's blessings to us in such a powerful manner.

You tasted Him: He is yummy, why go for Rice?

It saddens me when many people look at my aged face (see picture) and start entertaining ugly thoughts to the effect that I was never a kid. I was and I grew up in a small town in the Rift Valley that was ethnically mixed, in what one would be allowed to refer as being a Kenyan cultural melting pot even though the population was quite small. It is the power of comparatives (or is it called proportions) that is guiding us here.

I attended school, although I used to skip afternoon classes to pick an ancient variety of zambarau we called ndĩrũ that only grew on the river banks, and which turned the tongues purple, hence my low level of educational achievement. In school we had boys and girls from all corners of the vast country that is Kenya and we only referred to them by their one name, but never by their tribes. We did not know our tribes until some people who were paid by the government and were called teachers, taught us that some of us were Luo because we ate kamongo and others were Kikuyu because they ate waru and others were Kalenjin because they drank mursik.

There were many friends and some of their names are still fresh on my mind: There was Kwayera, Mũkundi, Waithĩra, Aronyi, Kipsang, Maloba, Wangũi, Owiti, Mbũgua (no relation to Jobjow), Kubano, Nyaruai, Omondi, Matoke (not the banana), Chepkosgei, Kĩmani (not Pastor Lee), Akinyi, Mwanaisha, Juma, Madaka and of course there was a Kamau. Sometimes we would have two sharing one name and we would differentiate them by calling them Nekesa 'A' and Nekesa 'B'. We were all equal. The only person who was not equal (apart from our teachers) was Miss Emily (she of late memories) because she was a Sunday school teacher and was white. All the rest of us were black.

We are no longer kids. Some of us became teachers, others makanga, farmers, failed politicians, office workers (some as bosses and others as sweepers). Two even became semiprofessional footballers. I know one who became an ATM Dad (a man who only sends money to his kids but doesn't see them). Another became a top cop and another was shot to death in the USA. But when I last checked on them, I was surprised when told that Kwayera had become a Luhya, Akinyi a Luo, Mũkundi a Kikuyu and Kipsang a Kalenjin. What was even worse, they are not talking to each other. Mũkundi who had married Chepkosgei's cousin got crazy orders from two sides simultaneously. His people told him to return his wife to her family, and her family demanded her back. He did not know what to do with the kids (now grownups), who neither belonged to the Kikuyu nor the Kalenjin side as they are the true embodiment of the Kenya we want.

Yes, we used to have our own style of skirmishes, and many a times we went home with bloodied noses. Mediation was of the highest order, because we believed in still being friends the next day. When some of us stole Mũkundi's finger-licking lunch, little did we know that he had used newly sprouted bush spinach called terere that causes havoc to your stomach if you are eating it for the first time. Mũkundi went hungry and he cursed those who ate his food. When we went home we were hit by a diarrhea that was worse than a dysentery outbreak. For fear of death, the next day we confessed to Mũkundi, and in his wisdom he exercised a fine art of mediation where he fined each of us fifty cents. Not having money, we paid it in other forms (some of us stole eggs from our homes to pay him). But the moral of the event is that the art of mediation was in existence, perfect and biding even among us kids.

Today I hear all manner of accusation. Kibaki amebaki na (read steal) kura zetu and Odinga is A Liar (spell his first name backwards). As grownups we should look back to the power of mediation we possessed as children instead of sending our kin to early graves. We also know the power of mediation that Jesus wields and that is a fact. Do we need to go down as low as taking Kofi Annan from a retirement that he deserves, taking a graceful lady from the duties of looking after one of Africa's greatest statesman Nelson Mandela, or go the route of accepting President Bush's offer of sending Dr Condoleezza Rice (who does not even know what a tribe is, despite her mastery of the Russian language) to mediate? It will end up being nothing short of an episode that I thought I had forgotten, until now: Eating ugali at State House. Please excuse some of us if we interpret it to mean there is a wali wa pilau party at State House. The American woman has no relation with mchele.

Yusto Onesmo has reminded us, through his song Yesu ni Muweza (Jesus is the enabler) that a lot of our problems could be solved if we look to Jesus' power of mediation. I do not even know where Jobjow got this video from. The young musician, Yusto, is full of energy so much so that in the entire length of the video he is captured doing antics in the name of choreography some of which are unrealistic, but nonetheless help to illustrate his joy. Where he uses karate movements to demonstrate how Jesus shapes us, the video will certainly provide a compelling view to our younger citizens when they sit in front of their TV screens to savor the music. Parents, allow your kids to watch this video and they will end up spending more time in the house.

Coming at a time when Kenyans need the reassurance that peace is achievable, the song's message is music to our ears. Yusto has managed to give us a preview of the great powers that Jesus possesses, not just among human beings but among natural phenomenon including the act of calming a rough sea. But the most telling is when He is able to read the mind of Zakayo, as it shows that He can also read our minds and know what we require and end up giving it to us. That is the healing process we urgently need in Kenya. We need peace in Kenya and no amount of talking under the guise of mediation among the warring sides will bring it until we acknowledge Jesus as Muweza as Justo has rightly put it.

The video has a trailer of about 48 seconds, which I believe is not entirely necessary as it takes away almost a minute of the great song whose melody is quite uplifting. Too much video antics remind me of the puppets they used to show us in Sunday school. It does not appeal very much to have three or four images of him or his singers appear on the screen at the same time. On two occasions he has introduced snippets of footage showing three dwarfs dancing (1:21 – 1:22 and 2:04 – 02:06). If the dwarfs ware part of the singing team, I would have no problem with that. But the way they are dropped in and taken out before the viewer understands why they are appearing in the first place is no different from the way dwarfs have been misused in sideshows at circuses all over the world. But I have no problem with the one dwarf used (3:30 – 3:43) to portray the short man Zakayo.

It is because of the humbling message and its temperamental melody that Yusto Onesmo's song earns four green stars.

Unconditional love Africa edition

A dedication to all suffering African Women

(Dear Reader: Not wanting to be seen as profiling tribal stereotypes I will not mention my characters’ middle or last names. I will refer to them by their first – read Christian – names which are tribal neutral.)

Many years ago (in the last millennium) when my age was less than two score, my father had requested his work colleague who was a bachelor to allow me live with him, because our house was getting too small for the many of us. I cannot even remember how many we were. All I know is that we were indeed many, and that I was the oldest (among the children of course). The new house was made out of mabati but had nice wooden partitions inside that allowed for it to be cool even when the sun was very hot outside.

The wooden partitions also acted as dividers between our room and the neighbour’s room. His name was Alois and his wife was called Margaret (names changed to protect their identity). The wooden partitions could keep the heat out, but certainly not the sound. They were not very good sound proofing material, because every time he chose to beat his wife, and he did that regularly, I would hear every blow land on the poor lady and also the words he used, even though he belonged to another tribe and I did not understand what the words meant. But I heard them. There were these famous two words he would shout “xxxxxx Margaret!” (first word hidden not to reveal his tribe), and I would sit up in bed (he never beat her during the day) expecting to hear blows raining and the woman wailing, “Alois please spare me” (sometimes saying it in Swahili).

There was this day that he came home at about 8:30 pm and the next thing I heard the famous ‘xxxxxx Margaret!’ I sat up, my heart pounding like it wanted to exit the rib cage. But before I could even hear the pounding, the woman said in Swahili (probably she wanted me to understand what she was telling him): “Alois you are not even drunk.” While I did not understand what he said in his language, I want to believe he asked her: “What do you mean I am not drunk?” She said in reply: “You do not have any money and you do not even smell alcohol. Do not pretend to be drunk.”

That must have been a tactical error on her part because he beat her so bad that she ran outside, something that she never did. She used to take her blows like the good African wife she was. After I made sure that the beating was over and I could only hear her whimpering close to my window, I pushed my head out the window and even before I could offer my apologies, she said: “Masai (she could not pronounce my name as Mathai), today Alois has killed me.” I almost fell off the window but thank God it did not happen because I would have landed on her hurting body. Before I could think what to tell her, she said: “This time Alois has gone too far and I will certainly send radi (lightning) to him. He must die.”

My sympathies now turned to the jolly man who was best known as Bwana wa Margaret, and quickly back to me. I knew that if the lightning came, the house would go up in flames and my library of three books, my closet with four shirts, two kipande surualis, one long pant, a pair of underwear and a pair of shoes (and no socks) would be consumed in the process. I had to stop it. I sneaked out the door (she could not see me because she was by the window) and dashed the nearly two kilometers to the police station, not to report about the lightning that would come crashing from the heavens but to report that a man had killed his wife (that is what she told me, if the dead could speak!). The inspector sent out two constables, a man and a woman, with the instruction, “Lete hiyo Alois hapa. Ni lazima alale ndani.”

My heart started beating regularly. But it started racing again after I saw what happened next. When the police officers arrived at her house, she asked them what they wanted. They said that they had come to arrest Alois. She told them not her Alois. She was blocking the door with her body and the policeman tried to push his face towards her, but before he could say what he intended to say, she swung a clenched fist which landed squarely on his nose that so much blood came out you would have thought six chickens had been slaughtered simultaneously. The lady police officer tried to rush in to stop Margaret from hitting her male colleague a second time but in the confusion she hit the veranda post sending her kofia to the ground and she too started bleeding.

The police officers gathered their courage and arrested Margaret whom they took to the police station. Alois did not bother to protect his wife from arrest. I believe he was saying to himself, ‘good riddance I wish she is locked for many years.’ I followed them closely and I did hear the police woman tell Margaret in Swahili because they belonged to different tribes, “You have downed government crown on the ground! Woman, you will be jailed for so many years you will die before the sentence is over and your people will come to collect your bones.”

Now that worried me and I started regretting having called the police. But my worries were laid to rest when at the police station the inspector asked them: “I asked you to bring Alois, what are you doing all bleeding and arresting a defenseless woman?” They hesitated, but the police woman gathered courage before her male counterpart and said: “Afande, this woman has beaten us and even removed my kofia and threw the crown on the dirty ground. She should be jailed.”

The inspector could not believe what he heard and in reply told them, in a thundering voice that could have been heard miles away: “Take that woman home!” Now the male policeman found his voice and said, “Sir, it would be desirable if she walked home on her own. It is not very late and nobody will attack her.”

That happened in the last millennium. I might have added some chumvi but the essence of the story has not changed (nisameheni and do not let Jobjow know for he might sack me). Come to this millennium and whom do we find? Rose Muhando. I do not even know her tribe because she is from Tanzania. The people in Tanzania, unlike those from Kenya, are so cohesive, that I tend to think they have only one tribe. So I call them Watanzania, Rose Muhando’s tribe.

Jobjow has posted a terrific video, Nipe Uvumilivu, which depicts a heartbroken Rose, with four children all smeared with a lot of dust on their faces and body, singing about her problems.

Not just singing, but also being beaten by her very own ‘Alois’. What she sings about reflects her true life as she is the mother of three children and their father/s walked out on her. My Swahili appears to have taken the back seat since I relocated to the Caribbean because I do not seem to fully grasp the meaning of a word she has used, ‘walionizalisha’. It can be translated to mean the fathers of her children or the midwives who attended to her. Someone educate me, and please don’t recommend Jobjow as he cannot even pronounce that word, him being a true Kenyan.

Why do I compare Rose with Margaret? Only in December last year that this same Rose was quoted in an interview saying that she wants to get married. That she does not mind getting married to a nice man. Please Rose, do not beat your pastor when he tells you not to get married to so and so, because Pastor knows better.

Rose’s Nipe Uvumilivu (Give me Endurance/Perseverance) is a song that has a nice, simple and slow melody and is rendered prayerful. Its ‘temperature’ is right all through other than one point where she shatters the peace by raising her voice above the song’s tempo (6:50 – 6:52). The kids portrayed have conducted themselves like real actors, so much so, I am left wondering whether the opening scene had the kid fall accidentally or as part of the script.

Are those her kids? She has three but the video shows four, or were they borrowed to act? The ‘Alois’ in the video appears to enjoy his role as the man who knows how to discipline his woman. Watch him spring a gaiety (3:00 – 3:24) after he would have clobbered members of his defenseless tribe. See him do overtime – I wonder who is paying him (6:34 – 6:46). The footage of the woman bringing in farm harvest to the homestead reminds me of the many African women who have broken their back to feed their families. They are always there to make their husbands feel like true human beings. Kazi bila mshahara.

Rose Muhando has done justice with this song, which I will implore Jobjow to dedicate to all the suffering women in the world and Africa in particular. She gets four and a half of our green stars.

Jesus does not get lost in translation

It does not hurt to state the fact. Kenyans are a very enterprising people but I am today hiding my face in shame after someone (of course not an African) said that I looked so ugly I had to be a Kenyan. My review today has nothing to do the doctrine of forgiveness which our country badly needs. It has to do with our entrepreneurial spirit that sometimes, unfortunately, makes us weird copycats.

Quick to come to mind is this youth group from a church near Nakuru, that had heard a song over VOK (I do not remember whether those days if it was not KBC) radio and while they did not fully understand its lyrics, they felt compelled to believe that they understood them enough to re-launch that song in Swahili and possibly beat all the youth groups in their Division if not District. The song was so sweet and so was the message.

Their music writer, after listening to the lyrics, came out with super lyrics. They did not change the melody because it was the melody that took them over the hills (before they headed down the lake in shame). The lyrics they wrote for the new song went something close to this:

Wee Mkombozi, utukomboe …
sisi watu wa Bahati, utukomboe
Wee Mkombozi, utukomboe …..
sisi watu wa Bahati, utukomboe

Their melodious voices went through to the heavens until one of their own who lived in Nairobi walked into the church hall looking like a man who had seen a deadly snake. Before they could ask him what was wrong with him, he asked what was wrong with them. They all laughed. He composed himself and asked: “How can you possibly sing a chang’aa song in church?” The singing came to a grinding halt (ouch!) and in unison they asked: “What do you mean chang’aa song? This is talking about Jesus, Mkombozi.”

The man from Nairobi shook his head and explained to his brothers and sisters that from DJs on Voice of Kenya Radio, he had learnt that the song was originally sung by South African diva, Yvonne Chaka Chaka, and its title was Umqombothi, named so after a potent South African brew reputed to be stronger than the illicit chang’aa everyone knew killed those that chose to drink it.

They could not believe what they heard, and never having seen their fellow villager who worked and lived in Nairobi as serious as he appeared, the truth sunk in and a few tried to vomit. But nobody had said to them that they couldn’t vomit what they didn’t drink in the first place. What they needed was a prayer for cleansing performed by their pastor, but they were afraid to tell him the truth in the first place. A supposedly novel song died before it could live.

Emmy Kosgei is a budding Kenyan Gospel artiste from the vast Rift Valley, I am sure not very far from Nakuru. Many prefer to call her a Kalenjin Gospel artiste, which is quite unfair as it narrows her scope. She is a national figure and should be given her accolades as it befits her super effort, since music is a universal language. One of her songs from the Album Katau Banda has been hitting the airwaves giving her a large following, among them our very own Jobjow who has posted a video of the song Nguno on the Angaza Family Radio website. Sometimes (not necessarily all the times) Jobjow knows how to bring a breath of fresh air into our tormented lives. Asante Jobjow.

Emmy will have to excuse me because as much as I love the melody of her song Nguno, I do not understand the lyrics and therefore I cannot discuss the song’s subject matter and what she is talking about. She sings in Kalenjin. However, one word comes out clearly and it is “Jesus”. You can call His name in any language, but no one will suffer the disappointment of being told that they got it wrong. Jesus does not get lost in translation.



Everyone who watches this video will agree with me that it is one of the best choreographed songs that Jobjow has on the website. Video mixing brings up the song’s tempo in a superlative manner, especially the synchronised dancing put up by her backup girls, and the church congregation. The most rousing part is when the backup girls perform on the platform in the church and their shadows appear on the ceiling as they undertake the purposeful and well coordinated dance movements (05:20 – 05:24).

The backup girls have a choreography regime that blends in with change of key as evidenced on two occasions 05:37 – 05:40 and 05:45 – 05:49. The children in pink dresses and shirts stomping the ground in bare feet raising hot dust into the air as they execute well coordinated movements are a marvel to watch. However a number of times when Emmy appears 100%, one cannot help but note that the mouthing of the words is not consistent with the lyrics in the background. One does not need to understand the language to make that observation. A perfect example is 01:14 – 01:24. A couple that appears several times (among them 00:59 – 01:04) only helps to throw off the song’s fast and well harmonised tempo.

Hats off to Emmy. Kongoi missing! Whether you understand the lyrics or not, overall Nguno is an inspirational and a must-watch song. It easily makes four green stars in our non-scientific rating.

Kenyans Wanted Alive on Arrival

If music be the solution to our troubled country, then let it play:

They lived as lively neighbours since they can't remember when. One used to deliver a concoction he called mursik which chased ugali down the throat. The other used to choma on his coals something he called mutura and his friends said it was the perfect appetizer. The next gentleman used to dry some creatures from the lake that he called omena and when fried it was the best relish to go with ugali. In essence each needed the other and they made the model Kenya we have been proud of.

But the recent spate of madness has claimed the life of the producer of mursik, and ugali is no longer going smoothly down the throat. The creator of mutura is six feet underground and the exotically produced form of sausage that they would eat as an appetiser before a heavy meal is no longer on the menu. The guy who used to capture omena from the lake is reported to have succumbed to a stray bullet that everyone is disputing who fired it, as his friends are complaining that ugali is lacking its dawa (omena).

Is this not the worst form of "you never miss water until the well runs dry", or "you never miss milk until your prize heifer succumbs to East Coast Fever"? What wrong did these three hypothetical characters commit for them to lose their dear lives? Did they have to die first for us to realise that they should not have died in the first place? Where are the priorities of the people who would have consciously or subconsciously instigated the mayhem our country is experiencing? When they went to parliament to elect the speaker, I sat down glued to a TV to watch live as the opposing MPs went for each other's necks. But alas, I was thoroughly disappointed (so much so that I forgot to drink water as my doctor has ordered to imbibe eight glasses a day) for they ended up hugging, back slapping each other and with ferocious high-fives.

This was done in the safety of Bunge, while the ordinary mwananchi was either getting interred, interring, nursing terrible wounds, or involuntarily shedding tears after being tear-gassed. Our very own Elder Shem Onditi is still recovering from the trauma he went through in Kisumu, the city made famous by the easy availability of omena, ngege, kamongo and mbuta. He was cornered and they treated him worse than a fisherman who would have accidentally cut the fishing nets of his neighbour allowing for fish to escape. His true and only makosa was that he had travelled to the place he calls home: the land of his 'borning' as they would say in the Caribbean. The grapevine has it that he intends to write a book about his great escape that was facilitated by the Lord. I am trying to beg him to make me his editor and the title I will give his book will be "Wanted Alive on Arrival". Elder Onditi, please tazama upande niliko na unipe hiyo job ya kuhariri hicho kitabu.

Jobjow of Angaza Family Radio has posted two very important music videos on the list, which have squarely addressed the problems that have been brought about by the mayhem that Kenya has experienced since the end of last year. While I am not going to review them for rating, I will nonetheless want to mention them and encourage our readers to listen to the messages. Forget the hybrid genre used in one of the songs and listen to the powerful message of hope and reconciliation which will be understood by all including the deaf.

The first one is Wakenya Pamoja For Peace by an assembly of over 30 Kenyan Artistes, among them church pastors. It is a prayer which among its many implorations requires of Kenyans to light the fire of love and peace. It asks Kenyans to give love a chance by loving, lifting and building each other in peace while bemoaning the beauty of Kenya that is at stake. It is produced by Robert Kamanzi and word out of Kenya is that it is being played over and over by nearly all the radio stations in the land.

One of the artistes, Roy Smith Mwatia, in an interview with BBC Radio from Nairobi said that it took them a day to write and perform it. He has uttered the most inspiring words in recent times, some of which I have immortalised in the heading of this review: "(The song) is medication and as long as it is going to help in the peace process, then let it play. If music be the solution to our troubled country, then let it play." The song looks at the one Kenya that we know while asking its people to be patriots for the love of country. They end by holding hands with the passionate message "let us be one." It is a song I would recommend to all lovers of peace.

Eric Wainaina (of Nchi ya Kitu Kidogo fame) has rendered the second song posted by Jobjow, Daima, Song for Peace – an NTV Production.

It is a powerful rendition which is aptly illustrated by equally powerful footage of images of Kenya, opening with scenes from an interdenominational prayer meeting, a peaceful Nairobi that is followed by telling images of the destruction caused by the mayhem in the country as the singer's words cut through with a message asking Kenyans to join (hands) to build the country telling them that he "lives and believes in Kenya."

We are taken to the tranquil of lush green tea farms probably in Kericho and the good times with an army brass band in action and back to scenes Kenyans will be ashamed of for years to come as footage of women in anguish are flashed, some of them in slow motion for effect, then fast rewound to the Mau Mau days where the singer remarks that Kenyans lost their lives and rotted in jails for attempting to break the yokes of colonialism, leaving one to wonder out loud then how come Kenyans are going through a similar experience today when their country is free.

Even as I said that this song was not for rating (awarding of green stars) I would from a contemporary standpoint rate it as being in the same league, but at a much lower rung, with the likes of Elton John's Candle in The Wind (Tribute to Princess Diana). My only concern is that this Kenyan maestro, Eric Wainaina, is not adequately immortalised on this video, so to speak. We only hear his voice but we do not see him. The producers of the video (NTV) should have done better, and to give Eric his jacket.