Post by Onyango Oloo on Sept 3, 2014 5:35:28 GMT 3
A Digital Exorcism by Onyango Oloo in Nairobi
If
Daniel Toroitich arap Moi were to die tomorrow, or next week or the following month, I, Onyango Oloo will NOT do a
Ndombolo jig on his fresh grave.
But neither will I be caught dead, hysterically crying my heart out, clinging feverishly to a thoroughly drenched tear soaked face towel.
No weeping, no wailing, no mourning for Oloo.
Sina machozi ya mamba mie.
Yesterday, September 2, 2014 the former repressive Kenyan head of state announced to anyone who cared to know that he is now only ten years short of clocking a century on Planet Earth.
I was COMPLETELY disgusted and thoroughly nauseated.
Not at the thought that the lanky former despot was celebrating his birthday.
No, not at all.
Even if Pol Pot, Papa Doc, Idi Amin Dada and Adolf Hitler were alive today they would have had every right to celebrate their respective born days.
What pissed me off were the miles of slimy orgiastic phlegm oozing from every orifice of Kenya’s often intellectually bereft Fourth Estate.
I spied with horror, giddy television anchors grin from ear to ear as they fellated and ululated one of the worst dictators to emerge in Africa in the last fifty years.
I recoiled with shock to listen to a sycophantic choir of JOURNALISTS-on the radio, in the newspapers on the internet-kow tow to the architect of Goldenberg; one of the chief suspects behind a string of unsolved political assassinations; a veritable dinosaur who opposed democratization and constitutional change.
I narrowly missed suffering a MASSIVE, almost fatal, coronary attack when I logged on to
only to be
VICIOUSLY SLAPPED by a blithe wall update from a young, fairly progressive female artiste who I respect a lot for her consistent reformist credentials, inviting all her FB friends to share their happy recollections of the iron fisted conductor of the KANU tyranny-to add to her joyful reminiscences and nostalgic reveries about sipping the infamous Nyayo milk as a toddler in kindergarten.
In the grip of acute trauma, I shuddered in wonderment, speculating in consternation if perhaps the minds of millions of my Kenyan compañeros had been taken over by the kind of shady, dodgy
ALIENS that Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones had been battling tenaciously in three indelible MIB Hollywood blockbusters.
Let me tell you how I remember the aging despot who is close to polluting the universe for a hundred years:
I was barely 22 when his putrid regime hauled me off a train and swung me in the Kamiti slammer for having the temerity of jotting down in my own unflattering, scrawling hand writing, a first year university essay calling on Kenyan youth to stand up against injustice and fight for freedom. Two years later my father suffered a heart attack after one of his own in laws who was a minister in Moi’s regime misled him into believing that I, along with other jailed university students, would be released on Jamhuri Day, 1984. Instead, Moi forgave his close business partner, Charles Njonjo who had been tarred, tainted and tagged as the so called “Traitor” within the blood soaked Nyayo kleptocracy. My dad eventually died from a second heart attack a few years later. To this day, I hold Moi responsible for my father’s untimely demise.
Moi also killed Tito Adungosi, the former SONU Chairman who happened to be an ardent supporter of the KANU dictatorship even behind bars. Adungosi did not have to die, but he did, as a result of callous state neglect of a simple, treatable ailment.
Who killed
Dr. Robert Ouko?
How about
Father John Kaiser?
Who bludgeoned
Karimi Nduthu to death in Kangemi?
Who threw photojournalist
Wallace Gichere out of a window?
Who was the political cannibal and vampire who drank the blood of patriots and feasted on their newly slaughtered flesh?
Is this the
OGRE
I must supplicate to?
Is this the
MONSTER
I must pay homage to?
Count me OUT.
Sincerely,
(DAVID) Onyango Oloo
Nairobi, Kenya
If
Daniel Toroitich arap Moi were to die tomorrow, or next week or the following month, I, Onyango Oloo will NOT do a
Ndombolo jig on his fresh grave.
But neither will I be caught dead, hysterically crying my heart out, clinging feverishly to a thoroughly drenched tear soaked face towel.
No weeping, no wailing, no mourning for Oloo.
Sina machozi ya mamba mie.
Yesterday, September 2, 2014 the former repressive Kenyan head of state announced to anyone who cared to know that he is now only ten years short of clocking a century on Planet Earth.
I was COMPLETELY disgusted and thoroughly nauseated.
Not at the thought that the lanky former despot was celebrating his birthday.
No, not at all.
Even if Pol Pot, Papa Doc, Idi Amin Dada and Adolf Hitler were alive today they would have had every right to celebrate their respective born days.
What pissed me off were the miles of slimy orgiastic phlegm oozing from every orifice of Kenya’s often intellectually bereft Fourth Estate.
I spied with horror, giddy television anchors grin from ear to ear as they fellated and ululated one of the worst dictators to emerge in Africa in the last fifty years.
I recoiled with shock to listen to a sycophantic choir of JOURNALISTS-on the radio, in the newspapers on the internet-kow tow to the architect of Goldenberg; one of the chief suspects behind a string of unsolved political assassinations; a veritable dinosaur who opposed democratization and constitutional change.
I narrowly missed suffering a MASSIVE, almost fatal, coronary attack when I logged on to
only to be
VICIOUSLY SLAPPED by a blithe wall update from a young, fairly progressive female artiste who I respect a lot for her consistent reformist credentials, inviting all her FB friends to share their happy recollections of the iron fisted conductor of the KANU tyranny-to add to her joyful reminiscences and nostalgic reveries about sipping the infamous Nyayo milk as a toddler in kindergarten.
In the grip of acute trauma, I shuddered in wonderment, speculating in consternation if perhaps the minds of millions of my Kenyan compañeros had been taken over by the kind of shady, dodgy
ALIENS that Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones had been battling tenaciously in three indelible MIB Hollywood blockbusters.
Let me tell you how I remember the aging despot who is close to polluting the universe for a hundred years:
I was barely 22 when his putrid regime hauled me off a train and swung me in the Kamiti slammer for having the temerity of jotting down in my own unflattering, scrawling hand writing, a first year university essay calling on Kenyan youth to stand up against injustice and fight for freedom. Two years later my father suffered a heart attack after one of his own in laws who was a minister in Moi’s regime misled him into believing that I, along with other jailed university students, would be released on Jamhuri Day, 1984. Instead, Moi forgave his close business partner, Charles Njonjo who had been tarred, tainted and tagged as the so called “Traitor” within the blood soaked Nyayo kleptocracy. My dad eventually died from a second heart attack a few years later. To this day, I hold Moi responsible for my father’s untimely demise.
Moi also killed Tito Adungosi, the former SONU Chairman who happened to be an ardent supporter of the KANU dictatorship even behind bars. Adungosi did not have to die, but he did, as a result of callous state neglect of a simple, treatable ailment.
Who killed
Dr. Robert Ouko?
How about
Father John Kaiser?
Who bludgeoned
Karimi Nduthu to death in Kangemi?
Who threw photojournalist
Wallace Gichere out of a window?
Who was the political cannibal and vampire who drank the blood of patriots and feasted on their newly slaughtered flesh?
Is this the
OGRE
I must supplicate to?
Is this the
MONSTER
I must pay homage to?
Count me OUT.
Sincerely,
(DAVID) Onyango Oloo
Nairobi, Kenya
