Tell me now.

In keeping with the annual of tradition of birthday blogs, here goes it. Did I even post one last year? Who knows. Anyways. Tomorrow, April 24th I am 22 years old. Let the world know. 

I am listening to folk music and psychedelic jams, sitting in my long johns on a messy couch, watching my bunny sniffle under the weird armoire. This year hasn't been so hot -- not just for me but for my most dear friends too, except for certain times, and the trip to Texas was fucking great. Today was wonderful too, actually. I got lost and felt small in the best way in the library at school and took a giant bag of books about East Africa and South Western Indians home. I read a lot. I went out for dinner with Lauren, Max, and James and we got margaritas and a giant cookie ice cream sundae, then had band practice and it was great. It has been so hard to maintain a constant state of feeling free and good and taking care of business and I have been getting down on myself when I start to fail. But then I can also look at the positive things that have come out: I play rock 'n' roll music on my guitar, I have been drawing -- consistently and regularly in pen and ink, and I haven't in years. I am done with the words for a zine that I'm doing with Rudi and now am working on finishing illustrating it. I'm really proud of it. And fuck, I have a rabbit named Percy Sledge who is a ray of sunshine. And some rad friends that I am thankful for everyday.

I read this book today called "Kabongo" by Richard St. Barbe Baker which is the narrative of a Kiyuku chief in Kenya as told in his final days. He grew up in a pre-colonial Kenya and experienced the "pink cheeks" come in and watched the richness of the life that he knew crumble away. It's beautiful and full of feeling and nice to read something with an African rhythm of speech because the way they phrase things flows like a song. It has beautiful woodcuts in it too. I want to read it again. Here is the last chapter of the book: (Sorry to ruin it for you but it won't.)

"So I am sitting before my hut and I wait. For soon the time will come for me to creep away into the forest to die. Day by day my people grow thinner and weaker and the children are hungry and who am I, an old man, to eat the food that would come to them.

As I sit I ponder often on the ancient prophecy of Mogo wa Kebiro. Has the Pink Cheek brought good to my people? Are the new ways he has show us better than our own ways?

Something has taken away the meaning of our lives; it has taken the full days, the good work in the sunshine, the dancing and the song; it has taken away laughter and the joy of living; the kinship and the love within a family; above all it has taken us the wise way of our living in which our lives from birth to death were dedicated to Ngai, supreme of all, and which, with our system of age-groups and our Councils, ensured for all our people a life of responsibility and goodness. Something has taken away our belief in our Ngaiand in the goodness of me. And there is not enough land on which to feed.

These good things of the days when we were happy and strong have been taken and now we have many laws and many clothes and men dispute themselves among themselves and have no love. There is discontent and argument and violence and hate; and a vying with each other for power and men seem to care more for disputes about ideas than for the fullness of life where all work and live for for all.

The young men are learning new ways, the children make marks which they call writing, but they forget their own language and customs, they know not the laws of their people and they do not pray to Ngai. They ride fast in motor-cars, they work fire-sticks that kill, they make music from a box. But they have no land and no food and they have lost laughter.

As I sit before my hut telling the story of my life to my old friend the Muthunguwa wa Miti I wait for Ngai to call my spirit back to the snows of Kiri Nyaga, place of Whiteness. And I ask the Muthungu to take this message to his people that they may understand our need and help us. And laughter will come back to our land again."

With love.