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To be an Artist is a Calling

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By Momanyi Osoro

Nights ago, I went clubbing with my boys. It was a wild night, stalking the streets of Nairobi. We were a cohort of university students, armed with caution money from the government as we painted our beautiful city red. We hoped from club to club, drinking and dancing our youth away. We kissed chicks we cannot even bother to look at in broad daylight. We talked to chicks we can’t approach when sober. Blame it all on the hot drink. Arsenal was playing United. And in the drunken haze, we celebrated each time United scored. I fear for Arsenal fans though, they are always disappointed. What if arsenal was some kind of social experiment you know? To see how long a human support a football team? What brings that kind of loyalty? Is there the possibility of one running mad because of his team losing?

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As the night flew by, the drink washed down on us too much. I couldn’t dance, my friends couldn’t dance. We sat at our table and stared right into each other’s faces. In there I saw vanity and confusion. Maybe a misguided youthfulness, burning with the urge to belong. The eyelids of my friends were tattooed with the struggle of trying to discover what does life really entail? You come to campus, you study hard and go to a party on Fridays. Is there nothing else one can do? Just a vicious circle of remorseless venality and peer pressure. It was in that cloud of thoughts that I decided to quit drinking and partying. They don’t make me a better human being. And waking up with a hangover isn’t going to change my life. I will just be more and more miserable.

It was around 3 a.m. when we dragged each other out of the night club. Streets were well lit. Ubers were being hailed. Men and women pulling at each other. Set agendas were yet to be completed. Hotel rooms and lodges would be the climax of this wanton debauchery.

My boys and I have this code we live by ‘leave no man behind’ of course we stole it from the US Navy Seals. None of us is that smart to come up with anything like that. We staggered along the highway towards our apartments. Cars woozed by, the city was waking up. Men pulling carts behind them. Women hoisting wares above their heads and sausage vendors setting up shop right across the streets. In a way I wasn’t happy, while hardworking Kenyans are starting their business, we are from clubbing. Then we will sleep for a whole day. And later we would brag how we are campus students. Utter nonsense!

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We stopped to buy sausages.

Two men carrying guitars walked by us. In the drunken mist, I asked them to stop. I am a writer, they play guitars, deep down we are all artists. And artists have this deep connection I gather. The power to create. They seemed to be middle-aged. Wrinkled faces, a testament to the hard life they have experienced. Their shoes were visibly worn out, and they had shabby clothes. One could tell that even though they were artists, they did not make as much money. Maybe they were miserable and chances are they will die poor. But then, they had decided to follow the unconventional path and follow their heart, die for passion.

Under the street lights, with temperatures almost at freezing levels, they unsheathed their guitars. We had not offered even a cent but they played for us melodious tunes. Original sounds that we can find nowhere. We danced, clapped and joshed around. They struck the last tone, packed their guitars and soon were on their way. As they disappeared into the darkness, I thought to myself. As an artist, what is my role in society? And do I deserve to die poor and miserable while entertaining the masses?

By Momanyi Osoro

Written by Momanyi Osoro. He is a Kenyan writer and social media influencer studying journalism and Mass communication. His main genre is creative non fiction and satirical lifestyle stories. Check out his blog on www.kinasisi.blogspot.co.ke

Connect with him on Twitter as @OgunOsoch

And on Instagram @osochogun

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POEMS

The bitterness of bombs

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I wonder why I wonder why?

I grew up in terror

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And I met a terrible error

My life was and is still shattered

And my society scattered

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I wonder why, I wonder why?

The first bomb got me on the top of the hill

But I had to face it with courage and stay still

A couple of bodies laid like flies

And all I could hear were the cries

I wonder why, I wonder why?

I saw young lads taking the last breathe by my side

To survive I had to dive in no river in order to subside

 The ground was tensed and it couldn’t hold me anymore

And my senses, my throat and my heart were all bitter and sore

I wonder why, I wonder why?

I fled the scene leaving the dead alone and I felt the shame

But who was to be held accountable and who was to be blame

I will live to tell my own story as a single narration

But the history has it all and the full documentation

By Ngaluku Lukulu Chocho

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MOTIVATION

The Magic of A Pen

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You feel heavy in your heart; you wonder if it’s worth jotting down. “This is for talented people”, what if it’s a chance for you to discover yours? I believe life is a mystery to be discovered and learnt. Learn to appreciate your mind by allowing that pen to scribble your motivations or feelings. I have learnt to discover writing makes me to be serene with myself, it’s a form of healing.

You can ask yourself, should I use complex language? Should I use a certain structure? All these are not of major importance; we all have a unique way to our literary work. If you cannot appreciate your work as the first customer to it, who will? Never doubt that you can do it, it only needs you to believe in yourself and never be ashamed to ask for help. If I say a lot it would be more of iteration, just believe in the magic of the pen you hold.

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Compiled by
Trevor Virima S.C

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Bitconnect Shuts Down After Accused Of Running A Ponzi Scheme

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Strech lining hemline above knee burgundy glossy silk complete hid zip little catches rayon. Tunic weaved strech calfskin spaghetti straps triangle best designed framed purple blush.I never get a kick out of the chance to feel that I plan for a specific individual

Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia. It is a paradisematic country, in which roasted parts of sentences fly into your mouth.

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A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. Even the all-powerful Pointing has no control about the blind texts it is an almost unorthographic life One day however a small line of blind text by the name of Lorem Ipsum decided to leave for the far World of Grammar. The Big Oxmox advised her not to do so, because there were thousands of bad Commas, wild Question Marks and devious Semikoli, but the Little Blind Text didn’t listen.

On her way she met a copy. The copy warned the Little Blind Text, that where it came from it would have been rewritten a thousand times and everything that was left from its origin would be the word “and” and the Little Blind Text should turn around and return to its own, safe country.

“NO REPRESENTATION IS BEING MADE THAT ANY RESULTS WILL OR ARE LIKELY TO ACHIEVE PRICES SIMILAR TO THOSE SHOWN.”

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents.

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But nothing the copy said could convince her and so it didn’t take long until a few insidious Copy Writers ambushed her, made her drunk with Longe and Parole and dragged her into their agency, where they abused her for their projects again and again. And if she hasn’t been rewritten, then they are still using her.

Far far away, behind the word mountains, far from the countries Vokalia and Consonantia, there live the blind texts. Separated they live in Bookmarksgrove right at the coast of the Semantics, a large language ocean. A small river named Duden flows by their place and supplies it with the necessary regelialia.

A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. “How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn’t get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was.

“The will to win, the desire to succeed, the urge to reach your full potential these are the keys that will unlock the door to personal excellence.”

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. Even the all-powerful Pointing has no control about the blind texts it is an almost unorthographic life One day however a small line of blind text by the name of Lorem Ipsum decided to leave for the far World of Grammar. The Big Oxmox advised her not to do so, because there were thousands of bad Commas, wild Question Marks and devious Semikoli, but the Little Blind Text didn’t listen.

His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame.

It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad.

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