Kitu gani hii?

I know I said I’d do something serious today, but the week was all serious and grown up, plus there’s something about doing this on the weekend that discourages much thought, probably because the night before I may have indulged in a spirit or two and therefore now possess the brain of a toddler.  It also helps that the politicians and their press lackeys are just baiting me with their foolishness, surely how can an idiot like myself resist such low hanging fruit?  Its too much, man!

So, our genius MP’s went to Mombasa to talk about peaceful elections.  Eh?  Here’s a thought, if you want to have peaceful elections you twits, perhaps you might want to consider shutting the fuck up?  And perhaps not running?  Just a thought.  Incidentally, I’m assuming that its not hate speech if I insult all of them together, because if it is then I’m a bit screwed, and unfortunately I do not mean that literally.  The only upside to the conference was that we got a couple of pictures of MP’s smiling at each other, makes for a nice break from the usual sneering and fist waving, no?  Slight detour, did you see Kalonzo’s outfit?  Could that suit be any more mushaino?  And the 70’s style pimp shirt?  Oh daddy!  Keep rocking that pimped out look and you may get my vote…  Now that was hate speech.

I was in the bank on Friday afternoon, patiently queuing to give them my little monies (direct translation of pesa ndogo), when I glanced up at the TV, expecting to catch a few minutes of Nollywood drama, my favourite part of the trip to the bank, some might even say the only enjoyable part, but alas, it was not to be.  Regular programming had been replaced by live coverage of the aforementioned conference, thereby subjecting me to five minutes of our most honourable (and not sufficiently philanthropic?) Speaker waxing poetic about how ‘we’ have learnt lessons and what not.  Say it with me…EH?  I almost gave in to my impulse to throw something at the screen, until I remembered where I was, and why I stopped watching TV in the first place. 

That’s right folks, I have no live TV in my house, I don’t have an aerial or a dish, or anything that can catch a signal of any kind.  For this reason, the only time I watch the news, and our politicians by association, is when I go to visit my sister and her clan.  For the last two years, with the exception of Hague TV (which I absolutely loved, for obvious reasons), I haven’t sat through a single news bulletin, local or international.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those militant ‘the TV is an idiot box’ types who wax lyrical about reading and taking time to ponder the meaning of life and such like bullshit, the reason I don’t have live TV is because when I first moved into my current abode, I couldn’t afford the dish and co (hard times, dodgy business, no cash flow to speak of...don’t laugh, sometimes the hustle is hard, no?), but the plan was to get hooked up eventually, and in the meantime I saw no sense in bothering with the aerial.   Sounds logical enough, no?  Problem is, as time went on, shit came to fuck (as it ineveitably does) and now many months later, here I am still live TV-less and strangely enough, not too bothered about it. 

The thing is, I’m a TV junkie, hell I’m the original TV junkie, only now in rehab, given half a chance I can watch TV all day and all night.  My ability to sit motionless in front of a screen is legendary, I have been known to watch cricket, just because, and not 20/20 my friend, test cricket, all day long.  I’m that idiot you’ll find standing outside a shop on Kenyatta Avenue, watching windsurfing on the big shiny TV, grinning stupidly, amazed by the moving pictures and vivid colours.  Folks, before the no live TV experience, my TV was on 24/7, Al Jazeera was my truth, TCM was my entertainment, ‘the young and the restless’ was my obsession (still is, and this despite not having watched an episode in 2 years…), and don’t get me started on cooking shows, or documentaries, or wrestling.  Ah wrestling…  I love wrestling.  I know, one of those deep dark secrets you should never reveal in public, right?  At least not until the cheque has cleared…  Wrestling these days has degenerated into a farce of silly conversations and name calling, with a loose 3 minute grapple thrown in to appease the crowd, but think back to a decade ago, the days of Stone Cold Steve Austin (Drink beer, fuck fear!) and The Rock (Can you smell what the rock is cooking?)…  I know, I know, it’s all fake, but do you remember when those NBA boys tried to cross over, with Karl Malone (then one of the biggest men in the NBA) dwarfed, literally, by the likes of Big Sexy?  Listen, oh ye sceptics, when a man 6 feet many inches tall is lifted and thrown about like a doll, shit aint no joke, it may be choreographed to within an inch of its life, but don’t take that to mean those men are nonsense, is all I’m saying. 

Why am I talking about wrestling?

Ah yes, as you can see, I used to be a TV junkie, so the no live TV thing was treated as an experiment, all the while making the best of a situation and what not.  Could I survive without the lovely people in Doha updating me every other minute, or the geniuses at KTN updating me a day later, if at all?  Without yet another rerun of ‘Cat On A Hot Tin Roof’ or ‘Cannery Row’?  Could I live without my daily dose of Jack Abbot?  Not so much, it turned out, the first month was absolute hell!  I’d switch on the TV at 5:30 in the evening only to be met by static, and I’d have a brief sob.  Month two was slightly better and only because I started watching DVD’s, but still I craved the randomness of live TV, switching on the TV to find something completely unexpected, like a 30 minute programme on the history of the nyatiti (can only be KBC, God bless them!) or a six part series on the migration patterns of killer whales, such like nonsense that you have absolutely no interest in, but can’t seem to turn off.  By month three, the itch was fading, slowly, I was in recovery, and loving the fact that I could no longer recall Robert Nagila’s peculiar accent anymore, that which used to set off a nervous tic in my left eye.  And now two years later, having mastered the internet (yaani, I have Al Jazeera feeds streaming into every device I own), and having found a half decent bandia DVD peddler who can get me almost anything under the sun (except Paul Newman, unfortunately), I have made my peace with no live TV.  No really, I am at peace, I haven’t heard my president speak in so long that if he was to call me, just to say hi, I’d ask him rudely, because I didn’t recognise the voice, “Ni nani?” 

That said, there are moments I regret not watching live, defining moments like the Arab Spring (the revolution was televised, and my TV was off?  The shame!) or Project Fame, but for the most part I’m content to be disconnected, separated from the noise and clutter.  The strangest thing about this situation is that I now have access to more information, from all manner of outlets, than I ever did when the TV was on, and the best part is, I get to pick and choose, no more sitting through endless bullshit waiting for what I want to see and hear, online you get to filter it, at source.  It’s just lovely.  I am loathe to admit this, but TV really did make me an idiot, but I’m getting better, I hope.  There have been some awkward moments when someone asks me, “Did you see that shit on TV?” and I’m forced to issue a ten minute explanation on why I did not.  “What do you mean no TV?” he asks, “How now?”  Its gotten to the point that I don’t bring it up any more, I just smile and nod and go along with the story, if need be I google, because if its worth talking about, its on YouTube no?

As unbelievable as it sounds, the point to all this is not to get you to turn off your TV’s, this is simply the rambling of a former junkie.  Think of me as a recovering alcoholic, who despite her love of booze, has the good sense not to take a sip lest she falls off the wagon, again.  This, my good people, is actually intended for my banking services provider.  You buggers, its bad enough that I have to queue endlessly for the services you charge me an arm and a leg for (standing charges they say...), seeing as how I’m not ‘high net-worth’ enough to afford to go to the fancy branch with air conditioning and coffee, and chairs.  But to deny me my monthly 15 minutes of ‘Ma brodah oh!’?  And for politicians no less?  That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.  What did I ever do to you, you bastards?  The next time I walk into the bank and I find politicians on my TV, I will tackle that watchie to the ground for the remote, and then I’ll put on that Korean shit, just to spite you.  Consider yourselves warned…