The other day, a friend asked me to describe myself.
Well he said,
“Something like Maya Angelou. You know her from Phenomenal Woman right? describe your hobby. Poetically”
I cannot say I am phenomenal. I am no Maya and definitely, I am no woman. But I did exactly that. See, I am an artist. I passionate about drawing with pencil and with the little poetic skills I have, I did a little dance with plagiarism (hahahhhh nail me!) and described myself like The Fanatic Artist.
Many wonder where my secret lies.
They think it is black and white print.
it is the passion that streams
from my heart through my fingers.
The gentle strokes of black on white.
It is pencil that meets paper.
The delicate dust of graphite,
embracing the thin flexible sheet;
I am an artist
I am talking about “Gerald” here. He is my brother and I have no regret whatsoever. He recently ditched his Huawei P10 for the trending iPhone 7 plus after the former lost its hi-tech superiority to the latest iPhone series. A couple of days ago, he was at the Samsung house, admiring their 2017 offer. Thanks to its amazing flawless design that technologically towered over the iPhone, he is currently the proud owner of a Samsung galaxy S8. I am not a technology critic and I don’t know much about phones save for the reviews from the designers and from Gerald whose relationship with technology is taking its toll on “Geraldine”, my sister in law. He can tell you all the designers by their names better than he remembers the numbers in her birthdate… wait! That got me thinking. She, Geraldine, got a designer too. Yet sometimes I fail to substantiate the values he attaches to phones and humans. As the founder of Samsung, Lee Byung-chul’s sacrifice for the current existence of one of the world’s largest companies may be unquestionable. I bet that God attaches much more value to the human race, His design, in that He so loved us that He gave His only begotten son… and I stand corrected if I got it all wrong that if reviewed, technology beats humanity pants down. I mean if we were to auction her and a smartphone before Gerald, the digital Samsung Galaxy S8 would be taken, leaving the analogue Geraldine wondering what is wrong with her design. For him, the high-tech designs are sleek and eye catching, they deserve better than her. The touch screens are more delicate than her skin. You just don’t mess with my brother’s gadget! Nobody messes with His phone. You do not want to mess with his Samsung Galaxy S8! It deserve better protection of leather phone covers than the bleaching chemicals and lotions that he keeps buying for Geraldine. The man doesn’t even appreciate her black beauty. Her limitless processing speed with no system clock that she uses 24/7 to run her small family is inferior to his 4GB Samsung RAM.
“Honey this is unacceptable! The phone alarm just went off and you, you are still asleep!? Sweetheart the galaxy battery can ran 3 days full throttle and the alarm goes off even if it is off and here you are, sleeping like a log even with warm blood still running in your veins!”
Come on Gerald you have questioned her so much! Enough is enough! Stand up now and I am going to question you in turn! And stand up like a man and I am going to ask you: who woke you up from that trench where your beer got the upper hand on your brains? The iPhone or Geraldine? Who stood up for you through thick and thin, when the other lady left you with your one month old baby girl that found more than a mother’s love in Geraldine’s heart? The Huawei that got outdated or Geraldine who was always there for you. Tell me, who is the mother of your daughter… and you have paralleled her. You have essentially rivalled her against your smartphone! Tell me, who or what or who (it even beats logic) keeps your bed warm through the cold July nights! Do you know the sacrifices she makes for you, and you evaluated her using a machine! Honey this, gadget that! Sweetheart this, galaxy that! I call that a moral compass malfunction. Driving us towards morality breakdown
Here is another look at Geraldine the campus girl.
SHE EXCELLS THEM ALL
She is neither a chance nor an accident
From your rib she was made
She is His design, His blueprint
“And for you God said she is good.”
You are the perfect image of the creator
And He called you man
“She is the bone of your bones; flesh and blood”
And you called her woman
She is immaculate, not a crime
God’s perfection of creation
“Male and female He created them”
A fearful and wonderful fabrication
An expression of life and energy
A glittering jewel to crown creation
A work of genius: God’s masterpiece
An allegory of creations exception
What spirit is so empty and sightless?
That it cannot cognize her beauty?
The slender feet are nobler than the shoes
The skin more beautiful than the garment
The eyes more spirited than the glasses
And the waist more graceful than the belt
But what kind of spirit is extra empty?
That it cannot value woman hood?
Just what genre of spirit is ultra-void?
That it cannot esteem feminity?
How dare your phone is well shielded than her dashboard?
How comes your screen guard is more protective than her crop top?
The bikini you bought her is a shame to her assets!
And the twerking that you applaud defiles her elegance!
Buy her a screen guard for her phone and a scarf for her chest
Protect her assets and be her liability
And let it be said of the campus girl:
“Many daughters have done well but she excels them all”
Someone once poetically referred to Africa as the sleeping giant. True. From the poet’s point of view… But looking at her from another dimension, I perceive creation’s finest, a beautiful manifestation of God’s workmanship. Maybe I am the sleeping dwarf and she is the dream that comes in the middle of the night. Things may seem to be bad as they stand at the moment. That doesn’t deter my dream for a tomorrow that MUST be better than today. I wholly agree with you that dream Africa could have released me from the harsh reality of life as it is into an impractical world that is far from all of life’s hustles. With a little study into dreams, you will concur with me that they mainly occur in the rapid eye movement stage of sleep when brain activity is high and resembles that of being awake. You will further concede that dreams can be a fountain of creativity and inspiration.
Well, let’s just assume we are all right. One thing is indisputable, though: real or ideal, we are all here to make a positive change and we cannot build that on negativity and pessimism.
My thoughts and reflections about Africa. Let’s talk about Africa.
SHE IS A DREAM NOT ASLEEP!
Let’s forget about sleeping to gunshots and war cries
Of mourning and burying our dead
Forget the devil’s footpath ever existed
For a moment there are no bloody trails of tyranny and wars.
Let this moment welcome our dream Africa
War mongers and militia are no more
Our streets are not railed with poverty and hunger
They are not filled with the cries of those who perish
Our life is our daylight, in which it concerns us to work. We must be busy, and not waste daytime; it will be time to rest when the day is done. What good we have an opportunity to do, we should do swiftly. And he that will never do a good work till there is nothing to be objected against, will leave many a good work forever undone, Ecclesiastes 11:4. The approach of death should quicken us to improve all our opportunities of doing and getting good (Mathew Henry commentary on John 9:4)
…And speaking of death, after the crossing, ever thought of the atmosphere, the hymns and the eulogy, the sermon… And yeah: the mourning of your acquaintances and the consolation from those who never knew this fallen soldier… Okay. Maybe I am rushing long way before time; have you ever thought of this crossing on Jordan’s swelling tides? What is it like? The life we live in. Is it just living, or living to the expectations of the life giver… Christ came so that we might have life, and life in abundance. (John 10:10.) Not living life in abundance, a scarce life that has no meaning, is the worst legacy a Christian can ever leave. I mean, whatever it is that will be captured in the eulogies… Just a life well lived or the orphans we took care of… Riveted in fashion and raving in parties or Clothing the naked and feeding the hungry…
We are all visitors to this time and place. We are just passing through. Our purpose is to observe, to learn, to teach, to grow, to love… and then we return home. (Australian Aboriginal proverb). No greater meaning to this ancient proverb is there more than living life in abundance and in preparation for life eternal in our final home: the new Jerusalem. Living life in full is accepting the mission call, embracing the great commission: Go ye… (Mathew 28:19, 20.) This is our purpose in this life. From childhood through teenage to old age, we may have been afraid of the mission call. Long have we tarried by the sidelines, afraid to work in the Lord’s vineyard. Long have we watched in silence, ashamed of the gospel work. But not anymore …Out of weakness they were made strong, waxed valiant in the Christian warfare. (Hebrews 11:34.) Unto death, they await in serenity, anticipating for the break of eternal day, for the crowns glittering with stars gained from their good works. They changed their status from weak to strong. We can change ours too. It is time to sound the battle cry. And that, knowing the time, that now it is high time to wake up out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed. (Romans 13:11) Let this be our prayer, that “we must live life, in abundance, doing the works of Him that sent us, while it is day: for the night is fast approaching, when no man can work.”
Pisgah, in Hebrew means peak. Lost in translations, it became a mountain’s proper name by preference to just a mountain top. Thus, it refers to a geographic collection of summits. Mount Nebo is the highest amidst the cluster of Pisgah summits.
Directly east of the River Jordan, the chosen one climbed up to this paramount summit, the peak of Nebo. In utmost humbleness, he beheld the Promised Land and agonized in his impending fate. Called out of weakness on the mountain of the LORD and made strong by the banks of river Nile, he wrought mighty signs and wonders that unnerved Egypt’s paganism and comforted the spirit of the Israelites; defeating Pharaoh’s armies in the Red sea. Here is to Moses, receiving the Decalogue on Mt. Sinai, and later talking to God face to face: “I beseech thee, show me thy glory.” There and then, the good LORD never rebuked Him, but granted his prayer declaring: “I will make all my goodness pass before thee, and I will proclaim the name of the LORD before thee.” But now, at this moment, at the heights of Pisgah, the faithful servant suffers the LORD’S declaration: “…thou shalt not go over this Jordan”
“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand, and cast a wishful eye to Canaan’s fair and happy land, where my possessions lie…” How painful. How heart-rending must it have been as these heart-warming words sounded in his grieved heart? How unbearable. How excruciating were the LORD’S contradicting statement directed to him who sang along with the apple of God’s eye for forty years, refraining every bit of the chorus as they trudged along the perilous, desert trails: “I am bound for the Promised Land, I am bound for the Promised Land; O who will come with me? I am bound for the Promised Land.”
His Petition might have been:
“…and now. It has come to this. LORD, is it over?
Just when I get to see the greatness of your mighty hand?
I pray, let me go over to the land beyond Jordan”
And the good LORD said:
“…Let it suffice thee; speak no more unto me of this matter.”
Rather, get thee up onto the top of Mount Pisgah
And perceive it from this other side of the river…”
What happened between Horeb and Pisgah? Between the interval of calling and rebuking? What went wrong at the waters of Meribah? In Numbers Chapter 20, we get to understand in depth what transpired in the wilderness of Zin: the scene of Transgression for which he was precluded from crossing the Jordan. And the object lesson there in. A moral which should never be forgotten- that God requires exact obedience… Still, Moses found his way into Paul’s letter to the Hebrews, having obtained a good report through faith, he received not the promise. Yes. He missed the Promised Land. On top of Pisgah, the good LORD couldn’t grant the prayer of Moses that he might share the materialistic inheritance of Israel. But He neither forgot nor forsook his servant. With His sentence came a calling, an Inheritance infinitely more glorious than the worldly Canaan. The affliction of losing a second chance on earth was nothing compared to better chance in heaven.
Time and again have I stood on mount Pisgah, overlooking those stormy banks on this side of the Jordan. Imprisoned in this carnal body, very so often have I cast a wishful eye to Canaan’s fair and happy land, to its pure, crystal clear waters of everlasting life. Over and over have I sang the victor’s song, the glorious chant of a conquerors soldier going back home, triumphant over the adversary. How painful. How heart breaking can it be on the other side of the coin. How sad. How frightful will be the words from the His lips “…I do not know you.” But wait a minute. This is me, remember? I sang in the choir. I served as the Prayers and Fellowship coordinator and the director, cougar Master Guide club of The Egerton University Seventh-Day Adventist Church. I never missed a single devotion and was at the frontline in missionary journeys. I am used to sitting at the choir’s corner; remember me now? Yes, the one who’s ‘back-up’ base sounds loudest: “Let us sing a song that will cheer us by the way, in a little while we’re going home; for the night will end in the everlasting day…”
And I will present my petition:
“…and now. Is this it? Is this my end?
After this painful pilgrimage for your sake…
I pray, let me go over and enter into your rest”
And the loving Saviour will reply:
“…Let it suffice thee; I do not know ye
Rather, depart from my presence
You who practiced lawlessness”
Like Moses’ case, we do have this question today: Whatever went wrong in this weary journey of life?!… Is there a possibility, the slightest of chances that we might aggravate God’s forgiveness? The answer is YES: there is more than just a chance. The time is NOW. Casting a wishful eye up to heaven; looking up to Calvary, the cross of chastening and forgiveness- these are tales from Pisgah, the mount of better chances, a promise greater than mortal possessions: Heaven.
Wr. ZeckOttwee. To God Be the Glory
[Wikipedia contributors. “Mount Pisgah (Bible).” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia, 27th September 2016. Web. 27th September 2016. https://en .m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount Pisgah (Bible)]; [Bible Hub Contributors. “Meribah.” biblehub.com; [Ellen G White Estate. “Patriarchs and Prophets.” Page 479]; [The Authorized King James Version. Bible. (Exodus 3) (Numbers 27) (Deuteronomy Chapters 1, 3, 27, 34) (Mathew 7:21-23) (Hebrews 11)]; [Eliza E. Hewitt. “In A Little While We’re going Home,” SDAH No: 626.]; [C. Michael Hawn. “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks.” SDAH No. 620.]
On this bright Sunday morning, he still walks the unusually silent pavements, destitute of human life, as he has always done since the university reopened. With a deep sigh, the lone soldier halts on the brown dry leaves scattered beneath the lifeless weeping fig and allows his weary eyesight to take in the shriveled tuff grass that makes up the vast lawns outside A1. Were it one of the good old Sundays, he recalls with a distant contemplation in his eyes, this is where he would meet the troop and revel in the two hours class. This is where the master guides would congregate; now an ill-shapen host of lepidopterous insects. Dangling on its drooping leaves are wavy caterpillars, Lifeless and deformed. Longing for that day when all things will resume to normal, the lone soldier shakes off the grotesque sight and grievously marches for the animal arena.
You call it the Mighty Egerton University Seventh-Day Adventist Church (EUSDA) choir and he will totally, absolutely, definitely disagree with you. You master enough courage to say that again and he is made to remember the dreadful weeping fig, and to thank God that here, at least there is life. Joining in the choral presentation, he does not fall short of cognizing the zeal and zest, the energy of the choir members as they joyously acquaint with a new hymn. In the quiet of the evening, sweet voices echo across the silent air. Even though they are few, it is still the mighty EUSDA choir alright. Evening drags in slowly, these early days of the year. Heading to the FASS grounds, the hot wind sweeping through the dry campus grounds takes a toil on him. He cannot wait for the warmth of Christianity within the theatre. He takes his seat quietly in the first row and, Stealing fervent glances behind his shoulders; at the deacon, the elder, at the friend… he is contented by the signs that he is at home. The prayer band members are studying Joshua, that man of valor who spearheaded the seven days siege of Jericho and eventually saw to its destruction when the great walls came tumbling flat on the ground… He remembers the solitary weeping fig, the drills and marching that he learnt under its shadows, to appreciate and attach importance to. He envisions himself marching round about the enemy’s stronghold, just like Joshua, a fully armored soldier of the cross and if you are keen, the slow moving lips, silent yet sounding the battle cry, hums to the chorus of the SDAH number 614… rouse then soldiers! Rally round the banner! Ready, steady, pass the word along; onward forward, shout aloud Hosanna! Christ is captain of the mighty throng…
Vespers comes in fast, these lazy January days. He stands and strides over to the pulpit and, turning to face the congregation, his trained eyes quickly traverse the entire scope in a single sweep. He draws a fine distinction of the situation: the handful of pleasant fellowship, broadly scattered over the entire rows, is staring back at him. Waiting. Eager for the living water. He thinks of calling out for the brethren to relocate and occupy the front rows but remembers he doesn’t have any light concerning the spirit of prophecy’s take on the congregation’s sitting arrangement. He promptly brushes the thought away. After all he is not ready for a disappointment, at least not now. This is the minute portion of a time that he delights in most. This is the moment he has been training for the better part of his youthful life; to teach, to lead, to be a master guide. To sound the battle cry. He prays and calls for a choice and as they sing to Faith of our fathers, they are not alone. He can feel the heavenly serene atmosphere and thinks ‘’if this is what vespers means, the amalgamation of peace and tranquility, then being in school is just alright.’’ Sweet sopranos ricochet against the cotton stuffed walls with the bases and tenas amplifying across the loosely packed theatre. The chorister’s alto resonates out loud and clear as she takes lead in the congregational singing session. He tries to remember the weeping fig but instead joins the mighty throng. Nobody needs to be down in the dumps. Even the apparently empty spaces upfront seemed filled up with the glory of singing angels. The brethren needs not move upfront do they…? The announcements come in brief and short followed by a beautiful piece of heavenly music from The Messengers. A soul raising sermonette adjourns the sweet communion and as the assembly stands for the words of the grace, he gets the strongest and most effectual conviction that amidst the confused state of affairs in the education system, EUSDA is still the place to be.
Outside, the night is far much gone. He joins the smattering of believers slowly heading towards up school. At this particular hour, The Student’s Centre would be a beehive of nocturnal activities ranging from rowdy football fanatics to revelry secular entertainment. The busiest campus junction now lies wasted in a heap of silence, save for the occasional sorrowful whoopee of a lonely drunk, raised in a solemn verbal declaration of outright protests against the unusual calm.
As he takes the west wing road, the final stretch towards Njokerio, his stomach suddenly aches and the feet becomes weary and drudgery, laboriously plodding against some seemingly wet cement. The deserted side walk joins on to an empty pavement that would eventually lead him to the place of agony, to Gethsemane, as he now perceives it. But he has to get home. He has to pass by the weeping fig. He lets out a feeble groan. In the dark of the night it appears even worse, like a lazy painting of black on a white canvas, a mysterious silhouette against the faint moonlight. He cannot take it anymore and looks up in a bid to prevent the tears from flowing. Amidst the dim stars, through the misty eyes blurred by the saline waters, he is still able to discern the great bear, lethargically leading it’s cubs across the universe. He recalls his star watching lessons around a brightly lit camp fire, the flying kite and the Southern Cross, the widening gate of Orion…
Faint footsteps Jolts him back to the repulsive reality;
Back to the weeping fig; a desperate cry of return to sanity
Back to natures delineation of the current insanity
To the learned professors and the restless undergraduates
Here we are. Creating a new world with paint and brush on canvas out of the chaos and confusion. We speak and write of humanity amidst the chaos. Out of the angry waves of nationwide strikes and public outcry, we raise up as a live tsunami, a generation that aims at stabilizing a Topsy nation, submerging the towers of state communism build on shores of impaired moral principles and selfish greed. In our world, pen on paper documents hope in life, brings satisfaction of a life well lived at death, promises life beyond the tomb. This is our world, in paper and canvas. This is my world, in the dark, stuffed somewhere in a locker. Choking, suffocated by fear. The fear of failure. We are afraid that this life we live in will laugh in outright scorn at our new world order.
Isn’t that what it is… A system conceived in the mind. Raised in the mind, it exists in the mind until some idealists decide to bring it out, defying the realistic odds against it and what do we have; Art: Painting a white serene shore where our children are playing together in sweet harmony while behind the canvas, in the dark stormy ocean, an agitated nation is drowning in tribalism and hatred… Performing theatrical poems and plays of a people united while in the real life, we are conspicuously rooted in corruption and greed. Back stage are personalities in businesses and governments who eat and eat and eat what doesn’t belong to them as if life itself is an opportunity to eat. Art is a mental conception, an omission of the ugly scenes of real life, free from tribalism and hatred and corruption and greed. Art is unity, art is love. Art is honesty and selflessness, openly denying normal existence and realizing dreams of a free society in exhibitions and theaters. Art is… You know what. Forget it. Art is Art. Art is fiction.
Limuru, Kenya, July 15th, 2016.
Like any other July morning, it is freezing cold, with perfect visibility reduced to only a few meters ahead. I am standing by the window in a guest room at the Soteria Women Center, and barely can I make out the outline of the huge metallic gate of St. Paul’s University. Taking the stairway downstairs, I meet with the Executive Director of the African Liberty Organization for Development (ALOD), Mr. Adedayo. With his Igbo attire, he passes out like one of those oga characters from the Nollywood films. ‘Well, at least he has his African roots in check,’ I reflect, looking at my Gucci shirt and blue jeans from some company in Britain. The black leather shoes are undoubtedly Italian… and that reminds me: Someone forgot to remember to indicate in the invitation letter to the camp that Limuru is Africa’s Alaska! Perfect explanation to the missing attire despite the harsh weather. With a grimace that reminded me of last night with only my Maasai shuka to protect me from Mother Nature’s cruelty, I hit the pavement that leads right inside the cafeteria and there they are, round about the round table. Talk of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. In this case, it is a round breakfast table.
Eve from Uganda. With her Eloquent English and meager Swahili, she is engaged in a lively chat with her Kenyan counterpart, Frank. Beside them is Ajiambo from Kenya. And that big, beautiful smile. I can swear that were it for Ms. World smiles competitions, Ms. Ajiambo will be the flag bearer to the continent. I don’t want to say that she would have gone right ahead and be crowned the smiles Queen… Oops! Msilanga, also from Kenya, is listening keenly as Eve narrates the events of May 11th, 2016, when one Dr. Kizza Besigye, popularly Ssenyondo (Big hammer), secretly swore himself as Uganda’s president. The aftermath was a total pandemonium and she never liked it. Tina from Tanzania, whose fluent Swahili tongue well manages the English conversation, recognizes my presence as I enter and calls me over with a ‘join the club’ wave. Together with the Russian, that is I, we are part of the brightest minds encircling the Round Tables of the cafeteria, amassed from across the African continent (I know Russia isn’t in Africa so if you’re wondering how, why… that is another story). Diverse in Language, arts and culture, we are today united by a common cause: to make a positive change. I call it Independence Day. The beginning of this living hope that all humanity will one day be liberated from that which corrupts into the glorious freedom of the sons and daughters of God that we are (Galatians 21:8)
I would be lying if I write that our expectations for the three days entrepreneurs’ camp courtesy of the Language of Liberty Institute (LLI) and ALOD were met in a forthright manner. We anticipated a series of talks and shows on how to become a successful entrepreneur, the milestones and success stories of those who have made it big. At some point, it would get boring. I mean, remembering the good times we spent sleeping in a two hours economics lecture, while the learned professor and the class chopi (self-proclaimed genius) kept looking for x and y in the whiteboard (like hell they used to find it!), three days dwelling on pure entrepreneurship stuff isn’t a party. I guess we got more than they bargained for in the invitation letter. Nothing would have ever prepared us for this.
To start with, Poverty Cure, produced by the Acton Institute, is a documentary that awakens you to the rather harsh but true (by all that bears the light of truth) reality of the state of Africa as far as foreign aid in all its entirety is concerned. You are conscious of the precious opportunities that have been concealed from you over your youthful life of blind begging, of everyone and everything responsible for the doors that have barred your break through to socioeconomic freedom, chief of them yourself. Your fear. Your world in a locker. You remember the broken chain at the feet of the statue of liberty and you are like; ‘eureka! All along I was free!’ It is time to unleash your world like nobody’s business, and to positively impact those around you. But wait! Not so fast. The fear of failure is proving to be a stumbling block. You quickly get rid of this after watching The Call of the Entrepreneur: a mind blowing true story of three men, one call, and a string of life threatening sacrifices. You believe you are the fourth man and are aware of the thin line existing between success and failure: FEAR. You turn this fear into courage, some kind of Apollo 11 fuel that ignites your world, letting it out via invention and innovation, creatively expressing your talents to fulfill humanity’s needs, sharing and empowering the lost pilgrims trying to trace their way back to the true African socioeconomic setup, that is entrepreneurship. You vow to live your liberty, to do what you want, when and how; you learn to respect and protect like-minded persons, to demand the same from those who think they can infringe on your liberal rights, that is your life. You now have the mind of self-reliance, of faith in what you believe in achieving against all odds.
On a soul-searching journey with June Arunga along The Devil’s Footpath, you thank God that the deadly trails of wars and tyranny, poverty and hunger, does not pass your way. And if even one of these did, we overcame. Thanks to Kofi Anan and those of us who believe in peace and unity. WE OVERCAME. To God be the glory. You come in terms with the greater life beyond mere existence as a change driver, that entrepreneurship and liberty calls for more than just drawing and writing: it calls for political stability, for freedom and determination, faith and hope, persistence and self-confidence.
Above all, you are a member of the Round Table, you are free. Free from ingesting the poison of corruption and greed, state socialism and communism that destroys the otherwise entrepreneurial mind. Free from fear. You are young, empowered and already spreading your wings for this flight towards making a positive change with your art…
Present day, Africa. With the current state of affairs, Eve still hopes for a change in Uganda. But not through back street presidents. As much as she cannot separate herself from the concept of liberty, she is enlightened and wants to win her fight, clean. The so called peaceful demonstrations ruin business, she says. A university graduate, this young, energetic lady from Buganda kingdom owns a cake making bakery which earns her more than the daily bread. Tina’s positivity has never changed while Msilanga still holds on to his dream of economic franchise with no limitation to his hot pursuit for success in business. Through his blog (https://charlesmsilanga.worpress.com), he has no boundaries as far as writing is concerned (he is affiliated to The Writer’s Guild, Kenya). Last time I heard from her, the ever smiling Ajiambo was into organizing writing workshops, discussing the importance of liberty as far as prosperity is concerned. Together with other members of the round table, she runs an online magazine, Mwangaza. With a blog under her name, she is also a member of Kenya’s Writer’s Guild. Frank is an active writer also attached to The Writers Guild. And hey… Remember the Russian? Friends simply call him Zeck. He never went back to Russia. Whoever goes back to his/her hospital of birth! (He was born in Russia hospital, Kisumu, Kenya) He is not only an artist, but a free artist. With ink on paper and paint on canvas, a whole new world is taking its rightful place in this generation, slowly coming out of the dark, out of the locker. Maybe too slow for comfort. But finally, when they will see through their eyes, they will see a world free from all that corrupts. They will say NO to tribalism and wars. They will learn to appreciate and live by their Art: The Art of Men and Women of The Round Table.