Giving It to You Raw!
Do You Give a Fuck? Honestly, I Don’t.
Essential insights at a glance:
*If you haven’t grasped it, strive to be a baddie like Millie Odhiambo, not John Mbadi. Hell no.
*I am not telling you to stop giving a fuck (I’m all for it. Duh!). What I’m saying is, stop giving a fuck. Are we on the same page here? After all, with this weather, rain shouldn’t be the only thing getting stuff wet.
Everything that needs to be said has already been said. But, since no one was listening, everything must be said again. Those were the words of the late French author, André Gide. Several years ago, before most of you got your hands on those Androids, there was a trending meme that went like this: “Ujinga ni?” Followed by a lame joke. One in particular cracked me up and has still stuck with me. It said, “Ujinga ni dem amevaa nguo imeandikwa ‘I don’t give a fuck’ na ako na ball” (haha) Funny, right?
And speaking of not giving a fuck, If the streets know you as Brayo, Kevoh, or Dennoh, this piece is for you. If you don’t like sports but, for some reason, you are a player, this is also for you. If someone’s daughter calls you “dzaddy” this one is definitely for you. If you’ve ever been told, “Stop, go, yes. No. Not there. Okay hold it there. Oh! Go on” (I know you won’t believe but I am referring to the traffic officer at Haile Selassie / uhuru highway roundabout), this is also for you. And speaking of roads, it has come to my attention that many of you are driving several cars out here without licenses. (By the way, that sentence wasn’t about cars)
This isn’t an attack on you and your “tabia mbaya”. I don’t give a damn what you do. No judgment here. I come on a donkey rather than a warhorse. I bring nothing but a bottle of water, toothpaste on my eyelids, a pen (I heard it’s mightier than a sword), and of course a middle finger protruding from my fist, directed at the GOK and the men in blue. But don’t brutalize me because you know ‘I am Peaceful’. I digress.
If you have taken the title and intro at face value, then doomed is the man who goes looking for virgins on the Virgin Islands. Where am I going with all this? Here is a story for you:
Last year, I received an email from someone with a strange name. If you have ever played online games like Chess, PUBG, or COD, you will notice that 99.99% of players don’t use their government names. They go by ‘usernames.’ That’s exactly how this email felt. Given my association of such names with games, it is safe to say I thought this person “ako na mchezo” or “ameleta mchezo” in my inbox. It’s always tricky to communicate effectively when you can’t tell if the sender is a woman, a man, or even a They/them/theirs.
The name read “Talon Raze”. When I opened the email, I realized this person wasn’t here for jokes or “mchezo” as I had initially thought. The message read “I love your work and I am a big fan of what you are doing. Keep it up.” The note moved me and brightened my day. Any writer or creative will agree that there’s nothing more inspiring than knowing their work is read and resonates with others.
Feedback not only inspires us to keep going but it is also crucial for our growth and improvement. We stayed in touch, and every time I published a piece, Talon Raze would reach out to my email and share their thoughts.
My curiosity about this person grew, and I wanted to know more about them. However, it was difficult on my end. I couldn’t just throw a random “By the way are you a boy or a girl?” or “Are you a Kenyan?”. That felt too intrusive. I left their identity to my imagination and made peace with the fact that it’s okay not knowing whether they were a he or a she.
A Festival of Ideas
A month ago, I attended one of the most hyped literary festivals in the heart of Nairobi. The NBO Lit Festival. The event was akin to being at Los Alamos. Ati Los what? You people ought to be keen in class. Here is a free lesson then for those who had been sent home for school fees when that unit was being covered:
Los Alamos was the site where the Manhattan Project (a U.S. government-led) developed the 1st atomic bomb during World War II. It boasts of great minds or if you like, the index ones (from national schools) under the physicist Robert Oppenheimer.
NBO Lit Festival felt just monumental because it brought together brilliant minds in the realm of literature from Kenya, Africa, and beyond. Authors, editors, storytellers, writers, and visual artists were present. Essentially, it was full of people shaping modern history spiced up with life-changing conversations that molded culture. No wonder it was called “a festival of ideas”. It was a literal affair, yes, the festival was definitely lit.
A Strange Encounter
As I was leaving the event, walking along a narrow, slab-laid narrow path, I noticed someone approaching from the opposite side. From his appearance, I’d guess he was in his late 20s. There was a certain je ne sais quoi about him that made him stand out. He was a bit tall with short-faded hair, donning an unbuttoned vintage shirt over a white T-shirt and some baggy jeans. An African necklace dangled around his neck, adding a unique touch to his look.
Instinctively, I veered to my right, just as he did the same. Our awkward synchronization brought us face to face, and both of us stepped left to correct ourselves simultaneously. We chuckled, each mumbling a quick “Sorry” before attempting to pass again.
Once more, we mirrored each other’s movement. We took a pause and looked at each other directly. Just before we sidestepped, his smile became conspicuous, and he said “Arungaaa...?”, the uncertainty in his voice was visible in the way his brow furrowed slightly.
I pretended not to have heard him as if the music from the event had suddenly become louder to drown his voice. “Mmmh...sorry?” I said, leaning in and cupping my ear.
“Arunga?” He called again, his voice a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, feigning confusion.
“You are not Aaa...runga?” His hesitation was palpable, a hint of doubt creeping into his tone.
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
“Arunga Denis?”
My eyes widened slightly; confusion painted across my face. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, shrugging my shoulders with a puzzled look.
“You look like the guy who writes D.A-Got Thoughts”
“D.A what?” I echoed, my gaze meeting his with a mix of curiosity and disbelief.
“D.A-Got Thoughts. You people look the same. Ama ni mimi na kufananisha?” He said his tone laced with curiosity.
I had to play it cool. You know since the wave of the Gen-Z lead demos, people have been abducted. And for me meeting a random person from the event who knew my name was unfamiliar territory. I needed to be sure this wasn’t a NIS or a DCI agent on a secret mission.
“Maybe. Watu hufanana huku nje. Or maybe my dad alicheza nje,” I chuckled, trying to lighten the moment.
“But you people look really the same. Hebu let me show his picture,” he said with conviction.
“Sawa sawa,” I replied while he proceeded to pull out his iPhone from his back pocket. We had moved from the path and now stood on the grass. Our eyes were glued to the screen of his phone as he opened Instagram and began typing “arun...” Before he could finish, a name with its followed by an underscore then arunga appeared at the top of the search results. He tapped on it and began scrolling through my photos, each image revealing a little more of the familiar face.
“Hebu Cheki huyu msee” he said, and I couldn’t hide my smile. The guy had gone to the extent of “opening the server.” I burst into laughter, unable to contain the amusement.
He looked at me with a joyful grin and exclaimed, “Niwewe...nilijua tu.” We laughed together. He was supper elated, buzzing with enthusiasm, and I couldn’t tell why. In my mind, I was like ‘tulia msee’. For the first time in my life, I felt like a rockstar. I was in the spotlight, the center of attention. The only difference between me and a rockstar was the disparity in the number of commas in our bank accounts.
Being my first experience with a fan, I was at a loss for words and didn’t know what to do or say. I just blushed, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride. I couldn’t help but reflect on the words behind Mark 6:4 “A prophet is not without honour, except in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house.” I am not claiming to be a prophet but to those who dropped C.R.E, the scriptures meant:
A person with great insight, talent, or wisdom is often not respected or recognized by those who are closest to them—such as their family, friends, or fellow citizens. Suggesting that familiarity can breed contempt and that people are often more appreciated by strangers or those who are not intimately connected with them.
This was a humbling moment for me. After a few more laughs, I had to break the Bro Code and ask his name. You see, article 321 of the Bro Code states: A bro would rather mop the Indian ocean than ask a fellow bro “What’s your name?”. We are content with “Bro”, “My Guy/G” or that name that resembles a sidiria: “Bruh.” Asking for name/s is reserved for the afande or “Oh, say my name baby” moments during erm ...you know what I mean.
“So, what’s your name...?” I finally asked.
“I am {name disclosed}” The name is associated with people from the west. Not majuu. I mean, Western Kenya. “But you can call me Talon Raze” He added. It felt so surreal. I know it might sound like something out of a script. If you find it hard to believe, I wouldn’t blame you. If I hadn’t been there to experience this coincidence myself, I’d probably find it hard to believe too. I could even say “ni story za jaba” But hey, si ni mimi na kushow.
“Are you for real?”. I asked, struggling to grasp the coincidence.
“Yes. We have spoken before.” He affirmed. But still, I couldn’t shake my doubts. How could I explain this strange twist of fate?
“You can’t be serious. Hebu Show me the mail basi?” I asked amidst laughter. He pulled out his phone and showed me the email, his name, and messages from before. Sure enough, there it was. It was him – Talon Raze. It was so unbelievable.
“Mmh. So, you are Talon. Nice to meet you, man.” I said extending my fist for a bump.
He introduced himself as an editor from one of the publishing houses and expressed his excitement about reading my next article. As if a thought had just struck him, he added “And by the way, you are an incredible storyteller. I love how you package your stories. However, I do have one issue with you.”
There was a pause. “However,” is rarely followed by something positive (you already know that). And when an editor speaks, you listen because, in the realm of writing, they are like mini-gods.
“Okay,” I muttered nodding my head. In my mind, I was thinking, “kwani rada ni gani tena?” I folded my hands, looking at him man to man. “I’m all ears,” I said, eager to hear his observations.
“Arunga, sometimes I feel like you are afraid to say certain things. I love how you have evolved as a writer. I’ve read all your works. But it is not there yet. But I am certain it’s only a matter of time.” He paused, then leaned forward as if he wanted to whisper something.
“Try to avoid self-censorship man. Remember, your job is not to please everyone. You can’t do that. Attempting to please people is a waste of time. If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of the polite society are numbered. You might offend some, but being disrespected should be the least of your concerns. You get what I’m saying?”
I nodded in approval. You know the experience from a few authors and actors that I have interacted with they usually say, when an editor or director asks you to jump, you don’t ask “Why?” Your immediate response instead should be, “How high?” So, I had to listen and listen keenly.
He laughed and added “Why the heck write the word ‘fuck’ with an asterisk on ‘u’? Sometimes you have to call a spade a spade. And listen, ‘Opinions are like assholes: everybody's got one, and everybody thinks theirs smells nicer than everyone else's’. So don’t give a fuck ‘cause people will always talk and say things, regardless.”
I couldn’t stop marveling at his choice of words. He spoke like someone who had truly invested in the craft-the alpha and the omega of my writing career.
“And do you know what distinguishes a good writer from a great writer, Arunga?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Hebu tell me,” I replied eager to hear more.
“Great writers are not afraid to express or articulate their deepest thoughts, emotions, and personal experiences. They tackle controversial or challenging topics head-on, addressing difficult subjects with honesty and courage.”
“Interesting,” I nodded, deep in introspection.
“In a nutshell, they are fearless. And this allows them to create work that is bold, authentic, and deeply impactful. Oh, before I forget, your article ‘The Veil of the City’ embodies that spirit. That was so bold of you. But push yourself even further. Don’t be afraid to share your thoughts. You got to go big or go home. The choice is yours. Only time will unveil the truth.”
We exchanged contacts before I bid him goodbye. The pointed-out criticism from this avid reader of my work hit home. I had mixed feelings after that conversation. I felt happy but challenged at the same time. Those who say things say Kenyan men don’t give love, they make love. But that guy showed me love in a way I hadn’t expected.
Never have I been this happy before. He made me look deep within and confront my flaws as a writer. Yes, I have the balls. Sikatai. Or, you wanna confirm? But still, I didn’t have the courage to say somethings.
Even though my writing was bold, I was still shackled with the chains of “what will people say or think?” Off course I fucked up (remember the song?) I was giving too many fucks, and this one reader helped me see and conquer my blind spots. And that is the duty of a reader: to keep the writer on their toes. And yes, criticism trumps silence over time. Like Saul, this was my Damascus moment.
Just Stating Fuckts…
“Go big or go home,” my friend told me. And just like Ruto, I’m not about to go home(hehe). In my quest to go big, here’s what I have to say to my fellow Gen Zs:
The past few weeks have been sad, tough, and full of mayhem. This got me thinking and reflecting about our national spirit- whether it’s Chrome, Kenya Cane, Holy Spirit, or Evil Spirit. You saw what the government did to the opposition. Things are pretty fucked up at the moment. We may have lost the battle, but the war is far from over. We won’t forget. We shall revisit. Again, without a car or a driving license, we shall continue exerting pressure, not letting our foot off the gas till we steer this country in the right direction. Natusitishwe!
Without fear of being abducted or intimidated, and with the full power granted to me under Article 33 of the Constitution of Kenya for freedom of expression, I will go straight for the jugular and say: fuck the men in blue for killing innocent Kenyans. That’s not all. I will join the rest of the country in shouting “Must Go!” a phrase now seldom mentioned without the word “Ruto” as its modifier(have I lost someone?)
I hope you now get why I said “this one is for you.” If you haven’t grasped it, strive to be a baddie like Millie Odhiambo, not John Mbadi. Hell no. That one was poached from the opposition to work with the government. But if you still haven’t gotten it, just know my phone’s ringtone is Big Sean’s “I Don’t Fuck With You.”
Not Giving a Fuck ≠ Not Giving a Fuck
I am not telling you to stop giving a fuck (I’m all for it. Duh!). What I’m saying is, stop giving a fuck. Are we on the same page here? After all, with this weather, rain shouldn’t be the only thing getting stuff wet. For me, the dry spell is set to continue. As I have mentioned on my about, I like my nose right where it is- on my face, not in other people’s business. But hey, I’ve got to stand with all the men wenye wamenyimwa. We are in this shit together. In a nut-shell (Did you catch that?), we are not giving a fuck(haha).
As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:
Live and let live.
Adiós
Do you know who else doesn’t give a damn? Khaligraph Jones. If you're still giving a fuck, we’ve got one word for you: kwendaa.
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Great read ~DA...💯🙌🏾
Not giving a damn is an art .Something tells me I've read the ARTIST'S work...
This one cracked me up 🤣🤣🤣🤣
Especially the convo with the editor.
Ati opinions are like what????
Yeah... that's right