Anyone need a watchman?

Yesterday I was interviewing with a media company for a position that will remain nameless. I like to think of myself as a cool guy. I don’t get flustered. Such illusions can be shattered the moment you get past the first minute of a job interview. It’s like realizing you’re on a sinking ship and bailing water for dear life. .

“What three adjectives do you believe would best describe you,” the interviewer asked.

“Strong… creative… and excellent,” I said, feeling as if I had not only dodged a bullet, I had done it with incredible grace.

“Good,” the interviewer said. “What do those words mean to you?”

At this point those cliché tiny beads of perspiration began to form on my forehead. I thought I just had to come up with the words. Now I had to justify them. The first thought on “strong” was to challenge him to arm wrestle, but I quickly put that out of my mind. Not that it’s a bad kind of strength, but if I won, the interviewer might resent me, and if I lost, he might think I was too wussy to work for the company.

“Strong,” I said. “I have strengths… um… I know what I’m good at and I know how to focus myself on that to make the most of my strengths.”

My feet were wet, but the boat was afloat. One even gave me an out on “creative,” saying it was a self-defining word. I wasn’t about to let him get away with that. I was going to prove myself. I was going to define it with deftness and aplomb.

“I am oriented on making things. Creative in the manner of enjoying and revelling in the act of creation… imaginatively.”

At this point, I was neck deep and I barely realized it. I think I had actually been scooping up buckets of water and dumping them back into my boat. It must have been artic water too, the cold of it rushing up my spinal column and numbing my brain. Yet, with some reserve of strength, I was able to pick up the signal flare gun… and put it to my head.

“Excellent… well excellence is my goal, my credo, a principle by which I live. I will settle for nothing less.”

“So,” he said, “you’re not excellent?”

 

“Huh?”

“You said it’s your goal. So you’re not excellent yet.”
My knuckle grew red on the trigger.

“No… I mean, yes I am excellent, but excellence isn’t a permanent state, a concrete goal. I’m not just going to wake up one day ‘hey, I’m excellent, what’s next?’ Even though I’m already excellent, I have to keep on trying to be excellent because if I stop trying I’ll stop being, so it’s still a goal. See?”

“No.”

At this point I felt like saying
“Yeah, well I’ve seen the work this company has done, and the work I’ve done kick your butt. You need me.”

Anyhow, to make a really long interview (or at least it seemed long) short, they said they’ll call me. I’d say I’m not holding my breath, but somewhere during that interview the water got up over my head, so I am holding my breath, but I’m not holding it for them. See? I’m holding it because… ah, screw it. Anyone need a watchman?

Prost(r)ated

I have finally come to truly appreciate the female hatred for the speculum, all because of a doctor’s finger.

I haven’t been in for a physical examination in a year. Why? Because the last time I was in, the doctor stuck his finger in my butt. I had a potential prostate infection and he had to check the prostate. And the only way to do that is with a rubber glove, a dollop of greasy stuff, and a poke in that most sensitive of areas.

You think you know all the qualities to look for in a doctor. A degree from a good med school, a residency in a good hospital, recommendations from other patients, participation in your insurance plan… But before my prostate exam, I never realized that another important quality in a doctor is small fingers.

Unfortunately, misfortune struck last week. I was having immense pain. I went to the doctor and he confirmed my worst fears. A possible prostate infection. At that point, I was almost cursing God, “why couldn’t it have been VD?” Of course, with my sexual history, the doctor ruled out VD right quick as it’s been so long that parts of me would have started falling off by now if that was the case. And so, before I could get my prescription for antibiotics, I was required to drop trousers and bend over the table.

Do I recommend that all men eventually get their prostate checked? Yes. It could save your life. But, as many women will tell you guys, there’s no way you can look cool with your pants around your ankles. Then add to it the embarrassment of being bent over a table like a shower scene in a bad prison movie.

And the scary thing is that I just have more exams to look forward to in the future. But the good news is, prostate cancer is on the most wanted list for killing men over the age of 50, not me. I still got a looooong way to go. And, if what I hear from older men is any indication, it only gets worse with age. You move from a doctor’s finger to a camera. Luckily it’s no Nikon 50mm lens, but as far as I know, it makes you wish for the good old days of the finger. Man, get your prostate checked, but check your dignity at the door.

As long as the belly is full……

I don’t cook. Out of choice. Meaning that if my life depended on it, I could whip up a perfectly decent meal, but I haven’t in years and I’m not intending on breaking the record any time soon.

I used to fancy myself as something of a gourmet cook, until my ex-Zulu girl put me in my place by declaring: “Phuti (gentleman) Your food was okay, but it was never great or anything. Now your homeboy Kim , he is an outstanding cook.” Ouch. Bitch.

That did more than just hurt kiasi…Well it shattered my massive Kao ego. But I still ventured into the kitchen ever so often, and then Nosipho, the girl next door rid me of that little ego left by always suggesting how I could “better” my skills every time she came to my flat for a meal . So I realized that instead of making my loved ones suffer any further, I would simply stop pretending to be a great chef and do away with cooking altogether.
So what do I eat? Delis are my great enemies. I never visit a fast food joint although there are tons of places to choose from. Pap (ugali) and beef from Pick N Pay chain Stores are simply my favourite. My local Pick N Pay is within walking distance of my local liquor store which is also a walking distance from my flat, and I try to support the liquor joint as well, for all that it’s damaging my kidneys, but I do try to drink very little, and make it worth it when I do.

This is where my relationship with the ladies at the Pick N Pay Kitchen section comes into play. Those ladies can cook, and God bless every single one of them, because ever so often I really do appreciate a delicious meal cooked by someone I know by name, and not by brand. They now know me well. I come in with stories of how the Kenyan Pap (ugali) is superior in quality and mass compared to what they have in SA. I Keep on suggesting how we can work together to improve the SA Pap , The vibe goes on and on vile ati I will offer them free Ugali spinning lessons taken somewhere in my flat.

But So far none has shown interest in visiting my flat. Tough lack.

Today being Friday, the thigh rush is on- God don’t lead me into temptations …just deliver me from this winter – am going back Pick N Pay, to those ladies, with a story of how am an accomplished gourmet cook, how I would unleash a four dish meal were it not for my tight work schedule. How I can do a mean Jack Daniels chicken, and my unique southern style grits and fried chicken are like nothing they’ve ever had. I just pray that eventually nitaangukia some nice Xhosa ass to warm my winter blues

Honestly, my idea of cooking eggs is to stick them in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and microwave for about a minute or simply deep fry them. Don’t judge , it tastes fine to me.
If really trying to impress some SA girl(ladies home are smarter), I just heat the ready-made garlic bread in the oven before hand for the place to smell like cooking. The true measure of a wonderful host is providing great food and company. Whose pot that food comes from is irrelevant. As long as the belly is full, who cares?

And just before you think I’m a serious degenerate, which may or may not be true, just consider that I’m not alone in this. As I was typing this, a lady friend in Cape town emailed a service here that will provide you with an affordable daily meal at a cost of R200 per week (five days). For R400 you get two meals per day. Drum roll. Here’s the best bit – they’ll deliver it to your door!
God is there after all!

KENYAN MEN NEED EXCUSES TOO

There are hundreds of brilliant male scientists in beautiful Kenya most of whom do their jobs quite well. But just like our politicians, they’ve failed to fulfill their duty to fellow Kenyan men. They haven’t come up with scientific reasons for certain types of Kenyan male behavior. They haven’t given us adequate excuses for habits like leaving the toilet seat up, refusing to ask for directions and getting too intimate with the remote control.Kenyan Women, it seems, have a monopoly on the excuses. An example of this occurred some months ago in Mombasa. As reported by a reliable source, Amina Nuru, 23, was trying to turn her car right somewhere in Pembe za Ndovu (Moi Avenue) when a male driver behind honked and finally drove around her.Amina and the man exchanged obscene gestures. When they met again at a nearby gas station, she called the man “mwanaharamu” (Bastard) and then slapped him after they argued. Police cited her for disorderly conduct. Amina pleaded that she was pregnant. Her pregnancy had evidently caused her body to produce a surplus of a hormone called SMH (Slap Men Hormone).

She told a police officer that “when a female is pregnant, they are more emotional than normal.” This is why it’s always a good idea to wear body armour when visiting the maternity ward. You could get attacked from all directions.

Pregnant women are eager to slap men, because men never have to go through labour. This resentment probably goes back to the Garden of Eden: Adam was too busy inventing rules for football to attend the meeting where God handed out childbirth duties. Even the feminists haven’t figured out a way to share this burden with men.

But I hear Kenyan women have turned pregnancy into an advantage of sorts. A pregnant woman can get away with just about anything: turning baby daddy into an errand boy, consuming Kenchic delicacy for breakfast and ice cream for lunch, eating as if she’s giving birth to a whale.

Kenyan mamas who aren’t pregnant can also get away with pretty much anything, as long as the timing is right. Picture this courtroom exchange:

Judge: “Lucy wa Kibaki, the court has found you guilty of battering your  husband , get crashing in a Smart casual(dress code)Diplomats bash while dressed in yellow pajamas and holding hostages members of the fourth Estate, all in one night. Do you have anything to say?”

Lucy wa Kibaki: “Nyeeeee! Kwani you don’t know, it was that time of the month.”

Judge: “Case dismissed!”

If the insanity defense works, it won’t be long before our sisters invoke the PMS defense. There’s nothing that can’t be explained by PMS, which stands for either Perilous Mood Swings or Potential Male Slap. PMS usually lasts just a few days, but like a soccer game, can go into overtime. Of course, there’s a lot of scientific evidence to confirm the effects of PMS. Men can’t understand it all, but as with religion, we just have to believe.

If Kenyan male scientists would get their act together, maybe they’d discover a few afflictions for us. This would help us get some much-needed sympathy and ease all that guilt we feel.

Men who hate to ask for directions probably suffer from something like GCM (Going in Circles Mania). When pestered by his wife to stop at a, Supermarket, a brother could say,

“Sorry honey, Ngai! That darned GCM is acting up again.”

Men who forget to lower the toilet seat suffer from TED (Toilet Etiquette Deficiency).
“Baby haki pole, the doctor says it’s incurable.”

Men who skip church to watch soccer suffer from PDS (Priority Disorder Syndrome).
“You wouldn’t understand it, love. It’s a guy thing.”

Men who scratch themselves private places and in public suffer from PMI (Primitive Male Itch).
“Sorry honey, I can’t help it. It’s genetic.”

Men who caress the remote more than their women suffer from BPO (Button Pushing Obsession).
“Sorry honey, I don’t know which buttons to push with you. Do you have one for ‘mute’?”

Come on brother Arthur Obel, we need this a lot more than we need Kemron

YOU MEN EXCLUDED, ME INCLUDED

She has done it to Kamau, She has done it to Alan,
she has come up with a good plan.

And she’ll be doing it to You too,
sending You out into the BT.

“PILATO ONLY” she’ll proudly say,
and it doesn’t matter if you’re gay.

You’re not supposed to go in there,
no matter what kind of earrings you wear.

Leave her alone, give her some space;
don’t force me to use my Mace

She wants to be away from your kind

She want to be away from men who move in too tight;
she want to be away from men who pinch with delight.

She want to be away from men who like to leer;
away from men who stare at her blessed rear.

She want to be away from men who are big flirts;
away from maniacs who stare down her shirt.

She want to be away from men who are always teasing;
She want to be away from men who can’t help squeezing.

She want to be away from men who love to grope;
away from men who don’t understand ‘nope.’

She want to be away from men who think she’s trash;
She want to be away from men who are eager to flash.

She want to be away from men who like to lean;
She want to be away from men who act fifteen.

She want to be away from men who are always crude;
She want to be away from men who picture her nude.

She want to be away from Kamau, Alan and You;
She want to be away from YOU GUYS, not Me.

<strong>She’ll put up with me

She’ll put up with me — I’m as harmless as a tree;
the worst thing I’ve done is sing off-key.

She’ll put up with me when I’m always snoring;
she’ll put up with me when I’m always boring.

She’ll put up with me when I have nothing to say;
she’ll put up with me when I have tooth decay.

She’ll put up with me when I never buy a ticket;
she’ll put up with me when I talk about cricket.

She’ll put up with me when I never get off the phone;
she’ll put up with me when I wear bad cologne.

She’ll put up with me when I’m in Disease;
she’ll put up with me when I smell of beer and cheese.

She’ll put up with me when I pray non-stop;
She’ll put up with me when I listen to hip-hop.

She’ll put up with Me — it’s Kamau, Alan and You she can’t stand;
all because of You three, I now have to deal with ‘no man’s land.’

<

XENOPHOBIC VIOLENCE:WHO IS TO BLAME?

One Good Friday I found myself praying for the souls of the many bigots and blinkered South Africans suffering from xenophobic tendencies. Like a charitable nice boy brought up in a Christian family, I prayed only that the Creator should remove their bigotry and rid them of their ingrained denialism and tit-for-tat nonsense.

Mark you, I very easily could have prayed that their warped and miserable souls should be damned forever, and that they must roast in the ovens of hell for all eternity. But, as I say, I am imbued with charitable values on which I was raised and, heaven willing, Satan will be deprived a lot of pieces of choice rump and fillet steaks to roast for millions of aeons, if my prayers do get answered!

Eish! The senseless xenophobic slaughter in Alexandra, Johannesburg could have been averted a very long time ago, had public representatives played an honest role and played open cards with citizens.

There are various reasons for the unprecedented influx of illegal immigrants into South Africa – from Eastern Europe, Israel, Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia, many parts of West Africa, and all over the SADC countries. Some have fled because of political unease, religious tension, starvation and the search for the proverbial greener pastures.

The ANC government allowed millions of foreigners into the country, especially from the African continent. The rationale was that many African countries had given South African exiles succour during the times of apartheid tyranny. So, in effect, the new government was paying back these countries.

But the new government was also supposed to contend with more immediate and pressing matters at home: past wrongs had to be redressed, infrastructure had to be strengthened and extended to those the apartheid regime had deliberately marginalised, the housing and health sectors had to be improved, and more and better sanitation and water facilities had to be provided. Electricity had to be supplied to millions of new households.

Such a mammoth infrastructural upgrade, taking in large communities across the country, could not cope at the best of times; with countless millions of immigrants, for whom zero provision had been made, there just was no way in which the country would cope.

Adding to the malaise, the immigrants brought along with them some unsavoury and unacceptable practices: many were drug pushers, thieves and fraudsters (read many Nigerians), and Pakistanis, in particular, “married” local women fraudulently, with the active connivance and co-operation of corrupt officials of the local home affairs department.

The newcomers, in most instances, were better educated than the average black South African. Many had entrepreneurial skills, which the locals  simply lacked, and the relative ease with which they appeared to start small and medium-sized businesses was bound to leave the sour taste of jealousy in the mouth.

In many poorer and less sophisticated communities – such as the North West villages of Mafikeng, Sannieshof, Delareyville, Ditsobotla and Mooidorpie – Pakistanis and Somalis, mainly, took over non-performing shops and displaced the original owners. That was viewed in a very dim light by the affected communities, and latent xenophobia was stoked to the surface.

Last  week’s Alexandra uprisings were just a further manifestation of the simmering hatred. The foreigners are being accused of stealing jobs from locals and contributing to the high prices of food and other commodities.

The government’s abject failure to address the uncontrolled entry into South Africa is chiefly to blame, and the arrogance of many foreigners doesn’t help either.

The way things look, it may be wishful thinking to imagine that somehow the phenomenon of uncontrolled immigration can be capped.

 

BAR SCENE

My head’s been a little fuzzy lately, for reasons I’d rather not detail (though they are not illegal), so I thought I’d bring you a really obscure material.

I’ll admit right off, I’m not a bar guy. Never have been, probably never will. I just don’t have the self-confidence it requires to get shot down that much and yet keep trying.

As a wannabe writer, though, I’m supposed to observe humanity, so I recently went to a bar, staked out a table next to some attractive women, and took a good look at the circus parade of human male freakdom that hit on them.

My favourite person of the night was Mr. Freudian-subtext. He stroked his oversized beer bottle like a penis, shaking it to make white foam come out. Cute. And what latencies were we observing when he then put it in his mouth and drank from it? Hmmm? There was also Mr. I’m-too-sexy-for-my-shirt, so named because he had it open so far. Yes, those mediocre pecs and five chest hairs were extremely impressive.

But overall each guy, as he passed, was pretty much like a car salesman, trying the sales pitch and moving on, braving rejection on a scale I could never face.

Then the three good looking women opposite me started talking about sex putting emphasis on how long it’s been since they had it. These working class girls were talking in terms of days and weeks. Me, I’m talking in terms of terms… presidential terms.

Then one pipes up and says “I really need to have sex.” The other two chime in with “Me too. I need to have sex too.”

It was finally too much to bear. I motioned them close. “Ladies, you may not know this,” I said. “It’s really a closely guarded secret, but… now keep this under your hats… I have a penis. Not only that, it’s but a mere part of a complete and fully functioning set of male genitalia. But wait… male genitalia? My goodness, that must have been mean ! But what was I to do?..Someone tell me please

OF MEN AND BIG BOOBS…

 I’m going to come out on a very important subject and many men will disagree with me. I am decidedly against big breasts.

Now I’m not talking about ordinary, naturally-occurring big boobs, though they are a problem. I’m talking about the super-gargantuan man-made breasts. When I see these silicone-reinforced strippers and adult film stars on talk shows, discussing what it’s like to have a 58LL bra size, that’s when I say “that’s a little wazimu.”

There comes a point where you really have to wonder. Who are these Jamaas who can look at a breast bigger than the head of the woman  and find it attractive? One would assume that not only weren’t these men breast or bottle fed as babies, they actually had to suck milk from a wet rag.

Some people say it’s the novelty factor, the freak factor, that it’s more just the fact that something is way out of proportion to regular people that makes us interested. Yeah, right. I’ve never seen a man pay a Ksh 480 cover charge to look at a woman with really big ugly  feet. I’ve never seen a man pick up a National Geographic and say “would you look at the humongous earlobes on that babe? Now that’s sexy.” But show them a picture of  Pamela Anderson or Cesi Mutungi…

And the worst part is the hypocrisy. We men feel no guilt for leering at a mama with really large breasts, then turn around and not only want, but often need women to tell us that size doesn’t matter. “It’s what you do with it that counts.” As a society, we create pressure for women to shave, pluck, wax, dye, paint, pierce, and surgically enhance themselves, then we want them to love us for who we are. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this picture? Am I the only one who fears that with advances in penile enhancement surgery, the tables could get turned?

Thus I am taking a stand against big man-made breasts. whether I like them or not, big breasts have got to go.

MEN ARE FROM HIGH SCHOOL, WOMEN ARE FROM COLLEGE

What do “chanukad jamaas” say is an important quality in a She? Intelligence. Well, I have recently realized that we are deluded. Forget Mars. Forget Venus. Men are from high school and women are from college. Why do I say this? Is it something having to do with perceived differences in maturity levels? Not in the slightest. It all has to do with the simple fact that women are smarter than men.

Think about it Jamaas. How do you make your muscles stronger? Exercise them . Our brains are the same way. But when it comes to so many things in life, men’s brains are warming the bench while women’s brains are getting a full cardiovascular workout.

Men have ONE shoe size. Ask one Archer, he wears size 13. Simple. And his She?… well it depends. Am sure she is  like an astrologer doing a natal chart on the shoe. Where was it made? Who made it? Was it made in the winter or spring? What was the geographic elevation of the shoe factory? Was the leather from a happy or a sad cow? Eventually she finds some imported  stilettos at Sunbeam and the shoe-shopping mission has been completed.

Modoathii  what’s your trouser size? You’ll say 32:30 or 34:32 or something simple, basically the waist and inseam. But ask your She… “I’m a size 5 on the eighth day of every third month when it’s not raining. Eish these women!

And let’s not even get into colours. We men are not unfamiliar with the fact that there are multiple shades and can probably tell 4-5 different ones in each main colour group. But women make us look like simpletons. They carry portable physics labs with them and can apparently discern a variation of one hertz in the spectrum of visible light. What’s the difference between eggshell white and bone white? Hell if I know, but my She does.

Think of certain words you’d probably never have heard if not for women.  taupe, mauve, lavender These are not words that come naturally to the dudes  vocabulary. They are inserted there after associating with women, sort of like the medical terms you know from watching “ER.” Sure, you can say them and sound cool, but damned if you know what they actually mean.

And don’t get me started on purses. Go ahead, ask any woman why men don’t carry purses. She’ll turn into a Naomi Campbell mad at her maid. “You want a purse? You want a purse? You can’t handle a purse!” And you know what? She’s right. We can barely handle briefcases. That’s why every article of our clothing has a pocket. But still, even with just a couple of pockets, like if you’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt, you will at some time or another become an amateur cop. Just observe yourself the next time you can’t find your keys. As you start looking around the room, you’ll do a pat-down search. Essentially, you’re frisking yourself.

But a woman just throws every item she comes across during her day into her purse. My mama used to have this huge purse when I was a kid. I stared into that black hole once. There were receipts, business cards,  a five-year supply of peremende… I just figured that Mom was God in training. She was collecting matter until she had enough for another big bang and then she was going to start her own universe.

In fact, the bigger her purse, the smarter a woman is. That’s why most women don’t start carrying the really big purses until they’re married, because they don’t want to scare off any easily manipulated Jamaa until they’ve got him. Bomseh,  do you have ladies with big purses there in the BT? Hell No, unless she is planning to shuka the BT for a night in  some lucky Jamaa’s crib. Inside the  big purse would probably be a  bra and a thong to change the next morning before she panda the BT again.

So the next time one of you BT dudes says an important quality in a woman is intelligence, just face it… if she can dress herself with a modicum of class and colour coordination, and she carries a purse , she’s not only intelligent, she’s smarter than you. And if you should somehow end up getting the impression she’s not intelligent enough… that just means she doesn’t like you.

THE OPTIMISTIC STORY

I’m an optimist, a relentless, uncorruptable  and incorrigible optimist. If I were married to Nini Wacera, that Nawty TV girl, I’d say, “Well, at least I’m not married to the hard partying  hot- panted Paris Hilton .” If I were married to Paris Hilton , I’d say, “Well, at least I’m not married to a Zulu .” If I were married to a Zulu , I’d say, “Well, at least I’m not dead.”

Yes, I have a very positive outlook on life. Sometimes I just look in the mirror and smile, for I know that although I’m not half as handsome as Brad Pitt , I’m twice as handsome as Osama bin Laden. Life is good!

Optimism keeps my spirits up, even when things aren’t going my way. Tomorrow will be better, I tell myself. My Feature story will sell tomorrow; my Heaven floodgates will open tomorrow; True love will come knocking tomorrow.Perhaps I’m lying to myself, but I’d rather do a little bit of lying than a lot of crying.

Not only can optimism make you more successful, it can make you healthier. For example, a new study indicates that optimists are far less likely to develop heart disease than pessimists.

A pessimistic rich boy  would say, “Five cars. I can’t believe I have only five cars.” An optimistic fighter would say, “Five scars. I can’t believe I have only five scars.”

Optimists tend to be more successful than pessimists, because they don’t let failures get them down. They keep trying until they achieve their goals or qualify for retirement.

In my high school days, I really wanted to play in the School’s basketball team but the only problem was I was very short  and schoolmates would call me kibwengu- Coastal lingo for a dwarf- and others would shout whenever they saw me ” mfupi kama rungu ya Moi“

But I never gave up.Deep inside  I knew  That slam dunks were not in my league of dreams but then I could try dribbling. So together with my high school She, we embarked on a serious dribbling and 3 point shooting lessons, and when my tomorrow came, I was the best dribbler and three point shooter in school and man of the match during the schools district championships. My training partner who came from humble beginnings got a chance to play professionally in the States…

Of course, being over optimistic can be disastrous. An over optimistic driver may neglect to wear a safety belt, an over optimistic presidential candidate may forget to campaign in his constituency, and an over optimistic mother may rely on
her husband to keep an eye on the baby during the world cup rugby  game. “Honey, the good news is my team won. The bad news is I sat on the baby.

Some folks say they are neither optimists  nor pessimists. They call themselves realists. But what exactly is reality? Was it realistic for Nelson Mandela, serving 27 years in the Boer run  Robben Island, to imagine himself as president?

Here are two scenarios to illustrate the importance of
optimism:

SCENARIO ONE: Your Girlfriend has just left you for another man.
Realist: “It’s the end of my love.”
Pessimist: “It’s the end of my life.”
Optimist: “It’s the end of my credit card bills.”

SCENARIO TWO: After an accident, you lose your sense of
hearing.
Realist: “I may never hear again.”
Pessimist: “I may never communicate again.”
Optimist: “I may never listen to Beyonce   again.”

If that doesn’t sell you on optimism, I don’t know what
will.

Why all these optimism story. Me want to resign from work tomorrow morning but thats all a story of tomorrow but one.

Right now  Pilato  got rush  church for evening service and then sit back laters and watch Springboks devour the Pumas in the Rugby World cup.

Wish you an optimistic week.