Brand Jamesy Finale: I Will Survive
A rolling stone gathers no moss, you tell me. I roll and keep rolling, I roll dirty. And I survive. But in my sight, you still linger as if to justify your actions, of which I cannot recall. Fresh in my mind is that very thing that you managed to infiltrate into the inside of my blancmange: feelings. As long as I do live, I do not plan to pour cold water on how you made me feel. It’s fresh, very fresh.
I do not plan to forgive you for blatantly telling me “My people love me” and promising to set the dogs upon me to devour me between their canivorous teeth into the midst of nothingness. I did tell you enough was enough, that for all these decades, you have torn me and my people apart for your own selfish gain. There comes a time, my once-upon-a-time figure of worship, that these poor people become more important than you and your bearded face.
I know how to see myself through a day and onto the next. I do not have an objective of being pretty or completely out of this world. I keep it simple: clean and smart. Why then, would you argue that a trouser precariously fixed at a height tantamount to the tropic of capricorn is a cool thing? I do not take any pleasure in seeing those parts of you that you cannot see yourself. But having had a look myself, please take my word – the posterior vertebrate parts are so filthy they don’t qualify for public consumption – by eyes at least.
So, you chased me out your house and shut the door in my face. Because I said these 
words: “I love you”. Three words that have been used time and again by people from all walks of life on this planet. Perhaps you were right to think it was just one of those earthly routines of coughing those three words out as random as it may have appeared to you. You didn’t look at my look and see my eyes; you didn’t see reason. This very reason that had taken to me as a duck to water in my dreams and my days, in where I went and where I sat. Go to sleep, honey. When you awake, I will be standing right outside your door with a fresh lily flower on which will be the dewy evidence of a cold morning.
You teach my son about the new planet with evidence of the fact that a form of life may well exist on it. I know one planet for sure, with a form of life for sure, with me and you and others out there that die for this very recognition that they exist. But you don’t recognise their existence. You spend your resources going to those alien blue people on some planet you have named after your great uncle. Go then. Go there for one last time and tell them this: we are tired of visiting them. We want them to come and discover us and give us alien biscuits and alien milk in exchange for weapons of mass destruction which could be used within their means by them. They could well eat them.
Law of Conservation of mass: matter cannot be created or destroyed. Simple sentence that men and women have all ignored, in their quest to discover where they both originated from. Science is not about origination, it is about formation and when you go in loops telling me that Lady Gaga evolved from an egg or Justin Bieber from Yout-tube, you really are confusing my enzymes. I will keep asking, and where did the egg evolve from, or where did You-tube evolve from. And you will stand there sucking your thumb and wiping your nails out of existence for lack of anything better to say. So, hear me: there are elements of life that we will NEVER, in a million years, be able to explain. Science picks up from the idea that matter already exists, but falls short of explaining how this matter was created. There is a higher power, and you can slay yourself at this truth.
One thing I want you to do is go for what you want and stick to that. Let no man or another tell you that you cannot do anything. If you believe you can drill a wall right across the globe, go ahead and do it. If you believe you can knock me off my perch , without promising any successs, I tell you solemnly, go for it. You know you better than anyone else does and the stuff between your earlobes is greater than anyone can buy.
So, do you. And I promise to do me.
Thanks for reading…
Jamesy…
3/3/11
Brand Jamesy: Part 7; Clothes, Milk, Chicken and Beer. No VAT, No China.
Not many people in this world will tell you they know what Mandarin is. And I am sure those reading this will want to think I misspelt ‘tangerine’. Well I didn’t. But Mandarin is the most popular language in the world, let alone the exact meaning of the word ‘popular’ in this context. Again, very few people know that there is no language such as Chinese. And I will let you find out the other language spoken in China, apart from the Mandarin, as I am clearly not interested and in any case, it would just make my sentence unnecessarily long even though this decision has resulted in a sentence quite as long as the one before this full-stop. So that’s how it goes. But we all know what China is, and where it is (except of course if we are American).
Well, I don’t know what China is. There has been an outrage of thoughts of sorts in my SB (Spongebob) head regarding this topic. Before we proceed, I do wish to baptise you into the SB head context. Here we go: Rumour has it that I am a born genius as hinted by the size and shape of my head. That I am so scientific I have my own concepts not least of which are those of gravity. That my head has a gravitational pull that resolves that founded by Mr Newton in conjunction with an apple so much such that I’d make Newton’s apple float in the air. That some people have nicknamed my SB head the ‘Theatre of Dreams’ while others, the ‘Alias Arena’. Whereas I can’t confirm the fact that I produce echoes when I think, I want to assure you that I think all the same; I think thoughts.
And I have been thinking that China, whatever it is, is taking over the world with only two people excluded, me and Elton John. (Those who thought I would never share a sentence with the E.J., you were wrong, I just did it so, take that!) A quick scan around reveals that almost everything, be it American or British or nothing has Chinese roots.
- Made in China
It’s like they have bought the rights of everything (including nothing) that is ever manufactured, be it spoons, phones, hair-straighteners, American flags, African jewellery or British footballs. Actually, nothing has Chinese roots, but all those things that possess a ‘Made in China‘ tag have roots from all over the world. They are a Chinese edition of the real thing at unreal prices and unreal quality – whatever the word real and its opposite mean to you. One thing that lets me and Elton John off the hook is that China could not figure out a Christmas cracker crown (or hat – fit your favourite word here, in context of course) that actually fits around my SB head without breaking. And for Elton John, they could not figure out how to plant a seedy thing inside the man and ooze a tiny human out of him without needing a woman at one point. Take that China!
Maybe they will have the last laugh after all, especially with VAT rising (actually being risen) to 20% meaning that I have to pay 6p extra for a pint of beer even though I don’t like beer. Just for the record, I am gonna go ahead and embarrass whoever is behind the VAT increase scam by switching to the limited edition Fo-Si-Ta-Si (a remake of Fosters) beer made in China and keep my 6p. Or I may want to keep it local and make my own beer. Or maybe not drink beer, I don’t like it after all…Whatever my SB head decides, the rest of you should ensure you don’t buy anything at all! Be creative, imaginative and innovative and grow your own cotton and sew clothes, grow your own cows and milk them, grow your own chicken and slaughter them and last and not least, grow pineapples and ferment them to make your own beer. You only need clothes, milk, chicken and beer to lead a decent life; regardless of the size or shape or nickname of your head.
It is Brand Jamesy, Baby!
©Jamesy 05/01/2011
Brand Jamesy: Part 6, My Buckingham Palace Christmas Job
Jungle bells and jingle bells and folks having their grannies for dinner and others having just turkeys for the same. Christmas. I love the taste of Christmas and all the stuff that comes with it; that puts in a brave fight to defy description. Here then, is an attempt at describing things beyond description or may be describing things that are beyond description on (and results of) my escapades during my Buckingham Palace Christmas Job.
- Buckingham Palace
How many are there that know that Queen Victoria served for a period of 62 years – the longest anyone in that family tree has ever done? And how many know that the current Queen (I have forgotten her name) is just 4 years away from breaking that record? Hold on, one more question: How many know that the line of succession was completely changed when King Edward – whose seven names I remember (Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David) ludicrous - decided to marry an American double divorcee? Thanks to Christmas, I am about the only bozo who can rack this off their memories. And if there exists any other, then I am one of the few (Just a little disclaimer – don’t want anyone reading this to have their self esteem dwarfed!) You will be pleased to know that Edward’s brother (George) then took the mantle completely changing the line of succession and thus allowing the current Queen (whose name I still can’t remember) to have a go and keep it in her descendants.
Christmas is a time when you dig deep beyond the depths to do something different or differently. I personally like sitting in a corner and bursting my pimples. I also like daydreaming and not paying attention to anything else but the off-key sound of madness between my earlobes. Sometimes, I like to sleep and avoid talking to people or animated objects in my dreams in the name of sleep-talking. When I can bear it, I like to eat a lot of starchy food until my system demands a pit latrine – in which I, in conjunction with gravity, have devised an efficient way of balancing the act for maximum accuracy. And when I do finally talk, I mumble in such a way that my fart would be the more pleasant of the two. While people like History and others burn their midnight oil making love (whatever that involves) and being loved, I simply like my Maths and Computing. Those close enough to have heard me talk will agree with the rest of the world that hasn’t heard me talk that I potentially would do with filling my head before empting my mouth. So this Christmas, I set out to fill my head.
Trampling upon the cemetery (of those that have gone dust-to-dust from the beginning of timed time) in search of knowledge, wisdom, madness or anything different from my normalcy aforementioned, I then came across things that automatically qualify as bizarre in my reckoning. While some farmers painted their sheep blue just to distinguish them from snow (stupid, right?) was well within my standards of normal things, finding out about the head of the family down at a home called Buckingham Palace in a city known as London could well have landed me in prison – if I were the judge and my norm was the law.
During Christmas, we break from the norm and rest, eat, drink, tell jokes and stay with those we love. But these being the norm to me, I don’t break the norm to rest, I fast on food for a few minutes, I drink but water, I become boring and last and least, look for someone to love. Yeah yeah, after you are done having a great festive season, please put in a word for me for my next year’s Christmas Job at your sister’s.
Promoting Brand Jamesy
©Jamesy 27/12/2010
Brand Jamesy: Part 5, Stop Making Noise
I am a noisemaker. If you never knew it, now you know. And if you knew it, I am a silent noisemaker. I can carry twigs and chant names, and swear and curse, and walk, and talk my voice hoarse. I can protest and sing songs with political inclinations greater than angle theta. And I can flip my lid on the reasons why a government as conservative as it may claim to be in the comfort of its bedroom, may then wake up one day and decide to escalate the fees that genuine students want to pay to earn a genuine education. I can point fingers and swear to reduce the pain and the heartache, and I can even shut up and be the old introvert. But I ain’t gonna do any of that. Not now. 
I am taken aback by the quantities of skirted people who certainly look the best catch. Everyone has their hormonal pipettes and mine is not faulty. Given the necessary upthrust (ie skirted people), I can certainly sip my hormonal levels accurately to the tabulated levels. Of late, I have not only been able to suck that liquid up my criss-crossed system, but also achieved levels that I can comfortably tell you, are not of the accuracy that normalcy may dictate. Some people (ie. me, in the mirror) look at me and wonder whether I should be an actor whose everyday life is one big rom-com with more of the second part than the first. And memories come to mind.
You see, I never told you one thing that I believe. I am gonna tell you in the next sentence and the rest of this paragraph. I believe that many of my ‘close’ friends are not normal. Regardless of the amount of normalcy that is contained in me, I don’t think anyone should think I am abnormal for undergoing heartaches as a result of social repulsion from an approached skirted person. Worse still, from the skirted person in question. To defend my case, it takes a big heart to see someone beyond their face-value, and it results in ages of a throbbing heart to be put off in a sentence that would conveniently be ‘f**k off’ if we didn’t know more than just the two words. I really am not gonna mince my words on this one, but you know what; life’s a big female dog that’s gonna suck itself out of you any time you give it a chance. If out of the bushes comes someone who understands your value and appreciates it, even if out of your own bushes cannot come equal appreciation, at least don’t send them back to the bushes with a ghaslty verbal. Humans have six senses, and that of sight is just one of them. Appreciate those with evidence of usage of all the senses they have got. Excitement is not = happiness!!
Phew! That’s off my chest. But I am still p*ssed off! I get very emotional when yanking weeds out of the heads of some people. And sometimes I wish that I would be given a guest appearance in Shangri-La so I can go and apply my experience of human psychology in creating a human being update. I believe Human 2.0 should have an artificial intelligence that reminds them that they are not vending machines. I put it in, I pull it out. DEAD!
Last and least, all girls are beautiful. I just don’t know why?
Promoting Brand Jamesy
©Jamesy 17/12/2010
Brand Jamesy: Part 4, I am Very Normal
Ever wondered why when you make eye contact with people especially in Britain, they smile at you? Well, it is because of culture. After 4 years of research, I am pleased to announce the results of my findings on this experiment. A lot of energy went into it including reverse psychology. This finding has prompted a new research into the reasons that make me ‘normal’. Well, you may think I am by default normal, but I am actually very normal. 
In my previous life, I was a prince – but no one knows this, so don’t tell anyone. The few who may know probably can’t recognise me and I am not fazed, I am not dazed, I am not hazed. Being underrated is a very familiar position and very comfortable for that matter. There is a lot of fuss around, much of which I like diving into. But when I want my sleep, my whatever-my-favourite-food-is, my football, my Southern Comfort (you didn’t see this coming, did you?), my woman (laugh out loud, in fact, choke on a bar of chocolate), my poetry, my puzzles, my music and last and least (don’t tell her), my mother, I cannot stomach the weight of a pregnant world hurling verbals at me or breathing their breaths onto, or worse, into me. At such times of my life-cycle, I like to just exist and I am very sure I can just exist. You can call me a larva if your former Biology teacher has a money-back guarantee on your school fees (read this as, they did a good job).
Being very normal requires that you often use brackets to synthesize information for your audience. Sometimes it even prompts an ‘open bracket’ and a ‘close bracket’ during conversations with the wide world, something that actually is part of me by induction. It also helps you see that all women in the world are very beautiful. Like the three seated to my left as I write this. Stunning! But the catch is that, you cannot recognise a single one out of all of them as being beautiful. Surely, if this is not a symptom of very-normalcy, nothing else is.At the same time, it also makes you see men as very handsome, while at the same time barring you from being gay. (Put exclamation here)
If there was a technical error in the human-making factory somewhere in Nirvana and I was fortunately born a woman, that would be the best thing to have happened to the world after the current me. The first item on my mind, right from emerging out of teenage (I guess it couldn’t happen earlier – am African mark you), would be to flaunt my backside. I am assuming I’d be having any although during the few times that I have caught myself noticing my fleshy vertebrate parts, I have reckoned that if my gender was any different, I’d be heavily endowed in that sector. So, I’d give people a 3D movie without the 3D glasses to compensate for my inability to see my nether-couple as often as I would (if they were in front of me, say). I’d make maximum use of tight dresses just for the heck of it. Having been a man (I think) in this life, I know the whistles that accompany a majestic her-majesty when she passes by with nicely shaped flesh swinging like a pendulum (see your Physics notes).
But I actually love people. I love people although it is not very clear that I can work with them, or them with me. I enjoy being hated because that is the only way of getting some enemies on board. The thinking here is that the people who love me actually hate me, or worse still, they don’t know why they love me. I can assure you the feeling of being hated by a person who loves you is much worse than that of being hated by people who actually hate you. Being the person who looks at the problem and possible solutions, I can extrapolate that the best solution here is to get as many people hating me as I possibly can. Very normal that.
Yesterday I met a lady who smiled at me for about a mile before we actually met. My visibility is like 5 Metres but I could feel the smile. And I really was tired of smiling and so I wasn’t gonna do my usual snap smile. It didn’t work. Arousing is the word. Her very normal height, her shapely chin, her gibbous smile, her fibrous hair and least, her half-brushed teeth forced a genuine smile out of me. In fact, for some moment, I forgot about the Rubik’c cube I was trying to solve (actually unsolve) and looked over my shoulder to return the ‘hi’ she had propagated my way without my immediate notice.
Only if the rest of the world smiled at me… I would smile back, albeit at the feeble effort with which they may have afforded their teeth a wash.
Promoting Brand Jamesy
©Jamesy 03/12/2010
Brand Jamesy: Part 3, I Talk English, But NOT in English!
Once upon a time, there lived a man called Dr. Johann Ludwig Krapf,
Ludwig Krapf
a German in his own right but employed by the English to go to the Kenyan coast and translate the bible. Into Swahili. Such men as Johann brought to my forefathers what would later corrupt my authentic native tongue (or tongues) under the catalytic influence of Queen’s English. So the story goes.
I was born 141 years after Johann’s arrival, into a community of people wielding the Luhya language threateningly at me and speaking gibberish. Before I noticed it, I had been immersed into it and become a Luhya.
Then society brought the so called Swahili along, through interaction with those in my age boat, who could not make out a word I said nor I theirs. And so I learnt Swahili. But my dear mama, having gone through the centres established by Johann’s mates, commanded me to call her ‘mummy’ and also took me to a thing called ‘school’ where they tied another thing called ‘disk’ around my neck and forced me to speak ‘English’. You should not be surprised to hear that ‘disk’ was typically the skull of an animal, or in it’s absence, the largest born some scavengers could garner within the precincts of the so-called ‘school’. At least you are only reading this, I carried this thing as a necklace quite frequently for a few years.
Those days, they called me ‘Billy’, a short-form of ‘Jubilee’ which was my mom’s joke at her doing the Fergie time thing of ‘the match doesn’t end until we score’. So picture Billy carrying a kg of a stinking animal skull around his neck, with a dictionary of two pre-loaded languages inside him, and being forced to install yet another language – ‘English’.
I learnt, anyway. Going through those morning and evening strokes of the cane, crying my throat sore, hiding in a maize plantation on a few occasions to evade some strokes and other stuff that came along,…I made it. In fact, so good have I been that I can spell my name backwards while on a full tank of Bacardi (37.5%). I rest my case.
And so, my learning of English has not been a pleasant one. And to cap it all, the addition of German to make it 4 languages in one head isn’t something my neighbours in the Kingdom are used to doing.But I refuse to learn ‘Sign’ language as a remedy for not being bothered to add to this, I must boast here, rather large dictionary of English language, different English accents to suit my listening audiences. I refuse on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday …trusting you to know the other days of the week and complete that would-otherwise-be-long sentence for me.
So when I speak, don’t ask me to talk in English, but rather, listen to the Queen’s English. Of course coming out of a head preloaded with Luhya and Swahili and infected with German.
Promoting Brand Jamesy
©Jamesy 27/11/2010
