Super star!

My thoughts on "Lazy (intellectual) African Scum

2012-02-06T10:27:00.004Z

On Field's opinion piece You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum!

The weird and the bizarre

The first time I read Field’s opinion I had my moment of chuckle and I quickly moved on. I did not see the need to pass his opinion around; actually it had no substance whatsoever. Alas, between the times I had my first chuckle and now, my email box has been inundated with comments directed at this opinion piece. Field’s opinion has gone viral. Perhaps, in itself a testimony of how to attract African “intellectuals” to anything. Ridicule, and make fun of Africans and in hordes and heads they come out of their holes to defend. So I had to re-read and understand the fascination.

So what is it that I found weird and Bizarre about this opinion piece? Well I goggled Field Ruwe and from what I gather he is an intellectual with a penchant for fictional writing. I suppose that sets the tone for his opinion piece since most of what he wrote was fictional. Beginning, with this character called Walter. In my estimation, this character is one Field imagined and the conversation that took place took place in his head. My estimation is based on the following; Walter works for a Vulture fund. That is, a hedge fund that buys 3rd world debt. Yet, in all that Walter says, besides the insults there is nothing to convince me that he works for a hedge/vulture fund, nor has he ever been part of the Zambia debt restructuring.

The factual case noted against Zambia with respect to Vulture funds is Donegal International vs the government of Zambia for an amount of $3.28m with respect to a loan between Government of Zambia and government of Romania. A London court ruled on this matter and as far as I am concerned, a legal issue that was addressed appropriately. The other Vulture funds, perhaps I should add, where vulture funds have been of concern or raised concern is in DRC, Uganda and Cameroon. Nowhere have I found Zambian lawsuits or notable disagreements with its external creditors.

But, you must realise that Walter oscillates between Zambia and Africa with such abandon I am convinced he either does not know of the issues or believes Zambia and Africa are the same. If Walter does ostensibly exist beyond the imagination then surely he is not the intellectual we suppose him to be. Truly weird and bizarre. The premise on which the argument stands on is nothing but quick sand!

Much ado about nothing

That brings me to the other issue, this idea of intellectuals driving development. Or rather the lazy intellectuals in Africa. Field studied History at Master’s level. I am not sure of his particular specialisation but every History student is aware of research methodology. Of my History friends, I find there are more pedantic about facts and historical accounts. Even pejorative remarks are taken to their logical conclusion through a very precise and elaborate exposition. I find this opinion piece lacks in intellectual rigour. If indeed Field and Walter sat on a plane and exchanged words, then I am utterly surprised Field could not see through Walter’s lies. And call his bluff. I am therefore surprised it has received the attention that it has. Especially from Africans.

Another fact is that nowhere have I ever read that America was built by Intellectuals. Indeed I am yet to find a civilisation built by intellectuals. Hardly, have I come across an article hailing Bill Gates, Steve Jobs and Sean Parker as intellectuals. Andrew Carnegie could hardly read. An immigrate worker who came with nothing and with basic arithmetic he became an industrialist. The same is true of Rockefeller . The same with Lincoln and Washington. Men blessed with nothing else but the will power to get things done.

If ever, I am to be part of this conversation and contribute meaningful then I would direct readers to one Joseph Schumpeter whose work on development is the most erudite and comprehensive. Schumpeter after studying nations and how nations develop summed it beautifully; “ successful innovation requires an act of will, not of intellect. It depends, therefore, on leadership, not intelligence, and it should not be confused with invention". Indeed Field’s postulation is much ado about nothing.

“i beseech you in the bowels of christ think it possible you may be mistaken.” O Cromwell

Evidently Field is mistaken in all fronts. And it is not him I beseech. But the many people who have found time to make this opinion piece go viral. If Field meant to instigate, then let him be. If he meant to insult, then take his insult as harmless. Of the many opinion pieces in the world in this new age era this my friend is what you decided to dwell and labour on? Of course taking pot shots at you, incidentally means I am guilt as well. To that I am ashamed. But my shame paled in comparison to the damage this viral has already caused. I have been amused as some defended the indefensible, as some agreed with pies in the sky and some became resolute to fight a cause. Yet all we had to do was open the book of Ecclesiastes “I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

This part of my life... this part right here? This is called "happyness."

2012-01-18T19:24:00.007Z

I am inclined, in most instances, to deliberate and interrogate all issues in my life. I am disinclined to sway that way at this moment. At this moment I have the flower bloom spirit, I content in my little happiness. Like the blooms of spring I attract the bees and their sting. But, that little irritation will not sway or abate my happiness. I am alive, i am alive, thank God i am alive.

Do not be bothered much on why i was reading "little red riding hood". It's not what you think. Anyway, i found an interesting interpretation of the story, that made the little fable even more interesting;

"The wolf in the fable was likely fabricated out of an inherent fear of the unknown, not on the genuine threat of wolf attacks. While wolves are in fact predators, there is only one recorded death of a human by a healthy wolf; and yet, fables like this have led to the gross misrepresentation of this keystone predator. Both wolves and wilderness were treated as enemies of humanity in that region and time. Sadly, these types of stories continue to misrepresent true patterns of wolf behavior (i.e., fearful of humans) and they perpetuate the false notion that wolves are a threat to humans (all historical evidence shows that it's actually the other way around)."

The man in the arena

2012-01-04T10:27:00.005Z

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

The year came to an end. Like most, I too reflected on all that happened. My first thought, was to look back and think it a hard year. My first thoughts were to look at the many friends lost, the uncomfortable terrain, the embarrassments, the let downs and the failures. I started reflecting on life and how it would all be much better in the comfortable fold, in the pastures of wellness. I started envying those quiet souls surrounded by calm waters. I thought about how sleep is a distant relative, and when it does come, like many distant relatives it’s not welcome at all.

I started making new year’s resolutions- how I will be a better person, I jotted down all the lovely things I will do, places to visit and all the generalities of the normal life. I almost prayed for normalcy.

I stopped in my tracks.

What solder trains and prepares for peace? A soldier’s time is in battle. I then blacked out all thoughts and remembered Hannibal, the Carthaginian General. To fight the Roman army, he tracked through the Alps and lost half his army before his first battle. Losing his eye was no worse than losing his family in battle. The Romans, called him a savage, a barbarian without superiority of mind. His fellow Carthaginians did not support him, in fact the senate stopped his food and men supplies. Hannibal, after tracking for over a year and bracing the vagaries of the deathly Alps winter did not hold back. He brought war to the Romans.

I started, thinking, what Hannibal would have wished for after that year. What was supposedly a disastrous year? Hannibal, was a soldier, what he wanted was war. He thought it fortunate, that although he had lost a lot, what he lost was what was pruned off. What remained was the most suitable for war. He wanted war. For the next sixteen years, that is what he gave the Romans.

To understand what sort of man Hannibal was, the historian Titus Livy provides useful background information;

“ Hannibal was possessed of enormous daring in facing dangers. He could be physically exhausted or mentally cowed by no hardship. He had the ability to withstand heat and cold alike; his eating and drinking depended on the requirements of nature, not pleasure. Not given to sleep, when he did it was not brought on by a soft bed or silence-many observed him lying on the ground, amidst the sentry-posts and pickets, wrapped in a soldier’s cloak. His dress was no better than that of his comrades, but his weapons and horses marked him out. On horse or foot, he was far the best soldier; the first to enter battle and the last to leave once battle was joined.”

All of sudden it dawned on me. My heart is least settled in quiet waters. In any case it is too early to lie in my pastures, much needs conquering. Being the man in the arena, I am aware of many errors along the road and the pitfalls of any journey. It does not mean I give up my sense of adventure and my sense of building something. It’s war that I wish for and to be a better solder.

The morning after

2011-11-11T09:57:00.002Z

The morning after.....I gasp for what little air I can take. The sheer effort drains the little energy I have. Yet I must breathe, so here goes, once again. Breathe, breathe and breathe. At this moment breathing has become a conscious and deliberate effort for my survival. If I take a moment away from it, I will forget. Breathe, breathe I must breathe.

The journey started with so much expectation, after all, how hard would it be. I was a clever guy, with a brilliant idea, a vast network and excellent exposure. The plan was simple; I laid it out on paper and practised my pitch. I had done this before, the idea-writing and pitching. I was the best. I recalled my best pitch and the applause I got. Surely now, with such a brilliant idea, they would fall over each other to be part of the next big thing.

I remember pitching across the world, the audience varied with pockets dragging with gold and honey dripping. “If you are part of this,” I argued, “you will find your Nirvana.” Today, the morning after, when I can breathe a little, I open the emails I got after the first few pitches many seasons ago. “Brilliant,” they all said. “The idea is brilliant and definitely doable.” They all wanted to be part of it. With such feedback, everything was going according to plan.

Yet a month later, not even one investor had invested. We had planned to raise $5million dollars, initially tranche at $1.6m. That would take care of our needs. But, wait a minute; $5m is a lot of money. We knew this, but one had to look at the idea, it was the best idea ever. “Look at the returns”. “Look at what you will make out of this,” we argued. In any case, we had a benefactor who had already pledged $1m. We pitched to Russians, Americans, Africans and Europeans, individuals, family trusts and anyone with money. We knocked on so many doors and sold many a pitch.

It came to naught, and it was at that moment that it suddenly dawned on me. I had left my job, that cushy safe haven I once had. In my estimates I had thought, “Surely with my experience and exposure I can do more and become more?” I had overestimated. Here I was without a job, managing overseas expenses and living in a country no investor wanted to invest in. I had my first nervous breakdown.

None of the promises had come through and the initial benefactor who had been meeting all our expenses and had pledged $1m, suddenly pulled out. It was too risky, in his estimation. I remember thinking about what I would tell the team. After my nervous breakdown I reconciled with the fact that I had failed and it was time to reconsider everything. I even drafted a letter to a former boss, whom I hated so much; but I had heard he was looking for someone and I jotted down why I should be in consideration.

I got to the office with a heavy heart, ready to disband. As I got in, before I could say anything the guys spoke. “How much money to you have?” a question greeted me. “Huh?” I answered. “How much money do you have saved up and or in other investments?” the question came again. I reckon I have about $$$ in savings and another $$ in stock market investment but the market is down and it won’t make sense to liquidate

The guys had a plan.

“We have looked at all our budgets and expenses; we have studied the business plan again and have revised everything. We did not get the money we required, but we can bootstrap and start rolling out the project and get some income”. This I heard before I could even sit down. My mind was racing faster than the E type in a Le Mans circuit. I was now pacing across the room. I could not sit down.

Breathe, breathe. I must breathe, calm my nerves and hold my chest, just in case my heart leaps out.

With the little that we had, we made a plan. That day I learnt my first entrepreneurial lesson: Bootstrapping. Coincidentally, around about the same time a friend sent an email about a former Mckinsey partner who had gone back to India and stayed in one room with just a mattress and laptop. It was there that he built his first company.

My temporary abode with my mother became my permanent abode. I liquidated everything. I soon understood my erstwhile folly. One cannot ask other people to risk their money in one’s idea when they themselves are not willing to risk their own money. However, little it is. Secondly, by keeping an investment on the stock market it is an admission that other people are better managers of your money than yourself. If you are not an entrepreneur, that’s quite understandable, but quite ridiculous if you are starting a start-up.

And so the train moved, we launched and started moving. Three months later – which for a start-up is an eternity – we were bankrupt!

This time I did not have a nervous breakdown. It was much worse. Bankruptcy exposed all my insecurities as a man and as a person. I started gaining weight; I simply did not care much about what I ate. I started relying on my mother for the barest minimal in terms of cash; even petrol money. I was overly indebted to friends and family and frequently overstayed my visits when I travelled. The only person who knew this was my mother. Every Wednesday night she held a prayer vigil with her friends.

My mood swings were wild and unpredictable. The joys I had, I found in our office. There I learnt another important lesson in entrepreneurship: It’s a love affair. One must love it enough to die for it. It is a visceral ideal that requires steadfast confliction to see things through. It is not about a brilliant idea or brilliant qualifications. It was obvious we did not have money – no salaries were being paid out. But everyday people came to work and every day we held our own vigil.

We made it past another three months with the help of friends and family who chipped in. God alludes to the principal that if birds never go without food, surely mankind, God’s prized love, shall be taken care of. Indeed, we were taken care of. From as little as the lunch lady who started supplying food to us at concessionary rates and on credit (yes it was a $1 a plate, delivered to the office), to random letters of encouragement.

We were still looking for money at this time and never gave up knocking on doors. The promises were many, just as many as the disappointments. I questioned myself greatly and thought perhaps I had overestimated the idea and my capability. I was highly insecure.

What kept us going was the belief that surely we cannot die. I remember vividly a friend’s mother, who had heard about us, coming into town and sending word to meet me. She sat me down, and in the vernacular told me to remain strong. She quoted bible verses and spoke of Gideon, the valiant and courageous man. She intimated how this was not about the money or how far it would go, but about life, about survival. “At your weakest, your insecurities are like uncovered wounds for all to see,” she said. “Some will help, while others will take the opportunity to poke and inflict even greater harm. Remain strong. The spirit is strong.”

Thus it became about survival. If we survive a day, we have survived an eternity. Breathe, Breathe, inhale and breathe.

Yet, in those moments came the most brilliant ideas. Lessons in entrepreneurship. Because we had stepped out and were visible, our courage led us to people in the same industry across the world. Inspired by our courage and our business idea they agreed to partner with us and provide all the capex needs of our business. But, we would need to meet our recurrent expenditures (Their little way of keeping us hungry). That was great, but unfortunately we had no liquidity. It did not bother us one bit, but what would we tell all our creditors? Some understood and some did not.

Slowly we started making progress and contracted for projects beyond the borders. The morning fog started clearing.

This morning I woke up and did not have the recurring nightmare of creditors running with an axe after me. I thought of the monthly tummy runs, the cycle that usually starts on the 25^th of each month. My brain and body has not fully comprehended the change. My limbs are weak and the heavy burden though lifted has left an overweening, throbbing and piercing headache.

Yet again, I must breathe, breathe and breathe. I must stay hungry. Stay focused. Never get tired.

To pfungwa; a poem

2011-07-22T10:46:00.004+01:00

To Pfungwa*

The others, they're the living dead in solitude,

of friends and foes who fizzled for lack of attitude,

ladies who dreamt of becoming beauty queens,

dreams that became hollow manuscripts; never to see the screens.

But me and my life, our destiny is significant,

my passion remains militant.

To fulfil a purpose,

A cause littered with all but intelligent verbose.

Pfungwa,

forgive my folly of yesterday,

I have my excuse, the tardiness of youth I say.

Allow me to enter your better dreams,

of sunny blue skies and many awes in screams.

Forgive me, if in all this I still fall short

Caress my guts and chide what hubris brought.

It was your fault in any case,

You sowed a seed in me to bargain for nothing less.

Little did you know God’s plan and action,

is for me to lead a nation.

A nation I call me,

that with no borders, tax, or any fee.

The path I travel has crossed many,

providence and dividends for the price of a penny.

Of strangers and creatures,

writing fiction and vanity pictures.

I learnt of Oysters that bore a pearl,

hardships that will make me an Earl!

*pfungwa- mind, thoughts.

The love for Chinos

2011-07-05T09:33:00.010+01:00

I love Chino’s. I love the way they feel on my skin. The tapered and tailored fit gives me a confidence to take on the world. Chinos are an excellent travelling companion, worn for multiple functions and dressed up in various ways. I wear mine, with a blazer, cardigan, polo shirt or shirt and immediately assume a different persona. I accessorise with belts and shoes and the same pair assumes a different aura.

I have noticed that many men have taken to wearing chinos. Unfortunately they wear chinos as they would ordinary trousers. This is wrong and a travesty. I understand that Americans have to wear everything pleated and buggy. But please not for a pair of Chinos; it doth destroy the “look”. The chinos look says “cool” not “granny pj’s” or “hammer pants”. And that should be the standard of whether or not one is wearing chinos correctly. Do you feel cool? Are you the coolest person in the room? If not, then it might be time to stop wearing chinos. Try something else.

My personal favourites are Chinos by Eden Park, Ralph Lauren and Hackett.

All manner of manners

2011-06-28T10:40:00.003+01:00

There was a time, not too long ago, when all it required to unnerve a man was mere flirting and slight body contact would discomfort the innards of a man and tailspin his ways. From across the room, the discreet dress slit would reveal womanly flesh, only for a moment and for a tease. Indeed, there was, once upon a time. Now it is no more. The lady in a slit has been replaced with the slut on heels. I hasten to add how difficult it is to find a lady with manners. Now, I write to declare a lady with manners is sexy. Yet such a breed, one finds not.

When was the last time you came across a man of manners? A gentleman? Not a chivalrous courtier, but simply a man of manners? I have been thinking about this quite a lot and grieved deeply the death of manners. Common decency has escaped the human race, we have become more and more crude and crass than wild animals. Please, May I, thank you's have been taken away from our vocabulary and all that is left are expletives about our behinds, our mothers and showing the middle finger as a sign of displeasure. When did it all go wrong?

Some argue, when writing, correct grammar and punctuation must be used at all times. Others think lowly of those that revert to text short-hand in emails or wherever the written word must be used. I am not too fussy on this. Honestly, why should I be worried? It is pretty lame to argue it bastardises the English language- when the English language itself is a bastard child of pure linguistic tongues like Latin and Greek. Yes, it shows impetuousness, but it is never offensive. Truly, use text message when you write me and I will certainly not think highly of you. But, neither will I think lowly of you. But use expletives as punctuation and my regard is gone with the wind. I totally understand the need to be dramatic and emphatic, when Chaucer used such words it was more emphatic than an exclamation mark. Now, if writers are told an exclamation mark can only be used after every hundred thousand words, then an expletive is the mother of emphasis. So let it be. Imagine then if every other word is a swear word or such.

There is nothing more sensual than a woman with manners, dressed appropriately and of intelligent countenance. I am quite convinced now; every woman in more carnal of relations can be quite Wolfish. But, I am not convinced in society too, the she-wolf can be a lady. So in mating I would rather simply look for a lady. The mini-skirts, make up, artificial coloured long nails, synthetic hair pieces and rowdy behaviour of our women folk is disgraceful. Is this what equal rights really mean? Is this what drinking beer means? To debauch one’s high regard and debase one’s standing to the lowly province of manly brutes in beer binge and sordid tongues? Honestly ladies, how do I become a suitable defender of your honour when such is nonexistent?

Don’t get me wrong, I love the mini-skirts on a feminine body. Only when appropriately dressed, with one with appropriate anatomy to flatter. Same with make –up, I love it to bits, on occasion and not every occasion. I love it when a woman dresses up; it is perfect manners to do so. Such efforts and indulgence are quite exemplary. My love for dresses and all femininity is well acknowledged. There is nothing more feminine than a sensual woman. Note, sensual, not selling sex. Sensuality is that refined allure when beauty meets charm. A lady who is both beautiful and charming. Now, it seems there is no difference between walking at the meat market place where every vendor is throwing all sort of meat at one. In a room full of ladies, the same applies-they have become vendors selling sex.

Men do not fare any better. But, in society there has always been a distinction between the brute and the gentleman. We knew what to expect from the brute and his ways. Similarly we knew the gentleman was raised in the highest order of manners. I decry the dearth of gentlemanly behaviour now. So few and far in-between. What has happened?

I remain forthright in my beliefs. I will dress up appropriately for any occasion and will address people with much regard and common decency. I will go to church in my Sunday best and shall demand the same of my off springs. Sunday reverence is demanded as a respect to God and those around me. Unless demanded, and by forceful of demands shall I swear- only for emphasis. I aspire to be a gentleman, because of all aspirations it is one that my children will remember me most by. And probably one I want my epitaph to say. He was a gentleman.

Chanel. Tis swell i find you alive and well.

2011-06-23T13:16:00.003+01:00

In which TV finds redemption

2011-06-13T14:04:00.004+01:00

For purely aesthetics, I bought a TV. Well, at times it played a functional role in watching the old classics movies with Aubrey Hepburn and the like. Honestly though, I spent a considerable more on superior technology; that is, the sound system to accost my ears with innumerable pleasures of sound. Nonetheless,on those rare occasions the TV was a useful appendage in movie watching. Clearly, I can live without a TV, and its attended pollution.

But, this last week I have been enamoured with such fascinations as to please my person considerably. Cajoled to watch the TV series “The Tudors”, I was deeply appreciative of all. It is about King Henry VIII, the enigmatic fellow in England during the tail end of the Renaissance and the beginning of reformation. I am a student of history and a child of the Renaissance and thus on this count I did not need much persuasion. I was indeed persuaded most by the ability of the series to capture fully the time, trials and goings on of our favourite King. The producers have surely done a splendid and glorious job in bringing to TV the most troubling of times. The history content is apt and much has been done to preserve the historical account of things. Though I find the TV series to be extremely damning of the King. He was after all, a superior in intellect , widely read and a writer of note.

King Henry VIII, stands at the edifice of reformation, when the church of England broke away from the Papacy. This was fundamental, and it could only take a man of such fortitude and scholarship as Henry VIII. Of course there was the small matter of wanting to marry Anne Boleyn and subsequently find an heir to the throne. But, let us be honest, every man has his own trifles. And it is on these trifles of six marriages, the main focus of the series.

I have watched all four series and highly recommend this. I could not honestly claim to have a favourite character, but believe the Chancellors, Wolsey, More, and Cromwell did fabulous jobs as actors and brought to character the most formidable individuals during this period. Of all, though he played a minor role in the series, is the Earl of Surrey who brought to foe the tyranny of the king, and paid it all with his life. It didn’t matter his superiority in blood, those of low pedigree had gained favour.

Enjoy his poem, the happy life. A timeless piece with such eloquence and force in words it provokes at every stance:

MY friend, the things that do attain

The happy life be these, I find:

The riches left, not got with pain;

The fruitful ground; the quiet mind;

The equal friend; no grudge; no strife;

No charge of rule, nor governance;

Without disease, the healthy life;

The household of continuance;

The mean diet, no dainty fare;

Wisdom joined with simpleness;

The night discharged of all care,

Where wine the wit may not oppress:

The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleeps as may beguile the night;

Content thyself with thine estate,

Neither wish death, nor fear his might.

Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey

When Kelz used to be Robert Kelly.

2011-06-06T09:04:00.010+01:00

How times change. Do you remember the time when Robert Kelly was R Kelly? A music maestro with a voice so soothing it stopped a whirlwind in its tracks, so melodious the ocean tide waved to his notes, lyrics so powerful soldiers recited them before battle. The scintillating “heaven I need a hug” became the sound track of every criminal in jail. “I believe I can fly”, the song I played before my ‘A levels’ exam was not only inspirational but was my right of passage to life. I had gained my wings. I fell in love to “Forever, and ever” waltzing to the echo’s of “marry me, marry me”, with a young damsel I envisaged I would build the picket fence for.

Now R Kelly is Kelz. And there is something not right. Does success lead to fornication of one’s ideals? Is money, the cocktail of mental derangement? So many times I have heard the proverb, “with age comes wisdom” and each wrinkle a baptism of Aristotelian ethics. Kelz defies the time old proverbs. But, he is not alone. In today’s’ society many people are walking remnants of what was the “best of them “decades ago. So empty and vacuous are their ideals, the devil refuses even to curse a demon on them- it would be utter kindness.

Think, Vivica Fox, I remember a time standing in the queue at the local movie house for hours waiting for the movie, “set it off”. And there she was, towering splendour, an Aphrodite incarnate. That night I experienced my first wet dream, so wet I woke up panting, sweating and manly excretion dampening my sheets. Confused, I dried myself and slept. Vivica was not yet done, the next morning my body was slurped in dry white salt.

Today, to think this is the woman that made my testicles dance and vomit for the first time, is an embarrassing admission. What happened to the glory?

What happened to the most intelligent guy I grew up with? He committed suicide, I overheard the local barber lament,“he killed himself that is what happens when you are too intelligent”. I guess he just could not bear the life of ordinary. What of that pretty girl every guy had a crush on, “yes that one, many others and I bought a Mr bear ice cream for”. She died, Facebook advised, and left 3 kids.

In my library I picked up a GQ magazine, of yesteryear. GQ had Shaft on the cover page. A dapper man with brawn, brain and as the duke from a borough of bravery made life an adventure worth living as the “bad man”. When he told his woman, “my duty is to please that booty”, we all knew what he was talking about. All the ladies wished they had this ravenous savage for themselves or at least for one night. GQ has replaced Shaft with the clean shaven sweet faced Jude Law, and were it not the confessions of a nanny I would never have thought he had the courage to walk past a caged dog.

Marvin Gaye asks, “has anybody here, seen my old friend, john, can you tell me where his gone. He freed a lot of people but it seems the good die young, I just looked around and he was gone”. I remember my friend John- what happened dude? You introduced me to life and helped me buy my first shares. And then you just disappeared. I still needed hand holding dude. Where are you?

I remember R Kelly today, in the prime of his manliness- at his rhetorical best. “Reality” was on the album R and unable to afford a psychologist and with a father never at home, R Kelly was my counsellor. The photo of my generation was in the inlay, whereupon R Kelly looks out of the window reflecting. The image was beautiful, it told of a man looking beyond, beyond the trajectory of what eyes could see. The image, words and baseline still writ large in my brain; “any man can make a baby but it takes a real man to be a father, talking about a family, the kid, you and me, it’s not a fantasy but its reality.”

Remember the time when Erika Badu could captivate with her poetry, telling us to call Tyrone, to pick us up and as far away from her, sort our lives out. A decade later Ms Badu has fallen on hard times, she can’t even hire a video vixen for her music videos. To grab our attention she has to take off all her clothes and gyrate, her amble behind, for half the video. Years ago, she used to be covered head to toe. We were not even allowed to see a stray strain of hair; she had this huge hideous head gear on. We didn’t care; really we didn’t care, just how fashion was lost on her, because her poetry was just too powerful.

Writing this essay got me thinking, about that which is lost with time besides the slim waist and chiselled facial features as we become rotund and disgustingly lazy. Money becomes a substitute for courage, the more grey hairs we get the sillier we become (picture a 50 something year old with a grey haired jerry curl and fake Gunit chains). But not all is lost.

I have a good friend that stays in the outskirts of Pretoria in a country estate with his family. One unfortunate night his house was burgled by menacing, gun touting thieves. In the middle of the night they demanded all the jewellery in the house. My friend obliged and simply asked they do not touch his wife and kids. But, the thieves had other intentions. After taking the jewellery they started to man handle the wife despite the wife’s screams of protest. My friend, in a fit of rage, did what was instinctive to him. He ran straight to the offender and gave him a fierce jugular. The thief, half in awe and half dazed by the punch fell down. The other thieves then shot my friend three times before disappearing into the night. My friend was in hospital for a month. When I visited them at their home, there was a sparkle in the wife’s eye that I had never seen in her before. Her man, she said “was her hero”.

I also got to hear a heart wrenching story about another friend, a candidate PHD at an illustrious university and a bright future ahead of him. His parents come from Mt Darwin in the rural areas of Zimbabwe. One holiday he decided to visit, unfortunately this was during the election period in Zimbabwe. Bands of marauding apparatchik Zanu Pf youth and war vets had become the new war lords in this part of the country. No opposition party was allowed in this heartland of Zanu pf. unfortunately my friend’s family feuds spilled over into the politics of the day. Apparently his uncle (father’s brother) ratted on them, accusing their family of being sympathetic to the opposition.

The war vets would routinely round up everyone who was suspected to be sympathetic to the opposition and give them a night of orientation in Zanu pf politics. This basically involves a thorough beating until one can sing all the Zanu pf songs. My friend and his mother were rounded up with others and they were taken to the middle of the forest where a night vigil would occur. He says he was scared to death and could not reason with these pot infested, alcohol infected and angry as hell thugs.

Eventual they were told to lie face down, and the leader of the war vets, prepared a sjmbok from the trees around. He then started thrashing the captives, one by one. So thorough and determined was the hiding the screams could be heard miles away. My friend says when they got to his mother he just could not lie there, especially having seen how the other victims had suffered. Instinctively, without thinking he just sprung up and went straight for the war vet leader’s throat. If you know this chap, round about now is when you start laughing. I never imagined. He says, he does not know where the strength or courage came from but he just held on tightly to the throat. The war vet was now choking, with wide eyes and fell on the floor. The strangler did not let go. The other war vets having seen what was happening quickly came to the rescue of their leader. After breaking them up, they then tied my friend to a tree and beat him up until he passed out. The war vets did beat his mother up, but she tells the tale of her son-her hero. She says they beat her up but she could not feel a thing.

In these two stories, I have begun to understand manliness. The instinctive nature of man, beyond civilisation. It is this distinction that separates us from women that women fall in love with, that society find pride in. Alas, society will never hear these two stories, they are busy watching "Survivor" or dancing to Beyonce's "i'm a survivor". The hero, is the 1m winner of survivor. Decades later I wonder where they will be.

In building the next decades of our lives it is important we focus on what is important. On those virtues, which through practise make us real man. Because, if we are not careful, we too shall change our names from Robert Kelly to Kelz. If the name change does not help then maybe our naked posterior might. Desperate to just be in the limelight, when our shine was long gone.....

As for me, I am growing a beard....

Dear you

2011-05-16T09:41:00.004+01:00

“Don’t ever give up on your dreams because when you do I give up too”.

I can never forget these words. At times when I feel like giving up, and this is most of the times, I remember first the look you gave me when you said these words and secondly I reflect on these words. No words have had greater impact on my life; no person has ever been more influential in my life.

When I met you, and the day is clear and dear to me, I never for once thought that would be the day that defines my life. One morning, in Morningside “Waldorf” it begun, so much has changed in Morningside, much more has changed between us. Before you I was fleeting, impetuous and vain and after you, solid, determined and resourceful.

With you I experienced the worst of life and the best of life, in both, never once did you abandon me.

I would wake up in fits in the middle of the night, from a nightmare that scared me whole. You would first calm me down and then pray for me, in an instant the ghosts went away. I thought of you dearly in Oyster Bay, when the ghosts returned and by myself I coiled. Safe is he with a woman that prays.

I remember our long walks along “Narrow” street-right through to St Kathine’s dock, as you patiently heard every thought in my head. I was broad and rabid in all my ideas and how I formulated everything. You would indulge me, chide me and hold my hand (even though I resisted this gesture) and urge me to go on.

I read Bill and you read Hillary, we had our political argument at 3am before switching books and by breakfast we both agreed it was Hillary with the plan. I wrote on numerous treatises, and you faithfully edited my work. My thoughts then, were rumblings of a scattered head, but iron sharpens iron. Dearly, my treatises are sharper now.

We became “major”, our lives’ sound track always on repeat. Kanye and Nas spitting about the move from local to major. Each verse we revisited as if to convince each other that one day we would build our very own MOtown. You were my hommie, my buddy!

Remember our studio apartment, the match box we shared, on one side were a monastery and the other side Le bon Marche. Celestial versus decadence, and we were in the middle of all this. We could hardly afford this part of 6th, but you insisted we had to experience all that is Rue Babylon.

And Parisian you were, the first thing you bought was a pair of Jimmy Choo 6 inches. With all I had I bought you a chemise/blouse from your favourite shop for your birthday. Really, it was all the money I had but I knew how important the day meant to you- and of course the blouse. That day you lit up like a shooting star, giggled like a child and your hug said it all. In your eyes I was a Superstar!

In the same eyes, you cried tears that never ended. I would pain you deeply and all you could do was cry. I never want to open flood gates like that, ever again. I hurt you badly, betrayed your trust but even when we were apart the way you saw me never changed. I was still a Superstar. That, and only that drove me. I wanted to make you proud; it meant the world to me to see you proud of me, even though time had come for us to take different paths.

Years later, I still want to make you proud. I know you are far away from me, the furthest any two worlds can possibly be. And I wish you every bit of happiness, happiness I know is the running stream in your life. I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for believing in me. Don’t ever stop believing in people. Only you, do it best. I really wish you were here to see what I have become. Will you be proud of me? I wonder........

You sowed the seed and watered the plant. Perhaps we met at such a season where only I was to gain and you were to pain. I wish now, I would pain and you to gain. But such is life, life I hold on to dearly now and hope I have the endowment to bring joy to another, to inspire and truly believe!

Thank you

Confessions of a thirty-something year old

2011-05-10T10:46:00.000+01:00

Once, as a child I fell into a pit and for a long time could not get out. It was pitiful. All along basketball was the only thing I was good at, I dithered in education, my syllables lacked the personality that language should have and I had no social sensibilities. Only in shooting hoops was I best. Until one day, playing with a rival school I was fouled out in the first two minutes. An inventive ploy to upstage my team, of course without me the team lost. In disgust, disgust shared all round, I protested and got into a fierce back and forth with the teacher from the rival school. Here, a little boy of not more than 10 argued vehemently and unearthed the ploy the adult had invented. To my dismay, my own teacher and coach took me away and gave me a spanking, right there in front of everyone.

My crime was simple, I had disrespected an Adult. I cried, and with every tear the passion for basketball went. Like that I faded into a nobody, became a recluse and hated every teacher I came across. Not until years later during the penultimate year of high school did I enjoy my first lesson. Perhaps I had gotten tired of the self pity or indeed I had found a teacher who understood my troubled mind. I learnt, in careful observation the ways of my favourite head teacher, his wisdom interred in the nature of his tools. A chalk and a rod he made his plea to the class. In the chalk we gained, in the rod we scarred.

In my teenage years, I was the perfect icon in a perfect fantasy, I was Batman. That is how I saw myself, a hero with a costume out to save Gotham. Teenagers are prone to such multi-personalities dabbling between the real and the ephemeral. Like Batman, I too had a side kick, my Robin was my best friend and high school was the playground. I too had an unattainable Rachel. I remember well she was the best looking creature I had ever seen. She was prone to and glad in every contest that paraded beauty. I called her dimples, on obvious account. We actually never dated but were totally enamoured with each other. We did write to each other, letters I still have all signed Dimples forever. Forever, a little over a decade later is married with kids.

In my twenties, I prickled the bubble-Batman was too much of a cartoon character perhaps apt for a teenage hero but certainly not for a young adult. Batman represents the oscillation that young boys have between the real world and the world they aspire to be in, the plays of dreams and the mundane. Unable to confront bullies, rivals and adults in their real life they create mendacious caricatures like the “Joker” whom they cannot confront but find the courage under the guise of a super human being. Only in their fantasies can they confront their fears.

The manly hero for a guy in his twenties has to perform heroic and gallant acts, must be a cross between a man’s man and a ladies’ man and a lot sterner in his cockiness than a dry martini. He must be able to save the world-indeed that is his mission, he must have a code name (nothing cooler), be accosted in fancy sophisticated gadgetry, and with no sidekicks; the answer is James Bond. My twenties were spent as James Bond, I travelled the world on the benevolence of a Boss (with all the grumpiness of M). Like James, I was good at what I did, like James I was not ready for commitment. I played the field and had dalliances with the old and young, the beautiful and bold, Caucasian, Nubian and those in-between. On occasions when I settled, I settled for the wrong ones or was blithely betrayed- just like the 007.

It is from this vantage point I see my existential childhood and decades later I try to make sense of my current existence. What is obvious about a man who is thirty-something? I turn to literature for inspiration. The ladies would like to believe it is Mr Darcy, the charming fellow from Pride and Prejudice. I wish to dissuade such minds, Darcy was only eight and twenty courting a one and twenty lass. Thus all things Darcy are twenty something- albeit with a mature hand. Ms Austen perhaps considered this age to be the age of romance and marriage, 200 years later this is very much apparent and prevalent. It is Charles Dickens who persuades profoundly in the tale of two cities; it is there we find the time capsule of a thirty something;

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope it was the winter of despair.

My teacher’s chalk and rod, and Dickens best and worst reveal my life as a thirty something. I lived in both cities, in Paris I gained all fashion and cultural sensibilities and in London I became all Libertarian. How ironic, during Dickens tale, Paris was the source of Libertarian ideals and London the bustling cultural hub. As a Parisian my chiffon scarf laden with charms from Hérmes became my Je ne se qui as I fostered and permeated an aesthetics culture. Yet Paris’s hedonism, socialism and its entire ism’s were the epoch of my disbelief. In London I straddled the incredulity in the frontiers of finance, I watched as stock prices soured and then tumble to thud. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

The day one turns thirty is the day all randomness ends. Of course life was never random, but somehow one was easily swayed into such a belief. The clarion shouts of “whatever will be, will be” quietening to reflective slurs of “whatever shall become of me?”

The evolution of man is such that with each decade the best is drawn out of him and at each stance in the music of life he faces his worst fears. As a teenager he is not confident enough to face his fears or strive for what is best, the mental and the will power lack, except in his dreams. A decade later perhaps through daring acts, or as a reward to schooling accomplishment he is recruited by the MAN. The Man makes him an agent, to what ends he does not question, he does another man’s bidding.

A decade later he recognises that no matter what he does, the seasons of life are part of existence. He cannot run away from these, he must make the best of summer and prepare for the worst of winter. Therein, the difference between the magnificent from the insignificant!

But he is still a hero nonetheless, albeit with no super human powers. At least he has the potential. The difference is the realisation that to be a hero requires neither super natural abilities nor a licence to kill. Every man has in him the ability and wherewithal to cast wide his reach and achieve. One need not have a boss; a man is his own Boss.

I find Thomas crown, as played by Steve Macqueen (in the Thomas crown affair of 1968) as the quintessential gentleman of thirty something. Thomas crown is a multi-millionaire of a rip age of 36, divorced and lives in Boston, in a 3 storey, 150 year old house with an elevator and a man servant at his call.

Mr Crown is his own man in every sense, from his business, fashion sense, opinions and all manner of discretions. As a divorced thirty something, we reveal the scars of life but inert is still the thrill of life. He outwits his contemporaries and boredom ensnares him to plot a heist. Reminding us a man is not composed of sonnets and odes of the ecclesiastical goodness, he lives with an evil side as well.

I cannot but think about the head teacher with chalk and rod who impressed upon me Victorian treatise. That besides the brunt and pitfalls of a Victorian harsh hand, there was Victorian wisdom in Dickens, Hardy, Lawrence, Austen and Bronte. The chalk I have learnt, prolongs my summers and keeps me warm in winter, the rod I suppose reminds me when at times I forget to prepare for winter, innate are the years I experience the harshest and coldest winds. I have turned out to be a gentleman of sort, and if you do not like me, well that is just too sad.

Double espresso please

2011-04-06T12:32:00.001+01:00

"How would you like that served sir, how many sugars"? The waiter asked and paused, waiting for a reply. I paused and looked at him and did not let my frustrations show; “ no sugar please” I answered and the waiter moved on. How should a double espresso be served I thought, is there any other way of serving a double espresso? At that moment I had a premonition which became true as the events unfolded, the waiter brought my espresso in a big coffee cup.

There is a tiny café in Marrakesh that serves the best espresso ever. It was in the early hours of the morning and keen to get some sun and wear my plaid Tommy Hilfiger shorts I had bought the day before I headed for the streets of Marrakesh. Before long I had found a perfect spot at the corner of the café with a wide view of the walking traffic outside. A peculiar hobby I picked up on sometime, I reckoned if bird watching can be a sport then people watching must have superior intended benefits. I opened my vanity fair and picked on a story I had slept on the night before.

The café had the attended displays and decorations of all Moroccan splendour with a heavy savory aroma of roasted coffee beans. I knew I was in the right place. Music was playing in the background, almost drowned in the hollowness of the wooden floors but enough to have a distinct rhythm and rhyme. Like wolves howling, tearing apart the stillness of the night, the sound system clearly playing a record vinyl crackled and howled reggae dub beat. The slow rhythmic thud and echo of every sentence heard was enough to have my heart pounce in a tizzy and in absentia nod my head in unison to the hypnotic, slurred melody. I made note of the song it was Outkast classic SpottieOttieDopalicious and momentarily stopped reading as I became engulfed in the moment.

My double espresso came, in the right little espresso mug, the handle hole not even big enough to fit my index finger. With my espresso came a complementary dark chocolate tab. I put down my magazine, sipped the very hot liquid and made a bite of my chocolate. The sound knocking on my eardrums I remained engrossed in this meandering and teasing delirium.

It was not just me in selfish delight, fellow patrons in conversations or reading the daily newspaper like regulars were and in adulation of the establishment. I noticed two rascals with their mother feverishly poking her and demanding something, like marijuana junkies impatient for a spiff. The mother seems to abide and offers the rascals their due and in turn the kids were smugly content. I became curious and asked the waiter if I too could have my due. Soon enough I was chewing on these succulent caramel palm dates with my second espresso and soon enough was namby pamby.

After a while I paid my dues and thought of the day ahead. It was the best way to spend the morning and vitalise before a photo shoot in Marrakesh.

But today, far from Marrakesh I got served an espresso only in name. What I expected came to naught and instead of vitality I got agitated, ruining the rest of my day. Oh well at least I had my ipod in hand. I drew a money note from my money clip and nicely placed it on the table. Picked up my novel, stood up gently placing my ear phones in the right ear and my finger tapped play. Outkast was my only redemption.

The delightful perfume

2011-04-01T13:50:00.000+01:00

Little by way of small joy is enjoyed in this tumulus world than the whiff and engulfment of perfume. Of all the wars, warts and all, the only war I will fight for is for the girl that smells just right. You have met her before, she stood next to you and you turned. She walked past you and immediately followed her path. Infatuated with the odours, the nostrils gapping for more and the heart in dalliance purely because of scent.

I am hay feverish, so too much and too strong will make me sneeze in disgust. Too little and too generic will make me easily forget-or remind me of my grandmother’s soap. Just right and it will be recorded in my memoirs.

Is it not a funny state of encumbrance that of all disabilities, the sense of smell is the least suffered? Yet so true indeed that it’s the least put to use. How can this state of affairs be fair? God hath blessed to perfection this singular strength as the great source for mating decision. The nose is an instrument as powerful as a doctor’s stethoscope yet it’s sparingly used.

Not mine, I relish in being mesmerised by fragrance on a woman. It sets me off in a reverie of memories of sunset’s cruises, beach strolls on white sandy plains or picking a basket of fruits from an orchard. It reminds me of my teenage flirtations with the giggly prettiest of pretty girls on a purple Jacaranda laden street at the tail end of Spring, when the heavens opened and the first drops of wetness drenched her white blouse.

The smell of the first rains, the sight of firm breasts still defiant of gravity pressing against the blouse- almost popping out. A painter could very well put on canvass this moment, capture the hues and make still the expressions of adulation. For me, all this can be captured in a scent.

Do not confuse my musings for a hearty romantic, which is not the case. Rather it’s remembering the vigour, vitality and eagerness of youth in play with nature and fondling the weather. To encapsulate this moment in a 100ml bottle is magical.

It is not my youth that is poignantly bottled as fragrance, it is also particular sceneries. I remember my first time being in the Serengeti. Dry Savannah prairie, that stretches forever. The air is still and dry and the heat scourging. The mirage makes one dizzy and the moment like no other. No semblance of life around, until the evening and camping under the stars, the sounds of the darkness are heightened and trepidation fills the air. Perfume, in my opinion has the same effect on a woman, serene during the day before making her vibrant for the evening.

Sometimes, a perfume or a scent can capture a period in history well. At times I wonder what the 20’s were like, or what society was like during the Victorian era. Like music I believe scents do have their periods. This is what inspired perfumes like chanel’s No 5 to capture a period in history and all that was glorious at the time. I must hasten to add that the best scents are made more of natural ingredients and its best to avoid any scent named after a celebrity. Celebrities are fleeting and so are their associated fragrances. For more, a good read is Essence and Alchemy

It’s really fascinating that perfume and the use of fragrance became a routine chore before bathing was done regularly. Back then perfume could cover the stench from not bathing, today perfume bares all in a woman. From her sense of erotica –is she playful, intense, sensual, easy to please, mundane, does not care to her sense of well being-personality, caring, aesthetics, branding and desires.

Given the many prospects perfume has, why is little attention paid to citrus, musky, sandalwood, woody, honey, fruity inspirations that a wearer immediately assumes. More attention is given to fake hair and extensions, make-up (that is to literally make up something were there is deficiency) and stiletto for posture. I have my qualms with the hair and make-up and in the least stilettos but I find it redundant when a woman pays little attention to her true box of charm-perfume. Is it not true, that after a girl is gone the only thing a guy is left with is the girl’s fragrance still enamoured on his sheets.(of course the fake hair has its fair share of count-much to the disdain of every gentleman). Indeed the fragrance is the only unforgettable thing. Quite shameful then if it’s Elizabeth Aden that I get to content with.

Years ago when nobility was still in fashion, the Nobles would bath in scented waters with scented hand made soap, scented candles and burn incense acquired from faraway travels. This ritual made it easy to distinguish the nobles as they strolled in the market place. The three kings brought gifts of luxury to the new born son of man, myrrh-fine scent oils, Frankincense- incense and Gold. We are told these were wise men. I concur. Nothing distinguishes one as they stroll along in today’s’ society than wisdom and one’s scent.

What I remember most from the girl at the parking lot coin machine in Sandton, the girl buying a Baguette along St Germaine in Paris, the girl at the airport check-in at Heathrow, the lady I sat next to at the charity dinner in Harare, is unadulterated, unflinching doses of delightfully perfect fragrance. Subtle and kind to the noise, gentle capsules of an aesthete, vivid nuances of personalities of the wearer, vibrant aroma and alluring zest. Enchanting notes of elegance, entreating charm and the staid countenance made me remember long after the encounters.

The encounter was brief but the whiff lingered longer and brought with it all sorts of permutations in my head. Primarily why this little joy can never be enjoyed longer and shared amongst all mortals. Alas, it’s enough to keep me happy for another day.

Giving up bespoke

2011-03-25T10:03:00.000Z

I will admit that on occasion I have been known to steal away a few minutes from the crowd and clandestinely- with a hat covering my face- buy off the rack apparel. Once I came across a suit that had the details and lining to tempt me a fitting. I sneaked into the fitting room, hurriedly suited myself and looking into the mirror I did admire the fine posture and tailoring. Of course I had one or two details I was not happy about but in all sincerity the suit was wearable.

It was a Gucci suit, brown pin striped, single button, light wool and thin lapels. I bought it, and when I arrived in my apartment I nicely cut off all Gucci insignia before taking it to my tailor for “enhancements”. My tailor was visibly distraught-but the financial crisis meant he could not turn away a customer and so agreed to the enhancement. Being curious he tried to find the label of the suit but none sufficed, he turned to me and I remained as brood as ever and did not bat an eye-lid. After sitting down and agreeing on the amendments I happily returned a week later to a well fitting suit. To ensure my tailor remained happy I ordered a shirt from him.

Bespoke ( cloth/fabric in the tailor’s shop that has already been spoken for)suit tailoring is a dying art and Savile Row remains unflinchingly dedicated to this art. We live in a world of instant gratification, instant coffee and instant Polaroid. Instant coffee- which by the way is not coffee at all- takes roughly 7 minutes less to make than filter coffee (provided the beans have already been roasted.

If it takes time and consideration then perhaps it is not worth it the current mantra goes. This is a funny state of affairs- Ipad2 is introduced even before one has gotten around to unpacking Ipad1. Some may want to motivate the reasons for this, but I cannot understand why. Medical reports allude to life expectancy increasing and yet people can no longer wait. It is good to know I will live longer than the six week wait for a suit, but more importantly I do not suffer from buyer’s remorse a disease those people in high street suffer from. Indeed, Instant joys are never everlasting; they fizzle out as quickly as they come.

It is easy to be dismissive of my treatise as pure snobbery or aristocratic pretensions. My reflections are of neither but stem from the very gallantry of self-made persons. My family blood, background and connections ensured no advantage in life. From a time my father passed on I have had the burden of family and personal ambition. I have worked hard, sweated blood to simply survive. Yet the more and more I continue on the journey the more I am proud of being a self-made man. In my travels I have met men who are recommended by family and political connections, men from low abode who have made it their ambition to marry into rich families or politically powerful families.

Or those already given the advantage of blood and so only seek connections with those of similar breed. Such is the playground of life, which my disposition and pride could never fathom. I had to fight purely on merit. But from this comes a self awareness of one’s personality and creed. I owe no allegiance to anyone but only to my whims and desires. Invariably, over time I have become acutely aware of those endeavours that accentuate and perpetuate who I am as an individual. Bespoke is naturally the only dressing endeavour that enhances individuality. A man is just as the wolf in sheep’s shire

While many have a heritage to keep and others a heritage to perpetuate, I consider myself the first to build a heritage. It becomes important to furnish my life with those distinct attributes future generations can find as worthy heritage reserves of knowledge, talent, will power and above all aesthetics. I imagine and model myself as the original Medici family and propagating the foundation on which the renaissance period would be etched, as the “ dazzling light to future generations of what man can be and do”. Fashion is one aesthetic pursuit and bespoke a necessity. My collection of suits and shirts tailored as presenting a peculiar heritage shall be handed down to all my descendants as symbols of personality and art. Bespoke tailoring is the haute couture of the self-made man.

Bespoke gives me the benefit of total control over the fabric used, the colour of the suit, its structure/build and any peculiar subtle fine detail I may require. It gives me unlimited access to a tailor whose scissors is the chisel modelling stone into sculpture. Many instances a man finds himself clothed in whatever the ignominy of high street and high labels have deemed to be in season. Everything is mass produced and manipulated to pander to the crowds. For a moment picture those hideous high collar shirts (with three collar buttons) our young men are prone to wearing these days. If there is a revolution that we should take seriously in these times its the burning of such shirts-I am rather tolerable of Mubarak than these shirts. . Bespoke on the other hand is truly an extension on one’s skin, an appendage to one’s personality. It is an expression of gallantry and charm of the wearer and not borrowed adroitness.

I have invested all my savings into a business; invariably I do not have extra dollars for my fashion pursuits especially for visiting a bespoke tailor. I face the inordinate trivia of either not shopping at all, or joining the off the rack band wagon. Indeed I have given up shopping. For a while now I have not gone shopping. It makes sense to me, why should I shop and get instant gratification for something that is not real at all that builds no heritage for my house. So I have given up bespoke for the meantime while I sort out my finances.

The Dream called Franschhoek

2011-03-16T08:32:00.000Z

The best of the world is usually in us or in Franschhoek. Those that follow my writings would perhaps be at pains to know where in history this quote is from. No spatial reference to history will yield except that I came up with this saying after spending and taking a double take of Franschhoek, enjoying the heightened experience of my palate. Indeed with no palate, the essentials of Franschhoek are lost on an individual.

Asked once what my occupation was I lied to impress; “GQ’s international stylist at large but mostly a gentleman of leisure” I said with such aplomb. You see she looked like she had just sprung out of a page from Vogue and her tan in the middle of winter betrayed habitual summering in those Caribbean islands that are very hard to pronounce. She looked at me, the least surprised and I reckoned a “wow” would suffice. None sufficed but a snigger and retort- I “work for GQ you know” and I am coming from Franschhoek. She walked away, with a triumphant stride, but Franschhoek stuck with me!

My board was a quaint Cape Dutch cottage on a wine estate within the vicinity of the village. If you are interested in the history of Franschhoek, 1694 this dream was “founded”. The story goes the Dutch sailors given to highly intoxicating drink, merriment and the love thereof where somehow unable to preserve correctly the wine they imported from France. The story continues either they finished all the barrels before the cape of Goodhope or whatever was left was badly preserved. The innovative answer came to bare- invite the Frenchmen from the vineyards of Bordeaux and Champagne and in Franschhoek (French corner) they would make the finest and best wines and the ready market of thirsty Dutchmen would pay for their keep. The Frenchmen got more sun on skin and the Dutchmen more wine in their blood.

This anecdote was furnished to a rather enthusiastic wine tasting crowd by a rather excitable, funny (in an off the cuff sort of way) and slightly inebriated fellow at Haute Cabrier- the makers of the finest South African champagne and wines. The tour was grand, and after tasting the Magnus opus Ratafia my head was dizzy, I was slightly giddy- and noted the dangers of a desert wine before lunch!

How does one capture the total magic and setting in Franschhoek, a little village town surrounded by vineyards owned by the best gentlemen of South Africa. Best, purely on account of having the good sense of buying real estate in this space where anything not Cape Dutch, white, spacious, vintage, is decidedly frowned upon. It must be a relief knowing your neighbour is not only Rothschild & Rupert (or similar iconic name) but because of the municipal bylaws, MTV grotesque architecture is forbidden. The Law, ladies and gentleman is peculiarly stylish in these parts.

The best afternoon was spent in cheese tasting at Fair view. It is a 30 minutes drive from the village and there I had my dalliance with the finest cheese in the world. Reminds one of the teenage dalliance with the best looking girl from the best girls school. A whisper and brush of the lips was enough to get me excited then, now it’s cheese and yogourt!

Feeling romantic, Dieu Donné, the restaurant that overlooks Franschhoek was our rendezvous. She had her hair pulled back wearing a pencil slim cherry skirt with a white body hugging vest- her black heels matching her belt. Conversation flowed, but I could not get over her body in the cherry skirt. We viewed the village lights in awe and wonder and speculated if ever a place on earth was as close to perfection as that moment. And if ever possible two beings can be in that perfect moment. It was a perfect picture!

"Being Black"

2011-03-14T10:38:00.000Z

No one subject has been the epic of conversation than the idea of what it is to be black. February, the black history month is littered with praises to this idea called black. Beyonce, inspired by Fela Kuti has added to the dogma, in her own way. Whatever the disagreements in the conversations, the essentials of being black are topical. There is of course the stereo type of what black is, flip the coin and one finds what black is not.

I have toyed with the idea of blackness and tried to understand wherefrom this idea stems and where to this idea takes me. This essay, I warn the reader is rather biased. I make no apologies for this. However, I do hope the reader burdened with my thoughts would be kind enough to be a passenger to my discourse and enjoy more the journey in conversation with a stranger than where we end up.

I was born Black- itself a pejorative term I was branded with on my birth bed. Of course as a baby I was branded in more ways than this. I was given a shona, Christian name to go with my shona ancestral surname. The contradictions were blurred, tradition interred. I was given a totem, tribe and village- my birth rights were confirmed by a piece of paper. Thus the nurse- in mandatory duty inscribed on my hospital tag-black. She had, I am sure performed this task many times. The joy of a new born baby was not on her face but rather on my mother. Hers was a mechanical performance. As far as she was concerned another black male had been born. She performed the national and worldly duty of recording on a card that another black male had been born.

This journey, from my first breath to the many decades I have been on this earth has been the same. The most identifiable feature about me is my blackness- something I never chose, I was simply branded. There is a difference between a feature and a trait (embodied in character). The feature is perhaps what the nurse saw on my birth bed- if one were to ask her she would say she saw a black baby. And the world does this so often, I do it as well. I see certain features and I immediately infer whether black or any other race- conjecture is little. Second to this are particular traits- the usual “oh that’s so black” leaves one with an inference that indeed there are traits and qualities that are black. It is the feature meshed with trait that the world goes by in composing blackness.

I cannot with certainty question this insight. Perhaps it is what it is. The kinky hair, chocolate skin, thick lips and broad behinds are a matter of fact. The laugh, expressions, language and customs are identifiable traits. It is what it is. But to end there is a failure of the mind and failure to interrogate the essence of blackness.

This essay is essentially an interrogation of “being black” rather than the features and traits that stereo type blackness. By identifying what “being black” means I hope to knock on the door of black consciousness and walk the annals of an idea cradled in the heart of Africa.

The movie gladiator has a scene I have often pondered on. The emperor Marcus Aurelius sits and whispers to his favoured general Maximus and talks of taking back the Roman Empire to the senate and making it a republic again. In melancholy he questions the war victories and the military show of might- desperately trying to find meaning. Maximus chastises the Emperor, and beguiles the virtues and might of Rome- the city state the soldiers have defended. The emperor asks Maximus how he can defend and uphold the virtues of a city he has never been to- for an idea he was never part of in creating. Maximus, a Spaniard (i.e not even Roman) in defending the idea called “Rome”, a civilisation that was like no other, is illustrative of the idea of being.

That is the idea of of “being Roman” was not particular of certain features or traits. The Emperor representative of all that was glorious and might about Romans, blood as pure as ice was far away from “being Roman”.

The paradox continues later on in the movie when the son as new emperor wants to mate with his sister to produce a pure heir to the throne (this was the culture especially in Egypt where a pharaoh had to be of pure blood to sanctify his rulership) .It took a foreigner, a person of vile slave background, impure blood to be the general and symbol of “Being Roman”.

Heidegger in his study of Being-called it an ontological expedition of Dasein. To simplify- what does it mean to exist? What is the very nature of existence? Existence is that which is alive beyond the physical.

“Being black” entails an idea that is alive beyond the physical features and traits. It must invoke the idea of blackness beyond what the nurse saw, what people see. The debates that have ensued have dwelled and laboured hard in arguing a feature is what is black. They have argued, black was never defined by black people themselves but rather by white people. The white race in defining what is black ensured exclusivity to what is white. Thus, the argument goes, a white man in Africa cannot term or identify himself with Black Africa because he has not the requisite features or traits. His features are European. Only pure bloods, only pure bloods are allowed. That is foolish.

It is foolish to tribalise consciousness. I as an individual can never characterise my very consciousness. What is alive in an individual is not the physical manifestation of one's being. What is alive is rudderless, matterless, featureless, dimensionless conscience . It is quite so with nation hoods and state hoods. A people can never be bordered and defined by the physical planes of a place.

We have seen this with the Diaspora, sons and daughters of three or four generations that have never been to Africa but identify with the idea of being black. It is very much so that the kindred spirit of being black is alive.

The essence of blackness is hard to fathom and I would like to believe further interrogation is in order. But I know enough to know what is not Black. Meat and bone coloured with a certain shade of black can never be the essence blackness. “Being black” is not an absolute phenomenon, it cannot be what we see. It is an idea that very well encapsulates our existence as black people. One should not be easily fooled by the expedience of identifying blackness with affirmative action, Black Economic Empowerment, returning land to the "true" owners. This is spatial, shallow and it too shall pass. To retain credibility supporters and beneficiaries of such programmes have to tout and define blackness as an absolute manifestation. However much booty they may acquire their folly should never be ours.

On the shortness of life: Seneca

2011-02-08T12:39:00.000Z

"It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing. So it is—the life we receive is not short, but we make it so, nor do we have any lack of it, but are wasteful of it. Just as great and princely wealth is scattered in a moment when it comes into the hands of a bad owner, while wealth however limited, if it is entrusted to a good guardian, increases by use, so our life is amply long for him who orders it properly.

Why do we complain of Nature? She has shown herself kindly; life, if you know how to use it, is long. But one man is possessed by an avarice that is insatiable, another by a toilsome devotion to tasks that are useless; one man is besotted with wine, another is paralyzed by sloth; one man is exhausted by an ambition that always hangs upon the decision of others, another, driven on by the greed of the trader, is led over all lands and all seas by the hope of gain; some are tormented by a passion for war and are always either bent upon inflicting danger upon others or concerned about their own; some there are who are worn out by voluntary servitude in a thankless attendance upon the great; many are kept busy either in the pursuit of other men's fortune or in complaining of their own; many, following no fixed aim, shifting and inconstant and dissatisfied, are plunged by their fickleness into plans that are ever new; some have no fixed principle by which to direct their course, but Fate takes them unawares while they loll and yawn—so surely does it happen that I cannot doubt the truth of that utterance which the greatest of poets delivered with all the seeming of an oracle: "The part of life we really live is small." For all the rest of existence is not life, but merely time.

In short, run through the list of all these men from the lowest to the highest—this man desires an advocate, this one answers the call, that one is on trial, that one defends him, that one gives sentence; no one asserts his claim to himself, everyone is wasted for the sake of another.

Ask about the men whose names are known by heart, and you will see that these are the marks that distinguish them: A cultivates B and B cultivates C; no one is his own master.

And then certain men show the most senseless indignation—they complain of the insolence of their superiors, because they were too busy to see them when they wished an audience! But can anyone have the hardihood to complain of the pride of another when he himself has no time to attend to himself? After all, no matter who you are, the great man does sometimes look toward you even if his face is insolent, he does sometimes condescend to listen to your words, he permits you to appear at his side; but you never deign to look upon yourself, to give ear to yourself. There is no reason, therefore, to count anyone in debt for such services, seeing that, when you performed them, you had no wish for another's company, but could not endure your own."

In defense of Kanye West

2011-01-31T20:45:00.003Z

A man who dresses this good must be forgiven seven fold times. But wait a minute the good book says forgiveness should be a running stream no matter what for any man, in no particular preference. Yet the world has chosen to persecute the greatest imaginative mind in the music industry at the moment. Admittedly, there is something off about Kanye west, clearly Kanye is no breath of fresh air- but he certainly is a Superstar!

Kanye West is arrogant- the mob shouts in chorus, persecute him and ban his music from the airwaves. He is the wrong role model cries the parent – in vain trying to keep his/her kids from listening to Kanye. Is this not an indictment that something is badly wrong with our society, quick to persecute a man for simply not having the inclination to pretext his askance with please and may i? Kanye has no manners, point taken. Kanye is a manic MC whose inspired words and rhyme have taken music to another level-This point should be taken.

Unwrapping Mr West’s album felt like walking into Picasso’s Museum in Barcelona, one is simply entering a zone. A zone where you return never the same, the grandeur of the tour is a glimpse of works of art of a genius!. A twisted genius nonetheless. Picasso introduced the world to blue and pink emotions, Kanye introduces the world to pink fantasies of a Socrates kind,( more chocolatie) in a Murciélago.

In recent times I have had my own existential crisis. I have tried to understand my life and what life really means. I had my sad moment, until I read L. Mises and the words “the fully satisfied individual is purposeless, he does not act, he has no incentive to think, he spends his days in leisurely enjoyment of life. Whether such a fairy-like existence is desirable may be left undecided. It is certain that living men can never attain such a state of perfection and equilibrium.” Kanye made me understand that life is a constant flux .Here is one individual who is never satisfied, who has made the world of music better off!

Vumba

2010-11-16T05:07:00.000Z

It was Coco Chanel who made us understand the necessity of luxury in our lives. Asked what the opposite of luxury was she quipped; “vulgarity”. In today’s world there is no shortage of vulgarism – if in doubt hop on a plane and land somewhere between Dubai and Abu Dhabi, better yet Las Vegas. Turn on the TV and watch MTV cribs. If you manage to not vomit in disgust, then perhaps your stomach is sterner than mine! Standing at the edifice of the Vumba mountains I could not help but reflect on Coco Chanel’s insight- tucked away in the Eastern Highlands of Zimbabwe at the border with Mozambique the spectre of Coco’s Luxury descended.

Yet it is not Chanel who impresses a philosophy in these parts. Rather it is the Roman Emperor Hadrian, the last of the classical era who having lived 400 years after the classical glory in Athens went about to recreate and model everything Athenian. Recreating the ebb and flow, the art and triumphs of a by-gone time as a musing to the Roman generation of his time. In essence he captured the very best Kodak moment of Athens and its satellites.

Vumba, spanning a 24 km road of sharp curves around misty mountains and steep descents, captures the very best of the Victorian England and its satellite the Scottish highlands. It is important to step into this mist of Luxury with history in mind. The British colonial settlers at the time believed in Vumba they had found a little England, and so went about to pick their favourite grand pieces in Victorian times, recreating the cobble stone roads, architecture , castles, gardens and lakes in the most picturesque mountains and valleys.

The best in Luxury of the Vumba culminates at Leopard Rock, named after the Leopards abundant in the mountains. Perhaps it is important the reader understands why I write about the Vumba and Leopard rock in particular. Zimbabwe, after the lost decade has some of the most appalling and overpriced hotels in Africa. Most with the exception of a few tell epic stories of former glory and the hospitality is disparate and poorly. Leopard rock, recently refurbished is munificent with grandeur of the highest notch and gives one reason to still believe in the Zimbabwean hospitality.

It was refreshing, being welcomed by dapper members of staff in navy blue blazers, white shirts, striped ties and chino trousers that were quite adept in handling the trivial and peculiar requests of a gentleman at leisure. I was suitably impressed with the home-made vanilla ice cream that comes in generous proportions and served on the terrace overlooking the wondrous garden. Every detail in the hotel has been done by a deliberate hand and an eye with a penchant for timeless splendour.

Horse riding in the game reserve, betrays visions of the English gentleman hunting hounds in Winchester- with the backdrop of whispering spring waters racing down a gorge. The gardens defeat in meticulousness all that is beautiful in Bath and rival Chateau Versailles. Decadence of mind and body is best served at the spa, after which a leisurely walk in the gardens inspires romantic prose even in a brute.

On occasion, I sampled the best of Vumba. Driving leisurely I meandered the sharp bends, reminiscent of the South of France, up the mountain right up to Mountain Heights- at the apex the breath taking view was an awesome reminder of the creative hand that moulded earth. A walk in the botanical gardens is like stepping in into the very best of Hardy’s distinct prose. Everything dressed in perfection.

Further down my inquisitive pursuits landed me at Eden Lodge. It is at Eden Lodge, I found the staff very helpful and again bending backwards in entertaining my little nuisances. Upon discovering a quaint spot in the gardens overlooking the gorge, I was obliged with a table and chairs and devoured my generous portion of t-bone steak with rice. Priced at $10, this was a dead giveaway, considering the calf whose fine cut of tender steak I made my lunch, was slaughtered on the Estate that very day. I was tempted to simply take a nap after such a meal right there in the garden, without further hesitation I made a pillow out of my jacket and snored the afternoon away. Early evening saw me peddling a canoe at the Eden dam, a pleasant way of sipping sun downers.

Again another show stopper, is the Inn on the Vumba that serves a five course dinner. The Inn is not in the best of conditions, a little TLC would help, but the dining room is such a warm and cosy hideout and the food divine. Serving aLá carte menu, I chose the five course menu starting with chicken livers with bread fingers, and the appetiser homemade maestro soup. Trout, captured that afternoon, was my main course served with jacket potato and delicious vegetables. I skipped desert and settled for cheese and biscuits served with tea.

For Afternoon High tea then Tony’s coffee shop is the idyllic rendezvous. Its confectionary, I was to be made aware of is world renowned. I consider myself a connoisseur of confectionary of sort and I have numerous tooth fillings to show for it- and this has to be the BEST cake and coffee shop in the whole wide world. Total decadence, scouts honour! This is the sort of place that needs no Homer myth to populate its sweetness. Only your test buds will attest.

I realise I could go on, and tell of every tale of the Vumba, but the locals will attest zviri nani kuzvionera pamhuno sefodya- its better you see it for yourself.

Apologies for this post not appearing earlier.

The Renaissance man

2010-07-22T12:10:00.000+01:00

In recent years men have been described by many adjectives in light of the recent advancement in our human civilisation and socialisation of the 21^st century. As the walkman was replaced with the ipod, the yesterday man and his mantle have been replaced by today’s man with his mettle. The iconoclast verve epitomised by Beckham is the metro-sexual, diametrically in opposite to Claude van Dame, the brute of the 90’s.

While the debate ensues on the world’s idealistic creature to amplify manhood- an amble crisis of sort has landed on male shores. Maleness crisis is symptomatic of how masculinity has become emasculated, blurred and the prospects bleak. Similar, to the 14^th century nonchalance that persuaded individuals to seek inalienable truths of the world, rather than accept the then collective mantra. The answer then, as is now, is the Renaissance man.

A renaissance is a renewal; then in 14^th century Italy it was a renewal of Athenian classical antiquity virtues and ideals. The Renaissance man was simply one who had mastery of skills or knowledge from a wide variety of fields. It was a belief that man possessed all the essence and determination to excel in all exertions mental, physical and aesthetic.

Samuel Johnson says “A man may shoot the man who invades his character, as he may shoot him who attempts to break into his house.”And so it was a man’s strength of character, determination and ability that saw him rise above the parapet of societal standards and distinguish himself amongst his peers. Often the renaissance period is called the humanistic period, a notion in art, science, travel and idea that firmly puts the individual as the nexus of worldly experience.

The Athenian man was first a seeker and lover of wisdom. The word philo (love for) sophy (wisdom), thus he engaged himself wholly in the quest to seek the truth about the world and exercised logic in his daily life. He was a philosopher! The Renaissance man in 14^th century Italy begun to study Athenian Philosophy and Homeric texts. From these he gained the substance and form of what life is and gained strength of character to discern foolishness.

And so I am confused when the current world lauds the metro-sexual, I ask myself if at all he is a lover of wisdom –a Philosopher beyond just reading, writing and counting? The blame is squarely on Hollywood and our educational system that disguises knowledge with robes of exams. The man who succeeds is one who has mastered the ideals of passing an exam and not necessarily the man willing to die for the truth that he believes.

Another ideal of the Renaissance man was the Warrior ideal. In classical times, a man was a warrior, who defended his family, country and what he believed in. The Roman Empire grew on the basis of these men that would farm their lands during the growing season and fight to increase the empire during the winter. The most revered men were conquerors, men who had exercised ability, skill and determination in the world and not in some film in Hollywood. Valour and a heroic spirit walked side by side with him. Today engrossed in repetitive 9 to 5, shuffling paper, nothing in a man’s spirit calls for his initiation and bravery. He risks nothing, and gains nothing!

Theodore Roosevelt has imparted wisdom and importance of being the man ready for battle; man in the Arena

Recently in a bus I overheard a group of girls talking, one claimed she only dated Bankers and the other claimed she had been cursed with only Accountants. On reflecting and unveiling this conversation I was sad for a moment and sadder for the men mentioned. But such is the world we live in where a man is qualified purely by his vocation, never mind that the world has over a million doctors- he is just defined as a doctor.

Asked who am i? My vocation immediately conjures my personality, success and mindset. My individualistic personality now hardly recommends me or like in most cases my vocation has become the straight jacket in which my individual personality has merely fizzled into. This contrast heavily with the Renaissance man ;perhaps the quintessential renaissance man of this period was Leonardo Da Vinci, who was an artist, an engineer, an anatomist and also pursued many other disciplines with great success and aplomb.

Finally the classical definition of manhood was exemplified by conduct. Decorum was a virtue taught in every man, and each man would in turn become a poet in his life and create the flair -avoir un don pour- to personalise his deeds. Today’s language this is known as swagger, for the Renaissance man it is panache. Valour and Wisdom led the man to battle, but his conduct in battle was equally important. It was not just enough to win a battle, it was important to win with honour.

Why I love man's fashion: a short essay

2010-07-06T08:51:00.002+01:00

Accomplishment is best capped by an immaculate dress sense. Those that have disagreed with this are usually of distasteful inclination to anything aesthetic or have a personality of an ant. Why should an accomplished man be immaculately dressed? Because a man like a chair can never be staid on one leg. A brilliant mind, ability and social grace can all be summed in impeccable dress.

A man’s wardrobe, it has often been commented is an extension of his personality, I argue it is his personality. Think about it how can a snazzy dressed man with swooning presence turn out to be a bore? Dressing, done appropriately epitomises one’s outlook on life and a pedigree in aesthetics- a swagger with a tradition as long as washing hands with soap!

Indeed this was a generally accepted rule in the days of yonder when a man would take at least 3 hours to dress up in the morning. The elaboration was not lost to the lady folk of the time who would scrutinise and deduct a man’s character purely based on his cloth and use of thread. A potential employee would list his bespoke tailor as a reference. Hitherto every man, commoner and noble distinguished himself through the cut and make of his attire. Even when fighting his enemy, cavalry distinction was usually an extension of his beautiful uniform.

So what has changed over the years? Today’s man is described as colour blind and with other non flattery expletives. I suppose like all medieval chivalry, it no longer matters if a man’s character is worth insignia. Men have even abrogated the six week bespoke tailoring experience to off-the rack internet based synthetic suit- and with no shame whatsoever his lady does the buying. Is there a worse insult, than your lady buying a suit for you? Never mind the glaring innuendos about the man’s sartorial sense; this alludes to just how desperate the lady is in the mating game. Imagine Al Capone or the architect Le Corbusier mating with a desperate lady who does his wardrobe shopping. This insult is inconceivable.

Every super hero has a suit- this is not just mere coincidence that saving the world requires appropriately dashing attire, it should be the staple food for any man. Not just the gay man who has taken man’s fashion to be his fiefdom- the straight man needs to reclaim what has always been his kingdom. Savile Row remains the one place in the world I feel like a man, where an appointment with the tailor takes the same importance as a woman’s appointment with her gyna. Where every pampering accentuates my manliness and not as endeavours to question my sexuality. Where upon leaving I am gleaming as ever!

So what is it that I love about man’s fashion, notwithstanding the current state of affairs? I love how naturally important and dashing an impeccably dressed man looks. Because a man who puts much thought and effort to his clothing and sense of style has measured attention to his work and craft. An elegantly uniformed soldier will draw his elegant sword, and fight an elegant fight. Why else would a soldier dress in an immaculate uniform shine his buttons, sword and shoes only to fight in the meadows of dirt, blood gashing in all directions? It’s because he understands the importance of virtues and strength are exemplified by his uniform.

Once on a plane trip, I complemented an elderly gentleman on his attire- he turned and looked rather surprised. For the next 20 odd minutes he spoke to me about where and how he got every piece of clothing he had on. We talked of how the different fabrics available feel on the skin, laughed about what to do when you gain weight and the trousers don’t fit anymore and reflected on why Anderson and Sheppard made the best blazers in the world. We lamented the death of the full Windsor tie, chuckled at Hugo Boss attempts as a serious man’s clothier and agreed that probably the English are plain looking on account of their dress in as much as the Italians are effervescent on the same account and the German’s as stoic as ever.

As a parting shot, the elderly gentleman gave me a business card. I looked at it and smiled, it was a Cobblers’ business card of one eminent cobbler from the hinterland of Florence. I have never been to Florence- but it has now become one of the places I want to visit and perhaps in the stride get a handmade brogue.

Perusing over the top dressed man in history I came across a photograph of Sir Sean Connery and the caption captured my imagination, it went “ because has anyone ever made it look easier?”. The 007, glad in a suit touting a gun and fighting the bad guys was probably my first encounter with Film, the word “espionage”, GQ magazine and then his seductive moves with the ladies made it all look easy, until I tried to buy a suit, watch, and tried one of those cocky lines- in all attempts I failed. And only because I failed did I realise what Sean Connery had and looked simple was just not only a Scottish accent! The entrepreneur Lapo Elkann has taken over this dapper savant mantle in recent years.

What has caused me to write this short essay on Fashion? Coming from Melbourne at the airport, bored stiff I went into a clothing shop with man apparels. I had no intention of buying anything – until I came across this Pictoria/Art illustration book by Jeremy Hackett simply titled Mr Classic with photographs by Garda Tang( book review) . My face lit up and impulsively offered my credit card. The shop keeper looked at me, smiled and asked if it not be better if I first perused the book and see if I would enjoy it.

The Man of the shop angry at such a proposal looked at the lady shopkeeper and exclaimed in a loud voice- “Its Hackett for God’s sake, that’s enough convincing anyone needs”. I smiled a second time, as the gentleman decided to offer me a 50% discount on an aftershave- Taylor of old bond street.

15 hours of flight I spent nibbling at every word Jeremy had to say, sighing at the very detail exposed by the photographs- exposing my ignorance in many sartorial matters, and gaining valuable lessons on life, manhood, courting a lass, clay pigeon shooting and many other adept subjects-and of course fashion. Who says man’s fashion is boring?

What is happiness

2010-07-03T11:16:00.000+01:00

I never did learn much from high school, I was one of those students that breezed through. So every time a high school friend starts a conversation along the lines “do you remember back in high school when...” I shrill and freeze before nonchalantly nodding to whatever they remember. However, I do remember assemblies, and at a boys only school the experience was heightened by the male bondage when the school song was sang.

I don’t even remember the school song now! Usually after the school song, the gentlemen would sing a hymn. Of course I don’t remember most of the hymns but I rather remember this little chant that was sang with male passion and gusto. I don’t know why but I was humming to the tune today and it reminded me of what happiness is and why male bondage is an exceptionally unique ritual:

Happiness is where you are and what you want to be,
If you look you're sure to find the rainbow of your dreams,
Tomorrow's fuller than a thousand yesterdays,
With a vision of a new day in your heart.

Like many lessons in high school I never stopped to reflect. Amazing that with so many holes in my memory I can still remember these particular words. I sang the words but never unravelled the meaning. Today i fully understood the meaning.Happiness is where you are and what you want to be.......

10 worthwhile investments for a man

2010-06-17T10:47:00.001+01:00

1. Watch, not only because the wrist requires an expensive timeless accessory but because a gentleman must always be on time. This is the only mandatory jewellery piece on a man, anything else is just overcompensating for some inherent weakness or simply displaying a knack for distasteful antics

2. Library, whatever certificates you have accumulated are only an indication of how good you are at preparing for an exam- and not how educated you are. A man only gains substance by owning a library of books. Fiction is useful but should not define the collection.

3. Blazer, I have never seen a man who doesn’t look good in a blazer. A Blazer is everyman’s near experience of being a highly decorated 18^th century general. Because it’s an investment, bespoke is a must.

My early memory of my father’s towering dapperness was seeing him in a double breasted navy blue blazer. There was something about those six shiny gold crown buttons that every one respected; there was no reason to justify his opinions they were taken as orders!

4. Vintage car. I am young enough to feel the pressure of the rat race, and doing better than the next guy. What better way to attract young lass than the latest BMW. But the most interesting gentlemen I have ever come across own a classic car. Jaguar 1968 XJK, mustang viper 1968, Aston Martin DB

Admittedly it ages one considerably, but is that not what makes George Clooney sexy.

5. Soccer team or F1 or breed race horses. Nothing says I have arrived more than owning a soccer team, winning F1 racing cars or a couple of pure breed horses!

6. Foreign language. I can never forget a time I attended a seminar and the speaker was Japanese, and by way of introduction spoke in Japanese, he had some encrypted message to convey, he challenged the audience to guess what he had said. In the 2000 strong audience of high flyers, a Romanian gentleman stood up and spoke to the speaker in Japanese. This gentleman became the most interesting person in the room.

7. Hobby. Because everyman requires his quiet moments, alone far from the world to reflect or just to have a sigh. I remember an uncle who was so obsessive about his garden, he spent his quiet moments in the garden or propagating flowers in the garden shed. No-one was allowed to disturb him, it was just him and the flora. I now understand why, beyond leading and taking care of a family, beyond the demands of a highly successful career and other social activities a man needs to do something that he truly owns, by himself in his own cocoon without disturbances.

8. Children. There is a natural inclination for a man to bequeath even just his surname to the next generation. In every culture/society around the world this is a important ritual/tradition especially if the off-spring is male. But how many people have taken the due time and care to think about how their children will turn out.

Your kid’s well being is important, therefore investing in a capable mother for them is important, a trust fund even before their born and ensuring they receive direct tutorship in their education. A governess is important to shield them from the vagaries of mass education.

9. An adventure: We live in a society were travelling is not as encumbered as it was before. Thanks to the airline folks many of us find it easy to travel to distance lands and experience different cultures. This has become dogma, but few of us invest in an adventure of a life time. The once off, I have been saving up for this for the last 12 years, not just physically, mentally and financially. For example Phileas Fogg around the world in 80 days.

10. Tool Kit. Manly dexterity is such a marvel. You never know when you will need a screw driver or a power drill, owning a tool box is purely functional but a stitch in time saves nine. I have also spotted men with to die for all out silverware Barbecue tool kit, of course there is nothing particularly difficult with a barbecue, but some men have made this into an art.

From a vintage point I observed a jaw dropping performance as this particular dude opened his metal case of tools, the crowd cleared, he pulled his shirt sleeves up, with tools in hand it was a delicate performance- standing ovation all round.

The boy is doing it in Harare

2010-04-22T14:32:00.007+01:00

The Easter holidays were the best I have had in years. I attended the Cape Town Jazz festival, which continues to grow in leaps. Back in 2004, the last show I attended- the festival was still a charming little affair. The years have given it bouts of exuberance and it’s a much larger affair courting fans from all over the globe.

I met 3 of my friends who had made the trek from afar shores- signally how global it has become. Though I enjoyed all the acts, I kept being reminded that the previous year’s show was the best. With nothing to compare with, I ravelled in the exploits of many artists

But, nothing at all prepared me for the Harare Jazz Festival this last Saturday at Harare Sports club. Still dazed in the aftermath of the Cape Town festival, I thought $50 a ticket was a tad too much. I got more than I bargained for, and so did 5,000 other Jazz fans. Tuku kicked off with his late son’s band to a sombre soliloquy of tunes written by his late son- being a novice of his late son’s music I rather thought the lyrics were foretelling a premonition in waiting

If Tuku’s performance was mediocre ( quite understandable given the circumstances), the crowd was soon jumpstarted by the Sibongile Khumalo. It’s not only the variation of her voice that captures the ear lobes but this larger than life (literally) character did in one act what Mama Makeba did in a show. The jazzy tapestry experienced was indeed world class.

Of course the night belonged to bra Hugh. The husky voice bellowed, blew the sax, cracked a joke and made hissing sounds of a train heading “ deep deep DEEP, DEEP down the mines of egoli”. The boy was doing it in Harare. I have heard bra Hugh’s music in London and Cape Town, but in Harare he connected with the crowd like no other, reminiscent he did say, of his time in the 80’s in Harare.

Although most of the patrons were local, something in the air told me Harare is back. I suppose people by nature are a herd, waiting for the buzzer to go off and see what Harare is like. In my mind, 10 years from today we shall recount when the turn occurred, I shall argue bra Hugh was the signal.

On the streets of Edinburgh

2010-03-18T09:31:00.000Z

Once upon a time in Lagos

2010-03-15T07:43:00.004Z

My first trip to Nigeria was two years ago to the day. I was full of anticipation, yearning to finally experience a nation I had heard a lot of. I flew into Lagos on Virgin Nigeria from Accra and most of the passengers were Ghanaian and very chatty. On finding out that this was my first trip to Nigeria, they had all sort of advice and warning. “Be careful my son”, a beautiful old Lady I sat next to said to me in her Ghanaian accent, “thaz people, ummmm”. I nodded my head like any obedient son would; simultaneously clutching the wad of cash in my back pocket and the thickness confirmed it was still all there. I had read and heard about the animosity between the two nations dating back to the 70’s when Ghanaians were thrown out of Nigeria but I was not about to contradict an old granny. She asked where I was from and when I obliged her, her face lit up. Oh my son, she said “I have fond memories in the 60’s of dating one fine young man from your parts.” Her eponymous sweetheart was the best gentleman she had ever met. She went on for the next 20 minutes or so until she exclaimed “funny how he later turned to be such a rogue”. This time it was my eyes that lit up, and I was full attention. “Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to Lagos ” the announcement went, “ oh NO, not now” I whispered in a hiss to myself, the story was just getting interesting.

My host a close friend, a Zambian I went to business school with, traded Chicago for Lagos. “Bhudhi”- my brother, she asked from Chicago “do you think I should take the job? I was on the other side of the world and of course on a different time zone. She had awaken me from a deep sleep and I had been listening all along to her rant but frankly her call was not welcomed, I wanted to go back to Naomi and Heidi who were about to agree on something I had kindly requested. “ Yes, yes, yes go for it- if the money is good then go for it.” I hang up and quickly tried to get myself to sleep again- hoping Naomi and Heidi would be waiting. I found no such luck.

And so my trip to Lagos was to see how well my friend had settled after a year and if indeed providence had been kind. She had been brave, I thought to myself. One of her drivers was waiting for me- yes dear reader one of her drivers was waiting for me. He was a well suited rotund fellow and quickly identified me- “SAR” he beckoned, I am here to pick you up complements of madam”. Who is your madam I inquired. He then confirmed his madam by calling her after which I allowed him to carry my luggage. First time in Lagos SAR? Yes, yes I answered with heightened anticipation, my eyes wide opened as I surveyed all around me. Well “you are very welcome, SAR” he continued, before going into a tirade about how Nigeria got its independence and its history. I had read about all that, and it was the least of my curiosity- “ are those hookers” I broke his tirade, and at the exact moment he made a quick look over his shoulders from which I observed the big man smile, and he let out a giggle. YES SAR, his voice changed, now much louder with heightened excitement he spoke effusively about Nigerian women, their enthralling charm that will ensnare even the most devout Muslim after Ramadan. Their immutable charm I found out was not in looks and grace but traditional muti (herbs) and if I sampled one of them I would surely leave my job and settle in Nigeria. I smiled and thought “yes maybe Lagos would finally nail me down”.

Before long we were meandering in Victoria Island. I was to find out that the trip was shorter than usual because it was one am in the morning. I met my friend, we chatted and before long I was sleeping in the guest bedroom that could easily be the size of my apartment. My friend was living very well indeed.

The Friday morning my friend left for work and told me to get all the rest I needed because that night was going to be a hectic night around Lagos. I found better ways to spend my time… I perused her library and found a couple of books I would read.

Friday night, my friend called a couple of her friends for cocktails at her place. The swanky bankers came. The conversation oscillated around money, travelling ( by the way travelling meant one had been to either New York or London- I overheard someone retort “ frankly if you have been to NY and London, then you can die knowing you have been everywhere”). They also talked about the deals they were working on- and the numbers were mind blowing and made me think about what the heck I was doing with my life. Outside of their jobs every one of them had a side project and it all seemed to be going on well. I must say I felt out of place for a couple of reasons, firstly I did not come from a well known family nor was my family into politics. Secondly I did not have a million dollars in my account. Thirdly I neither drunk nor smoked, this they looked at with derision amidst a puff in the air of Cuban cigar and a sip of Scotland’s’ finest whiskey.

In Lagos, a night out typically involves dropping by 4 or more places. Literally dropping by. The first place we went to was a club owned by Jay Jay Okocha, of the foot-balling fame. There was hive of activity and a long queue of waiting patrons. We did not join the queue but went in through the back entrance. As soon as I went in, I was hit in the face by the sheer glitz and glam in the place. Everyone was dressed to boot and most guys were puffing on cigars and sipping whiskey. I would later find out that Victoria Island is the only place on earth where fake apparel sells for more than the original and nobody complains. The music was loud and the DJ’s taste obnoxious. Certainly not obnoxious enough to kill my curiosity, I wandered off on my own, since my host had met a colleague from work. The most fascinating thing about this particular club was the way guys would literally circle a girl or two, and the girl or two would do the most Beyonce envy booty hoop ever. I tried to ignore, but it was too much, I gave in. And right there in front of me was the most synchronised scandalous live performance I had ever seen. Was this the charm the driver was talking about? I wondered? Before long my friend came to pick me up and off we went to the next club.

I forget the name of the next place but it’s next to the Yacht Club of Victoria Island. This was a much classier club with much older patrons. The highlight with this club as I suppose every club we went to is the club bouncer. Ladies and Gentlemen in Lagos the bouncer is never to be messed with, he carries on his person an AK47. He brandishes this apparatus like it’s a baton stick, and who dare argue with him? I am not an outgoing individual and night life in general tires me quickly so the third and forth clubs more than anything took a toll on me.

After a splendid night around Victoria Island I was ready to go back home and sleep, before the early morning tour of inland Lagos. When we got to my friend’s complex, around 4am, in the fog of early morning dew my heavy eyes were awoken by the sudden screeching tyres as the car stopped and a heavy knock on the car window made me notice the flurry of activity outside. We looked at each other in wonder, what could possibly be the problem? Madam, Madam, an exasperated guard at the complex shouted towards my friend whilst profusely and unconsciously knocking on the car window. “Abomination, abomination madam”, the guard continued to shout. (I kid you not- he used the word abomination- I later found out he had two masters degrees in engineering and accounting). We then found out that the complex had just been robbed by a militia- yes dear reader MILITIA.

The smell of gun fire was still in the air, bullets everywhere and the gate was crushed down. We quickly ran to her house and yes they had broken in and took jewellery, laptops and money. This particular militia had expensive tastes. I ran to my room, my clothes were all there but my man bag was missing. “I can’t see my passport?” Where is my passport- ah it was in my bag along with my cash. I was not worried about the money, laptop and watch, it was my passport I was worried about. Whilst in Accra, I had been warned of travelling with my cards to Lagos, so my cards, apartment keys and a couple of valuable items were locked away in a hotel in Accra. But i had to carry my passport. We ransacked my room looking for my passport- it was not to be found! Now I was in a predicament. I own an exotic passport, with as many visas as there are countries in the world. Secondly, I did not live in my home country, and at the time had been away from my permanent residence country and on a temporary visa in Ghana. What to do?

Durban with LOVE!

2010-03-09T08:30:00.001Z

Durban is a lady of sort, whose enamouring charm you acknowledge only when you lie on her bed and she chains you with her arms and legs an embrace you hold onto, long after the fateful night. I still think of you Durban! (If ever you are in Durban be sure to visit the Mangwanani spa at Sibaya)

Seychelles and Mauritius :

2010-03-09T08:20:00.001Z

I know a lot of people are holiday planning for the year, and I would like to bring to your attention one of the best holiday resorts. It’s hard to decide which one is better Seychelles or Mauritius, the best is both. Plan a joint escapade into a whirlwind of richer and fuller memories and none but your banker will complain. Coco der mer in Seychelles and Le Victoria in Mauritius for the quintessential holiday making on Islands. Anticipate impeccable service, plenty of sun, sumptuous food (barbeque on desolate small island enclaves) and interesting creatures adorning the shores.

Nairobi demands Peace

2010-01-23T10:31:00.000Z

My second trip to Nairobi had its moments of reflection, brought back by familiar surroundings. I found myself asking what it is Kenyans need the most. It was written everywhere!

Outside of peace, in Nairobi there is an insatiable need to learn, a quest for knowledge and to be empowered. I have decided to be part of this revolution; taking a career break i am going to be a teacher at a High school somewhere in Africa. Teaching A level economics i hope to pass on a passion i have for capitalism, entrepreneurship and self-determination. We can never fully exhaust the reasons why Africa is in its present predicament but we can start to take ownership of our lives.

Wedding/s in Harare

2010-01-11T12:50:00.001Z

"You shall go with me, newly-married bride,

And gaze upon a merrier multitude.

White-armed Nuala, Aengus of the Birds,

Feacra of the hurtling foam, and him

Who is the ruler of the Western Host,

Finvarra, and their Land of Heart's Desire,

Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,

But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.

I kiss you and the world begins to fade." W.B Yeats

Cape Town for my limbs

2009-10-30T09:57:00.002Z

At times what matters most is a room with an ambience and a view for days. Light it up with some sunshine and October blooms and never again shall i complain.

Lost in India

2009-10-29T07:19:00.005Z

My first “real” encounter with India was through the eyes and adventures of Mr Phileas Fogg in around the world in 80days. India, I reckoned possessed a certain spirit and mystique that went beyond the imagination of a ten year old boy. Later on, the India setting would have a different meaning as I read Martin Luther’s story and the impact Ghandi had on his philosophy. But all this never truly nudged my curiosity to venture beyond the written word. Years later, I found myself in India.

If you are reading this, the year is 2009AD and over the last 20 years India has become an outsourcing/off-shoring hub for the world. While the world marvels at the economic progress of this nation, my first 3 week sojourn across India awakened the marvel I read about as a 10 year old.

If ever there was a place that changed significantly my world view and hope for the human race India would be the place. Here stands a nation, endowed with individuals extremely rich and poor, a country no different in beauty and ugliness to the next, with a chequered and glorious past a source for its present hope and angst. Its no paradise, BUT everyone of its people is enamoured with a spirit of determination and is engaged to make his/her life better in whatever little way. If not in this life at least in the next!

Somewhere over the Rainbow

2009-10-11T06:59:00.002+01:00

What lies beyond the rainbow? Toulon, Literally. If you chase the rainbow from Paris heading south, in the Côte-d'Azur region of France you will end up in Toulon. Its a famous city and takes the best of the Mediterranean climate with wonderful landscape. Perhaps one day when i make my pot of gold i too will become a resident of a terra cota villa with endless views of the sea.

Zanzibar

2009-10-06T05:28:00.001+01:00

I am pretty much sceptical about a lot of things. And living in a world where everything is hyped up, a good dose of scepticism is within measure to keep one's sanity. Thus i landed in Zanzibar at my sceptical best, thinking about the many things i could be doing with my time and better places i could be. You see i had just come back from the world famous beaches of Australia- Gold coast and Perth- and Zanzibar just seemed excessive, a broken record. Boy was i proved wrong. I expected to see a lot of Seith Africans and the British crowd, alas it’s the Italians and Spaniards that adorned the white sands and indulge in a lot of activities one could be mistaken for thinking there were somewhere in Europe. er NOT Quite, this place is the most idyllic African paradise you can ever imagine.....yes you can quote me on that one! There is something about the untamed, natural, unspoilt beauty of Zanzibar. (Caveat- not every part of Zanzibar is idyllic- take time to choose the right location)

Lets talk Politics

2009-09-30T21:49:00.001+01:00

Rule number 1: Don't be ignorant

And i posit the next 10 rules are based on rule number 1. Its interesting that no matter where you go, or who you are taking out for dinner the conversation sooner or later will turn to politics. My political thoughts are quite simple, perhaps captured best by the picture. Whereas many claim to be left or right, liberal or conservative i am none of those, just an individual. I do not claim to represent anyone but myself and i would wish no one would claim to represent me.

Enduring London

2009-09-02T20:38:00.001+01:00

What does London mean to me? London is a fusion of diverse interests and norms. I will shy away from using the word culture, because London is a culture on its own. Overtime I have shot interesting perspectives of London, but like any good student I will share the more easy perspectives of London. The more enduring London.

I am sure you have seen a lot of photographer's with their tripods clicking away along Waterloo bridge. Being the curious type i thought i indulge their experience. I saw London, in fresh eyes

Once again i clicked in glee

This was once upon a time a dump site, until an entrepreneur saw an opportunity.

Everyone in London has a station they use the most

I walk a lot, i munch walking whenever i can. When i am happy i walk, when i am sad i walk, methinks walking should be made compulsory. If one day you pay me a visit, we would probably take a walk down this road .