#kasaraniconcentrationcamp

April 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

What is difficult is that during the post-election violence there were prayer meetings in this diaspora, there were vigils, texts of concern, phone calls that extended love and care and anger and hurt. People in many living rooms talked about what was happening. But now I mention Kasarani, Eastleigh and South C and I am met with blank stares—in the same living rooms, by the same people.

That what is happening is unable to pass from not-a-thing to a thing continues to floor me, and reminds me over and again that torturing and killing the Somali body has always been a favorite Kenyan pastime. Indeed, that the figure of the Somali is the disposable and killable yet integral part of no-part of project Kenya.

Fucking Fallen Angels

April 12, 2014 § Leave a comment

I remain forever grateful to the person who fucked religion out of me, gently, assiduously, in the shower; often in the kitchen; that time at the cemetery—and not to forget the other time at the funeral wake. And many other times, quickies, languid sex, angry sex, fast sex, faster yet. Those many, varied moments of postcoital tristesse were always leading me here, to now, to this unknowing—“atheist” does not quite cover it. It is not “I do not believe” or “I do not have faith,” but more “[God is] a nasty surprise in a sandwich.”

And who likes that?

The Numbness For Sound

April 1, 2014 § Leave a comment

My tinnitus, which I mocked and laughed at in the not-so-long-ago past, is winning. The only upside is that now I cannot claim I do not know how to think about sound, for I am immersed in it, even as it emerges from within. Immersed in that which emerges from within. Perhaps, après Nietzsche, my senses are enjoying themselves, rubbing up against each other. And I have had this disquieting feeling that my sensory terroir is recalibrating, that through many unaware moments I am becoming something difficult.

I Am Against The Christianization Of Karma

March 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

What might become available to us if we accept that most “bad” people go on to live happy lives full of love, good sex, pastries, and even brilliant health?

Exhibitionists Without Trench Coats

March 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

I join the nonplussed |well, let me implicate others: I join Keguro and Wambui| in wondering about those who say they have no problem with queers; that what they are against is “exhibitionism,” by which they mean |and this amazes me to no end!| public displays of affection. Being queer, we are told, can be palatable, as long as queers stop “rubbing it in our faces.”

Never mind the many ways |I am borrowing from Keguro here| being queered is having one’s body rendered public through risk and violence. We are invited to ignore how calls for queers to keep their intimacies private often crumble as bedroom doors are routinely kicked down |and ignore, in fact, that the extortion queers face renders what happens privately in hotel rooms public through blackmail|.

And yet it is Wambui Mwangi who captured so appositely how ridiculous this private:public demand is:

On my part |perhaps because I have a rather filmic imagination| I keep wondering how one can be an exhibitionist without a trench coat. The trench coat is, for me, indispensable to proper exhibitionism.

And so I wonder: where are the queers in trench coats!?

“We grew up unaware homosexuals existed”

March 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

From writing, one learns that what we know as “stream of consciousness writing” is staged. That yes it is spontaneous, but just not to the extent we claim it is. Lately I have been wondering how memory, too, is staged, especially through nostalgia.

I spent the better part of yesterday thinking about those who interrupt our memories. From what I have read, to be queer in Kenya is to constantly interrupt people’s memories as they recall an ostensibly prelapsarian time before queers became public. It is to point to the blurred figures at the edges of remembering, figures others claim they never saw but that will always already have been there in a future anterior tense kind of way |if it seems I keep opening the door of re-memory without walking through it, I am|.

And yes, I know there is the problem of evidence when we go searching for bodies-with-identities in the archives. Only I am not searching for bodies-with-identities. What I want is to transpose the threshold of desire |that locus where a mélange of sexual hungers collide with the farrago of semiotics| onto memory. It is in this way that I hope to disarm the certainty of “remembering” into a kind of “there is something there.”

“Brother, I’m Dying”: Queer Death in the Here:Now

March 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

I remain interested in those among us who disrupt the fiction of “it gets better,” those who shout from near-death, those whose voices issue from the pile of dead bodies, those who speak from places and conditions that were mentioned cursorily so that they could be forgotten. I always return to that scene in “Monty Python’s Life of Brian” (see here) when the dead-dying-dead man shouts “I’m not dead yet.” It is precisely this interruption |this I’m-not-dead-yet that intrudes the daily difficult work of dying that has become ordinary| that I am thinking of.

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