"We are the people our parents warned us about" - Jimmy Buffett

Judgement declined

This actually happened a couple of weeks ago. Some random lady condemned me to eternal damnation.

Her “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal lord and saviour?”

Me “Yeah, no … I don’t believe in God”.

Her “You’re going to hell, then. Eternal torment”.

Me “I hope your insides rot as you die scared and alone and your
body gets eaten by hyenas”

Her “That’s horrible! Why would you say something like that to me?”

Me “Really? You’ve just condemned me to an eternity of fire and
torture.”

Her ” … … …”

So your god has judged me, and condemned me to an eternity of damnation. Good for you, hope that makes you feel fucking awesome.

Burning for eternity. Is this the torment of all non-believers?

The possibility is so terrible, so awful, that I’d recoil at the thought if I wasn’t so damn sensible. How can mortal souls deserve such eternal penitence? What vast crime did I commit through the mere act of living my life by my rules? Have we all been personally consigned to this fate? By some so-called god, cruel in judgement, devoid of mercy?

That idea consumes me with rage and indignation. What god (or goddess) dares to presume the right to judge me? That is arrogance too vast to have been fucking earned in any way.

I shall burn in hell, shall I? Try it, and whoever you are, I will find you. I swear it. I will find you and I will cut you down. Humble you. Down to your knees. How dare you!

How dare you fucking judge anyone, when you completely hide your face? When you strip away all possible truth of your existence? Your wilful presence?

Hiding from me, whoever—whatever—you are, is a childish game. An unworthy game for a god, I think.

You claim the right to judge me, as your child? Okay. Face your child. Face all your children. Show me the veracity of your right to cast judgement upon me. Prove your claim to my soul, and I will give it to you wholeheartedly.

Do this, and I will accept you. Remain hidden, even as you consign my soul to suffering, and I’ll hunt you down and slice off your godly balls and stuff them in your godly nostrils.

The only authority I recognise is authority I have given. The only rule I recognise is by assent. Hence, the only judgement I would ever accept is from an authority I personally recognise as having the right to judge me.

Now, for some of you, it might be difficult to understand what I am talking about here. It is a difficult concept, rule by assent. Profound, even.

The ordinary mind isn’t built for profundity, and each time it touches upon the wondrous, it slides away, unable to find a sure footing. No, we do fine with wood-chips flying from the axe’s bite, the nails we drive home, the seeds we scatter, the taste of lager in our mouths, the touch of love and desire at our fingertips.

Once we touch on the more difficult subjects like religion and gods and the nature of the universe, the ordinary mind flees into its comfort zone. Comfort doesn’t lie in the mystery of the unknown and the unknowable. It lies in the home we live in, the faces we recognize, the past in our wake and the future we want for ourselves and ours.

I have no interest in your comfort or, indeed, my own. Comfort is complacency, stagnation and control. Anyway …

So you think this is blasphemy? I bet some of you are secretly wishing your god strikes me down for having the audacity to demand accountability from him. If not to death, at least a humbling personal catastrophe, just to remind me who has the huge, un-sliceable balls?

Here is the truth, kiddies. Some random shit might just happen to me, but that will not be an act of god. Gods do not act … that is one of the things which makes them gods, isn’t it? Let me explain.

Have you passed a beggar on the street, or at the traffic lights, and done nothing? Doing nothing is a choice swollen with omnipotence. It is, in fact, godly.

And this, you should realise, is the reason why your gods do nothing. Proof of their omniscience.

After all, to act is to announce awful limitations, for it reveals that chance acted first, that accidents are just that — events beyond the will of the gods — and all they can do in answer is to attempt to remedy the consequences, to alter natural ends.

To act, then, is an admission of fallibility. And nobody, not even a god, likes to admit that things are out of their control!

So yeah, I don’t believe in your god. Do not presume to judge me. I accept that your beliefs, as silly as they are, are yours to hold.

Show me the same fucking respect.

Goddamnit.

Greatest Song of All Time of the Day


Now, it’s never happened that a new song has become an instant G.O.A.T. here. Until now.

This is Vakirai, a former schoolmate (and band-mate, but that’s a past life), performing his debut single. It’s great to see one of my brothers keeping the flame lit over in the United States, and look forward to his homecoming, especially if he’s bring music like this home.

The song is called Oliver, in dedication to the great Oliver “Tuku” Mtukudzi.

Standing on its own, and as the debut single off a warm, guitar-infused Afro-pop album, this new release has immediately entered my Favourites playlist.

Have a listen, and tell me what you think in the comments.

I love it.

SoundCloud | Facebook | Youtube

HIFA is here … again

hifa

Yes, yes, it’s that time of the year again. Harare International Festival of the Arts 2013. Or as I like to call it, Rastaman’s Christmas.

I’ll be honest though, I’m not *as* excited as I usually am about this year’s Dreadlock Holiday. I can’t really explain my lack of enthusiasm, it’s just not … there. It’s nothing to do with the little Facebook competition kerfuffle I had with HIFA (although the prize still hasn’t materialised).

It’s not even the artists on the bill, because I love Baaba Maal and Prudence and there’s a lot to be excited about, even on the Green. But somehow, this year, I’m just not as excited as I usually am.

Like there’s a spark missing. Anywho … I’ll be there, every day, sampling the culture, the atmosphere, the music. Inhaling shawarmas and Jaipur curries and alcoholic drinks and cigarette (cough) smoke (cough) and laughter, as I always have.

Oh well … forwaaaadhi march.

Left. Left. Left right left.

How to make friends and delineate people

small_talk

Copyright xkcd

I have no problem making small talk. I can dive into conversation with a stranger, or completely ignore either strangers or friends alike, depending on the mood.

Some people don’t find it as easy as I do, though. Maybe I will conduct a study and write a book for those who have trouble forming simple sentences, yet are otherwise highly intelligent, fully-functioning individuals. I mean, why is it you can master the English Language with perfect cadence, structure, and intonation, but aren’t able to make conversation?

Surely small talk should be reducible to, say, a few hundred typical questions, delineated into conversation trees according to the conversant’s responses, how well one knows the conversant, what the current events are, and your societal, bureaucratic or professional position relative to the conversant.

Timing of the questions and the length of your responses would have to be studied as well. You might have to take into account the physical setting; you would obviously speak differently in an office building than in a tavern.

Topics of study could include how to deal with distractions, appropriate degrees of eye (or physical) contact, taking into account cultural variations, and of course the differences in speaking with men and women, subdivided by whether you, yourself, are a man or a woman.

I suppose you might have to include children in the study as well, divided into family or strangers, and obviously how annoying the parents are.

It’s also important to include how to speak with people toward whom you had varying degrees of friendship or interest, romantic or otherwise. Or is it? Should one make small talk differently with a woman whom you think you might like to befriend, than with a woman you had no interest in?

Are there socially appropriate ways to curtail dull conversations? Actually, curtailing dull conversations would take up about half the chapters in the resultingbook.

Anyway. That’s not what my actual book is about (you’ll have to wait until January for that).

My point is, small talk is easy. If you meet me out there, come up and have a chat –  I swear I won’t bite.

Bonus point if you bring a whisky.

Independent, But Not Free

zimbabweflagpatch

(Looking back, I realise I write a post like this every three damn years. It gets kind of depressing, but here goes.)
 

Once again, we celebrate our Independence from our “colonial masters”. It’s a time for joy and media statements and sycophantic hagiographies and grainy footage and Maruza imi and Bony Prince Charlie lowering the Union Jack and Bob’s Zimbabwe on repeat everywhere I fucking go.

For some, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. For me, it’s just more of the same.

Zimbabwe may be free, but her people certainly are not. The reasons are obvious.

There are insult laws, putting certain specific citizens above the rest.

There is no freedom to assemble, discuss and express whatever thoughts or opinions you hold.

There is no freedom to broadcast those thoughts.

There is no freedom to challenge authority.

There is no freedom from unfair judgement.

There isn’t even freedom to dispense fair judgement, as Justice Hungwe’s current travails clearly illustrate.

So please drink, sing, scream about how our beloved Zimbabwe is independent.

Until all Zimbabweans themselves are actually allowed to be who or what they want to be, support who they want to, march where they want to, meet who they want to, say what they want to and either broadcast or receive whatever information they want to, we will never actually be free.

Until the day when someone can’t be jailed for speaking their opinion, we might as well still be under the settler’s yoke.

Until everybody’s free, nobody is.