It is Sunset on Polygamy in Luoland. A near-fatal crisis pits polygamous Jim and younger wives against the hyperjealous first wife, Felicia the Nyadendi, a master of intrigues, who engineers a home wide mutiny against him. Mutiny ends, and a surge of babies for all but the in-menopause Felicia. Tormented by her condition, Felicia is unable to withstand a childless period in her journey, and suffers a mental breakdown. But she would have the last laugh, thanks to a fatal disease epidemic.
Meanwhile, the New Disease ensnares her people as Gina, virus-infected and very beautiful, unwillingly remarries because of spiritual demands placed upon her by the customs of her people. Deceivingly healthy, she kills suitor-after-suitor, shutting down home-after-home, as the society sleeps and nurses a tragic spiritual (Luo: Chira) explanation for a medically well understood viral-killer. Gina's long life is a tragedy, and so are polygamy, wife-inheritance, and a communal psyche moored on a myriad of taboos.
Sunset on Polygamy (A novel by Joseph R. Alila
http://www.publishamerica.com/books/18178
ISBN 13: 978-1424-1-6684-8
Friday, December 26, 2008
Friday, December 19, 2008
Obama: Mind of a President in Literature
President-Elect Obama's books ("The Audacity of Hope," and "Dreams from my Father"), are the work of a mind our contemporaries recognise as that of a man who came from unique circumstances and rose to be the leader of the world. The Election of President Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America means many things to different peoples: To African-Americans, he is a fulfilment of the Dream of Dr. King; to my LUO people of Kenya, he is their first President; to the world, he perhaps is the right medicine to a world divided and bedevilled by interracial, religious and ideological strifes. He inherits world hungry for food and medicine; a world at war; a world threatened with total economic collapse; a world tittering on a new scramble for increasingly scarce resources. Reading President-Elect Obama's books ("The Audacity of Hope," and "Dreams from my Father"), one has a reason to hope for the better, even though he is a product of a particular manner of governance. The first book, "Dreams from my Father," introduces Obama to the world, and must be judged as a "master stroke" in the art of political persuasion, even before his Red-Blue-States Speech of 2004. In this first book, "Dreams from my Father," Author Barack Obama, now President-Elect Barack Obama, tells the world this: this is me; this is how I was born; this is how I was raised; these are my beliefs and doubts; and this is what my journey has been, so far. By spilling out the cultural delicacies, including a cocktail of religious beliefs to have come his way--thanks to the mind of his inquisitive mother--; by admitting to having smoked all that is smokeable; by revealing that at one time his mother raised him on food stamps; by revealing that he struggled with questions about his race to the extent of even doubting himself and kin, Obama told the world in general, and America in particular this: I am not a perfect man; I know you; I am one of you; I understand your pain; I empathise with your daily struggles and doubts, even if you doubt my authenticity as an American, as an African, as a black man, as an African-American man, or as a Christian of Muslim ancestry.According to the narrative in "Dreams from my Father," what is missing in his life as a young man is his mythical Kenyan father, whom he sees once before Obama Sr dies. The title of the book is a cry of what his youth could have been: perhaps a less troublesome youth; someone to talk to man-to-man. But this is only a dream, because one cannot choose his parents!
JR Alila
JR Alila
Thursday, December 18, 2008
KIDS ARE KIDS, RICH OR POOR
As the friendship between the little boys matured, Charles Milayi would start to exchange visits with Thomas Jamoko. At first, Milayi’s mother protested when she learnt that the young Thomas Jamoko was coming to visit her home. She was a widow—a poor widow. She had one cooking pot and less than five earthen platters and bowls. Like their grandparents, the Milayis still used crocodile scales as spoons.
Mrs. Milayi had exactly one bag of grain she hoped to last until the next harvest, which was three months away.
By contrast, the Jamokos could serve lunch to two hundred people and still be on their feet. They had hundreds of metal spoons and fancy chinaware. The Jamokos had so many cattle that, often, some cows were not milked. That is how rich the Jamokos were.
Food aside, for clothing, Consolata Milayi had one dress, and Charles Milayi only had the school uniform for his clothing. That is how poor the Milayis were.
"Milayi, you like bringing trouble on us. We have no oil with which to cook for your spoilt friend" "Be fair Ma. Tom is just like me. He eats everything I eat," the little boy complained.
"Milayi, since when was this Tom Jamoko like you? He is a Jamoko. He only eats meat. And look at you. You don’t have a shirt on your back, and have no trousers on your buttocks. How can a Jamoko be eating what you eat?"
"But he is my friend, Mama," responded the boy in tears. For him, Tom was the dearest friend outside home. The boy was right. They were real friends. The young Jamoko occasionally gave him an old set of school uniforms, pencils, and some new book to read. Milayi had sported the donated uniforms even though they were a size or two too small for him. Meanwhile, whenever Jamoko’s old uniforms suddenly would disappear, his mother would assume that her careless son had lost them in the playground.
"No, I do not want you to cry, Milayi. It is just that you have to know that a poor man does not walk in the same party as a rich man," Mrs. Milayi implored her son. "Charles, a poor man goes fishing for food, while a rich man goes fishing for fun. Haven’t you watched the Jamokos as they fish along the Kuja? They return part of their catch back to the water. And a rich man hunts the buffalo for its horns and skin, as poor folks struggle over its meat. The Jamokos behave like Father James, the White Priest, who fishes for fun."
"Mama, we are not poor," the boy responded in a very sure and measured tone, all to the total surprise of his mother.
"What, Charles? We are not poor? Yet we eat beans and arrowroots most of the year? Yet, you have no shirt with which to cover your back?" his mother had responded after a brief pause. She surely was surprised by the boy’s remark.
"Didn’t Father James say that poverty is only in a person’s mind, while wealth resides in one’s heart? You think we are poor. In my heart, I feel rich," the child had waxed amazingly wise, taking his mother aback in the process.
She would for some long minute stir her bubbling pot of red-millet porridge in silence. "Milayi, now, you want to cause trouble with your strange ideas. Father James never said a thing like that," she had declared hoping to silence the boy.
"But that is what the story of the Rich Young Ruler is all about. Mama, you were there when Father James read the story?" the Grade Four schoolboy had said, again sending his mother’s head spinning.
The young boy had a rather strange perspective on life. Mrs. Milayi was convinced that modern schooling was turning her little boy into some kind of wise adult. "How can poverty—her obvious poverty—be wealth?" she wondered in silence.
"Now, go to the river and bathe. It is getting late. And don’t imagine that you are rich. Charles, you are poor. You are very poor. One of these days you will bring shame to this house by inviting the Minister’s Daughter for lunch," his mother had dismissed him, using bathing in the river as an excuse.
The boy of strange wisdom left for the river, with his dog named Tom, in pursuit.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Milayi wondered what she would cook for the rich man’s son. Inwardly, she was intrigued and touched by the wisdom coming out of her son’s mouth: poverty is only in a person’s mind, while wealth resides in one’s heart.
These words of her young son appeared to have given her the courage to face the day. She instantly resolved to entertain the Jamoko boy. Thomas Jamoko did come. Mrs. Milayi treated the two boys the way little boys should be treated: "Boys eat potatoes and vegetables and cassava. That is what they dream about in their sleep. In their sleep, most boys never dream about some meaty dish. A boy wakes up with cooked cassava or potato in his hands," she had persuaded herself to believe. And she could have been more right than wrong. Most boys of those days loved sweet potatoes. Encouraged by these thoughts, she cooked potatoes as well as she could.
The two boys ate the sweet potatoes on the grass under a shady tree in front of her house. Then they enjoyed some ripe guava that nature provided in abundance. Potatoes and Guava, kind of an odd mixture, isn’t it? But if they became constipated on that day, Mrs. Milayi would have taken that as a sign of good feeding.
Mrs. Milayi was too ashamed to have allowed the "rich boy" into her meager abode that even lacked a three-legged stool.
Between rounds of sweet potatoes, the boys played some marksmanship game—shooting at domestic lizards and hedgerow birds with homemade bows and arrows. Later that day, Thomas Jamoko returned to his home, truly believing that the outing had been a special adventure. Kids are kids, rich or poor.
SOURCE:
THE MILAYI CURSE Lulu Books http://www.lulu.com/810018
A Novel by Joseph R. Alila
Mrs. Milayi had exactly one bag of grain she hoped to last until the next harvest, which was three months away.
By contrast, the Jamokos could serve lunch to two hundred people and still be on their feet. They had hundreds of metal spoons and fancy chinaware. The Jamokos had so many cattle that, often, some cows were not milked. That is how rich the Jamokos were.
Food aside, for clothing, Consolata Milayi had one dress, and Charles Milayi only had the school uniform for his clothing. That is how poor the Milayis were.
"Milayi, you like bringing trouble on us. We have no oil with which to cook for your spoilt friend" "Be fair Ma. Tom is just like me. He eats everything I eat," the little boy complained.
"Milayi, since when was this Tom Jamoko like you? He is a Jamoko. He only eats meat. And look at you. You don’t have a shirt on your back, and have no trousers on your buttocks. How can a Jamoko be eating what you eat?"
"But he is my friend, Mama," responded the boy in tears. For him, Tom was the dearest friend outside home. The boy was right. They were real friends. The young Jamoko occasionally gave him an old set of school uniforms, pencils, and some new book to read. Milayi had sported the donated uniforms even though they were a size or two too small for him. Meanwhile, whenever Jamoko’s old uniforms suddenly would disappear, his mother would assume that her careless son had lost them in the playground.
"No, I do not want you to cry, Milayi. It is just that you have to know that a poor man does not walk in the same party as a rich man," Mrs. Milayi implored her son. "Charles, a poor man goes fishing for food, while a rich man goes fishing for fun. Haven’t you watched the Jamokos as they fish along the Kuja? They return part of their catch back to the water. And a rich man hunts the buffalo for its horns and skin, as poor folks struggle over its meat. The Jamokos behave like Father James, the White Priest, who fishes for fun."
"Mama, we are not poor," the boy responded in a very sure and measured tone, all to the total surprise of his mother.
"What, Charles? We are not poor? Yet we eat beans and arrowroots most of the year? Yet, you have no shirt with which to cover your back?" his mother had responded after a brief pause. She surely was surprised by the boy’s remark.
"Didn’t Father James say that poverty is only in a person’s mind, while wealth resides in one’s heart? You think we are poor. In my heart, I feel rich," the child had waxed amazingly wise, taking his mother aback in the process.
She would for some long minute stir her bubbling pot of red-millet porridge in silence. "Milayi, now, you want to cause trouble with your strange ideas. Father James never said a thing like that," she had declared hoping to silence the boy.
"But that is what the story of the Rich Young Ruler is all about. Mama, you were there when Father James read the story?" the Grade Four schoolboy had said, again sending his mother’s head spinning.
The young boy had a rather strange perspective on life. Mrs. Milayi was convinced that modern schooling was turning her little boy into some kind of wise adult. "How can poverty—her obvious poverty—be wealth?" she wondered in silence.
"Now, go to the river and bathe. It is getting late. And don’t imagine that you are rich. Charles, you are poor. You are very poor. One of these days you will bring shame to this house by inviting the Minister’s Daughter for lunch," his mother had dismissed him, using bathing in the river as an excuse.
The boy of strange wisdom left for the river, with his dog named Tom, in pursuit.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Milayi wondered what she would cook for the rich man’s son. Inwardly, she was intrigued and touched by the wisdom coming out of her son’s mouth: poverty is only in a person’s mind, while wealth resides in one’s heart.
These words of her young son appeared to have given her the courage to face the day. She instantly resolved to entertain the Jamoko boy. Thomas Jamoko did come. Mrs. Milayi treated the two boys the way little boys should be treated: "Boys eat potatoes and vegetables and cassava. That is what they dream about in their sleep. In their sleep, most boys never dream about some meaty dish. A boy wakes up with cooked cassava or potato in his hands," she had persuaded herself to believe. And she could have been more right than wrong. Most boys of those days loved sweet potatoes. Encouraged by these thoughts, she cooked potatoes as well as she could.
The two boys ate the sweet potatoes on the grass under a shady tree in front of her house. Then they enjoyed some ripe guava that nature provided in abundance. Potatoes and Guava, kind of an odd mixture, isn’t it? But if they became constipated on that day, Mrs. Milayi would have taken that as a sign of good feeding.
Mrs. Milayi was too ashamed to have allowed the "rich boy" into her meager abode that even lacked a three-legged stool.
Between rounds of sweet potatoes, the boys played some marksmanship game—shooting at domestic lizards and hedgerow birds with homemade bows and arrows. Later that day, Thomas Jamoko returned to his home, truly believing that the outing had been a special adventure. Kids are kids, rich or poor.
SOURCE:
THE MILAYI CURSE Lulu Books http://www.lulu.com/810018
A Novel by Joseph R. Alila
Saturday, December 13, 2008
THE AFRICAN WOMAN
The African woman is lionised in several poetic verses in Alila's "Thirteen Curses on Mother Africa," (Lulu Books www.lulu.com )perhaps justifiably so: The African woman is largely localized, often passed by rural-urban migration, yet she must feed, protect and mould the character of her son only to lose him to the corrupting influence of urban life. The African woman must continue to walk 5 miles to the spring for water; must till the same piece of barren land of thirty years before; she must feed her orphaned grandchildren the way she fed her children, only with even fewer resources. The African woman must face the vagaries of wars, weather, disease, hunger, dictators and poverty---often alone, as her husband is either inebriated, lost to some urban center, or simply overwhelmed by his situation.
JR Alila
JR Alila
Saturday, August 2, 2008
IS ETHANOL THAT GREEN?
Ethanol is surposed to be a higher-octane engine fuel, and up to ten percent presence in gasoline is surposed to offer a better-burning greener fuel. But it now appears (see report below) to have problems related to its chemically-more-reactive nature, and its greater water solubility compared to hydrocarbons such as octane, which are immiscible with water. It appears to chew engine parts in smaller, and enviromentally-more-exposed engines, such as lawn trimmers and boat outboard engines. The problem appears to arise from ethanol's readly miscibility with water, which in turn corrodes the iron (steel) and even rubber parts in these small engines. These in turn lower engine efficiency. These effects may be less signifficant in the larger-and-better-isolated car engines.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25936782/
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25936782/
Sunday, July 20, 2008
WORLD FOOD CRISIS: The African Woman and Her Children
Over one year ago, I published the Poetry Collection "THIRTEEN CURSES ON MOTHER AFRICA, BY Joseph R. Alila (http://www.lulu.com/). " One of the thirteen curses was poverty including lack of food; another curse was wars, and the graetest victims under both curses were African women and their children. I dedicated several pages in the poetry collection to the precariousness of the Sahel where desert threatens marginally wet areas; where the Darfur war is being fought.
Now with the world food crisis looming---thanks to modern man's desire for Biodiesel at the expense of using arable land to grow grains to specifically feed humans and animals---the African woman---that almost-fixed feature of the rural African landscape---and her children, are now caught in the crossroads of the war between food sufficiency and "going green" on our roads. It should not be an either or situation!
Poetry can be green!
JR Alila
Now with the world food crisis looming---thanks to modern man's desire for Biodiesel at the expense of using arable land to grow grains to specifically feed humans and animals---the African woman---that almost-fixed feature of the rural African landscape---and her children, are now caught in the crossroads of the war between food sufficiency and "going green" on our roads. It should not be an either or situation!
Poetry can be green!
JR Alila
Monday, January 7, 2008
The World of Generics
Q1: Have you ever asked the difference between a "Generic" drug and its "Label" form?
Don't they both anounce 250 mg of "Active Ingredient" in a 10-g pill? Think about that.
Q2: Let me pose a nother question: Why is it that a generic from USA is likely to be safer than that from some Third-World country? This last question is easier to answer; there are Laws and Regulations, and and Enforcement Mechanisms in the United States.
J. R. Alila
Don't they both anounce 250 mg of "Active Ingredient" in a 10-g pill? Think about that.
Q2: Let me pose a nother question: Why is it that a generic from USA is likely to be safer than that from some Third-World country? This last question is easier to answer; there are Laws and Regulations, and and Enforcement Mechanisms in the United States.
J. R. Alila
Genetically-Engineered Beef!
Guests
The other day I heard that they have approved or are about to approved genetically engineered beef. Why on earh would someone want such meat or such a cow? Diseases free cow; is that the reason? Must I be told what other animal has donated genes to my beef?
How will this move affect exports to Europe with stiffer food safety standards? For a Nation that is divided on the issue of stem-cell research, this move must raise eyebrows.
When I used to be a cowboy, the best way to get good calves was to borrow a neighbor's bull of the desired qualities. Maybe I am too old and irrelevantly educated, but can't the same objective of having calves with the right qaulities be attained by the good old hybridization? Or is that too slow for a hungry planet?
J R Alila
The other day I heard that they have approved or are about to approved genetically engineered beef. Why on earh would someone want such meat or such a cow? Diseases free cow; is that the reason? Must I be told what other animal has donated genes to my beef?
How will this move affect exports to Europe with stiffer food safety standards? For a Nation that is divided on the issue of stem-cell research, this move must raise eyebrows.
When I used to be a cowboy, the best way to get good calves was to borrow a neighbor's bull of the desired qualities. Maybe I am too old and irrelevantly educated, but can't the same objective of having calves with the right qaulities be attained by the good old hybridization? Or is that too slow for a hungry planet?
J R Alila
Fuel Efficiency Dilema
Hi you engineers out there:
How Efficient can a Car be in using gasoline?
What would the temperature of the engine be when all gasoline is reacted with oxygen in air in every engine cycle for an hour to produce only water and CO2?
What would be the temperature of the engine?
How much more Nitric oxides would result at such an eleveated temperature?
How much more of these gases would escape the catalytic converters into the atmosphere as nitic acid?
Can't we sacrifice the weight of the car (go for smaller, composite material-based cars) as a measure to lower fuel consumption?
J. Alila
How Efficient can a Car be in using gasoline?
What would the temperature of the engine be when all gasoline is reacted with oxygen in air in every engine cycle for an hour to produce only water and CO2?
What would be the temperature of the engine?
How much more Nitric oxides would result at such an eleveated temperature?
How much more of these gases would escape the catalytic converters into the atmosphere as nitic acid?
Can't we sacrifice the weight of the car (go for smaller, composite material-based cars) as a measure to lower fuel consumption?
J. Alila
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