As experiments go, this one is utterly without any redeeming qualities. It has been two years – since they decided that the general election campaign was finally in top gear – since I have had a television subscription. After I gave up my alternative lifelong dreams of being a star point guard for the Chicago Bulls, star mid-fielder for Liverpool FC, the No. 1 driver for Ferrari, or the No. 1 driver – replacing the G.O.A.T. Sebastian Loeb – at Citroen, the need to maintain a TV subscription became vanishingly small. The inadequacies of the current affairs programming did not seem justification enough to fork over the then not-so-piddly sum of $64 to Multichoice Kenya or any of its cheaper immitators.
What about…what?! I don’t need to know what Nyashinski has done, what Lilian Muli (is she still on?) has lately been accused of, what colour funny socks Larry Madowo decided to pull out of his sock drawer. I have zero interest in televised weddings, telenovelas, or how to make compost at home (I live in a rented “extension” in someone’s backyard; gardening is not, currently, an area of interest). I don’t need to know the week by week fluctuation in the prices of milk, beans, maize flour, cabbages or tomatoes or the variations in their prices in Mombasa, Nairobi, Kisumu, Mandera and Nakuru.
So what if the Donald wants to wage nuclear war with Iran and North Korea? My knowing about it will not change the fate of the USA, North Korea or Iran – or our, for that matter. You think you can do something about it? Good luck with that, then. Just don’t expect me to pay too close attention to it, is all.
“But you must keep up with current events for effective lawyering,” you say. Bullshit! The past eighteen months has been occupied with only one question: whether or not Uhuru Kenyatta will serve a second presidential term. The US presidential election may have made the phrase “leader of the free world” sound ridiculous in 2017, and #Brexit may yet remind “great” Britain that the sun did indeed set on the British empire, but none of this is monumental enough, historic enough, consequential enough to warrant a TV subscription.
As a result I have no idea whether my neck of the woods is packing up and headed for Canaan or whether it is stockpiling supplies just in case neighbours visit each other in force, bringing torches and pitchforks for friendly political chats in the middle of the night. And since I will not destroy what remaining grey matter that cigarettes and whisky has not destroyed by putting myself through the ordeal of having to listen to FM radio – save maybe Ghetto Radio with the hilarious Bonoko Deh – I am unlikely to ever know for sure.