In my world, larpers are worse than murderers. They play trickster fox while you play the dupe. The secret recipe to their honed craft is contained in four words: “just pretend to know.” Easy and effective.

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They begin slowly by reposting genres of music they barely listen to on TikTok. The starter pack is often something from the tip of the iceberg, like Frank Ocean and Brent. It’s effective, after all; most people like that stuff. And before you can form the word larp on the surface of your mouth, you’re subjected to their sunset-photo story with White Ferrari playing in the background. Soon they realise the likes are coming in and their DMs are full of people asking whether they listen to Frank Ocean. They form the answer long before they can think it. “YES I DO”. It’s spontaneous like a fart that’s been waiting to be released.

They do it over and over again because why change an effective strategy? However, a problem arises one day: no one seems to care anymore. A sign to go back to the drawing board. Within no time, a eureka moment hits them harder than Tyler Durden’s punches in Fight Club. A simpler idea: “larp on something else”.

This time they choose the Smiths and Adrianne Lenker. They still don’t know Good Guy is a song on the Blonde album they swear is the greatest album of all time. And just like before, this too works. It becomes a Hedonic Treadmill. Moving from the Smiths, to Alex G, to Dean Blunt, to Steve Lacy, to Blood Orange, to Clairo, to Tv Girl, to Devon Hendryx, to MF Doom, to Ms Lauryn Hill, to Erykah Badu, to Earl Sweatshirt. I personally hate when they reach Earl Sweatshirt. The list soon becomes as long as Hades’ records for all the souls that have ever been lost.

It doesn’t end there. They come across artists like Basquiat and mercilessly perform the same pattern. They sleep soundly except the times when they get nightmares of someone asking them to name a single Basquiat painting, and the only sound that occupies that space is that of crickets. An absolute horror for them.

The rhythm is soon repeated through different media forms like movies and anime. Let’s not forget Bojack Horseman.

Then, before you know it, there on Substack posting whether it is better to speak or die. My real issue with larpers is I don’t get the point of it all. Why not simply use the time you spend reposting this stuff to actually watch the media? In honesty, I don’t even think larping is a problem. It’s more like a phase. It’s fine if you larp an artist; just don’t let it end there. Take some time and actually listen to them.

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Take some time and watch Call Me by Your Name. Watch MTV Downtown before you claim how you love Serena. Take time to actually get inspired by the people you claim inspire you.

Larping is inevitable, just like sin is. However, though we are all bound by it, there is definitely a difference between a priest and a rapist.

“ Punch a man for 99 days, and he will thank you on the 100th if you don’t. Feed a man for 99 days, and he will spit on your face on the 100th if you don’t.

For as long as I could remember, I’ve always hated the feeling that comes with knowing you would cross an ocean for someone who would be too scared to dip their toes in the water for you. I conditioned myself to think that giving too much was my way. That it was nature for me, among the set universal laws. After all, wasn’t the river always going to flow downhill?

At a very young age, I struggled to make friends. I had interests no one cared about. I carried myself differently; everyone saw it. Soon it was clear as day that I was DIFFERENT. It became one of the hardest pills to swallow. At that age, an arrow to the heart would have been better. It still is. So, just like every human, I adapted (coped) by deciding to become someone everyone would need.

If I could be the smartest, run the fastest, become the loudest in the room, my life would simply be perfect. It worked perfectly. I had a girlfriend in class four; everyone thought of themselves as one of my best friends, and all the teachers knew my name. Life was worth living. My birthday was in December; this was by far the universe’s greatest gift for someone like me since I never had to get creases on my brain when it came to choosing a single best friend. My convenience made me wanted; I got addicted to it.

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My mother showered me with gifts for every accomplishment I made; it felt like everyone was oozing praises for me. They all had flowers for me!!! Then a great shift happened. The success that had once uplifted me became my enslaver. It became a demand.

The narrative switched from :

“Wow, Shem, you got a 90% on this test, that’s a good job

to

“Shem, you did well, but you could have gotten a 96%

No one prepares you for the greed people get at wanting you to be more. I fought hard to keep up with their demands. I grew a fear of letting people down. I equated it to losing everything I had worked hard to build. I wouldn’t allow it. So, I worked even harder and gave even more.

Soon I found myself being the first person everyone would look for in an exam room. It didn’t offend me. It actually turned out to be an easy conversation starter. People had a very easy time talking about how great I was at passing my answers. They gave tales great writers like Homer would admire. Soon, everyone had heard of the man who was the living reincarnation of Robin Hood (me).

That narrative also became short-lived. The gesture switched from a privilege to a birthright in their eyes. They were insatiable. So I gave and fought as hard as possible not to complain.

A repetitive cycle of handing people bread when you haven’t eaten in days and watching their stomachs swell.

But now I’m tired of everyone seeing me like this quote-on-quote fantastic Mr Fox that exists to get stuff done for them. I see it with my friends when they decide to leave the heavy lifting to me in tricky situations. Or with my family when they ask me to do favours they wouldn’t extend to me. Or romantic partners that ask a lot from me without sparing peanuts for me.

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I’m choosing to disappoint a lot of people. I’m choosing myself. It’s selfish. Unheroic even. But peaceful.

Is there ever anything more sought for than peace?

After all, what desire do I have to keep setting myself on fire to keep others warm? Surely I’m old enough to see there is no nobility in that.

So from now on, I bid my openness a fair well. I reject any form of unrequitedness. I deny the existence of such. Every ounce of my energy will now be treated like the last bottle of water I have in a five-day journey across the desert.

There will no longer be paragraphs written to people that hand me five words for them or quick replies to someone that takes hours to respond. There is no dignity in such foolishness. I’ll learn and relearn that you simply cannot toil for someone to love you back.

I will self-preserve. A small cost for peace. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is save yourself.

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Entergalactic holds a special place in my heart. I’ve watched it 5 times. There isn’t another black animated film that depicts black love as it does. It is perfection, nothing short of it. Perhaps what makes it special is the dream it sells. The dream of getting a loft, being able to create art and maybe the best of them, achieving Nirvana with your partner.

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Now, people lets imagine,

let’s imagine that you chased this dream. That you thought (believed) reaching Nirvana with someone you liked would offer you the most ineffable experience of your life. That you spent the last of your nocturnal thoughts picturing what that would feel like and asking the universe to let it happen. And let’s say the universe decides to grant you your heart’s desire.

You grab your lighter and pack your transcendental drug. The sun is just setting. You gaze at her beautiful eyes as you find the perfect spot to drown in nirvana. You think of every past choice you have made that has led you here. You thank yourself so much that you question whether you might be a narcissist. It wouldn’t matter either way. You’re excited. Your mind is racing with possibilities of where the night will lead both of you. The dopamine you get makes you almost primal, acting purely on instinct. You don’t hate it.

You pull out your lighter and set the drug ablaze.

Innocently, you smoke it, accepting all its contents into your body. Your lungs open the doors, welcoming it. You stare at her once again, this time appreciating her existence. You realise you think about more than yourself and you are, in fact, not a narcissist. The thought disappears almost immediately as you pass the drug to her. You know it’s her first time (kinda), and you unravel all your secrets on how to do it right.

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She’s a natural.

“that’s alright, just take it in slowly.”

You watch her take another puff, affirming that the first one wasn’t a fluke. The third one makes her cough. You think of how absurd it is that it was the third instead of the first. The gods let you into Nirvana.

Just as you think of how much better the environment would feel with music, your hand reaches out for your phone like a trained dog. Soon, music occupies the space. It’s good music ( Dean Blunt ). With you, it’s always good music.

Then something out of the ordinary happens, a unique human experience. She tells you to turn off the music. It’s unexpected. Strange. Odd. You ask her if there is a problem? She tells you she is overstimulated and you are being a lot. You understand it is paranoia. Your attempt at calming her down fails. She seems like what she really wants is to push you away from her. You notice.

This pulls you away from your own nirvana. She only wants to go home. She wants nothing to do with being around you. You realise your ability to understand people always increases after smoking. Your mind and heart join and sing you a siren song.

“She doesn’t love you.”

It stings. You digest it whole. You offer to take her home. It’s dark and awfully silent. You normally don’t mind the silence, but today isn’t any other day. You’re wearing boots like those of Vincent Gallo in Buffalo 66.

The sound they produce as you walk feels so loud and annoying. You are very fastidious about that sound. This is the first time you hate your closet choices. You lose yourself in your mind. She removes you from this state.

“Are you upset?”

“I am”

You return. You think of how you believe that how someone treats you after smoking is usually the perfect expression of how they feel about you in their hearts. You also think how much more fun this would have been if you were with your boys.

The damage is done. After getting her home safely, you murmur a goodbye partly because you question whether you want to say anything at all. Then you take yourself back to your place, open your journal, and write:

HI THIS IS THE VERSION OF YOU THATS FROM SMOKING, PLEASE DON’T SPEAK TO THAT GIRL AGAIN, SHE DOESN’T LOVE YOU

You then open your laptop to enjoy your Nirvana by watching animated short films like Pinched. You fall asleep and the night ends.

Allow me to remove you from this world of imagination.

They say the best lies are the ones that contain an element of truth, and maybe in equal respect, the best imaginations are those that contain an element of reality.

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How do you rid yourself off the weight of the words you once shared? Where does the strength to tell another girl she is the prettiest girl you have ever laid your eyes on come from? Knowing well this is a seat you had only reserved for her? But moving on demands that you become a hypocrite. To say the same things to someone other than the original heir to those words. The thought of this puzzles me and throws me in a mental turmoil. Because what if, just like me, you have made a habit of meaning exactly what you say?

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When your words are spoken purely from the abundance of the heart?

I don’t think it is as simple as being stuck on your ex. Its far more complex.

Is there not guilt to be felt when you make the same gifts you once made for them, think the same thoughts you once thought of them or even hand the same compliments you once gave them? How do you know when you mean it again? That you’re not just saying words but communicating your feelings like you did before. Perhaps you figure it out, but how do you not look back at those same words without a sort of compunction. Words like:

your the only girl I wanna marry

you’re the only one that will ever understand me

you’re my heart

The words are extreme, I’ll grant you that. However, at the time, was it not what you felt?

Is there not an insincerity or phoniness in offering someone else those words? Yet, aren’t we all guilty of this? Doesn’t the road to love ask of it? Am I to blame for wanting new love yet being scared of betraying an old one? I would only be lying if I said I had the answers to this. And maybe you are too

.

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My mum must have been the only one that read it (today is her birthday that’s if I post this on the 17th of June). She accepted me as I came. I loved her for it. I still do. She raised me alone. I spent most of my time with her and my sister. They taught me to care A LOT. To cry and express how I felt. I wasn’t less emotionally privileged than they were. However, I was a man and so they taught me how to handle a woman

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I knew to keep a woman’s needs above my own. To open the door for my sister. To apologize when I made a girl cry.

“Shem you shouldn’t make a girl cry its very bad,” my ma often told me. I still hear it from her every time I bring up a girl I like.

But the world taught me that not everyone comes with the same manual. I often wish they did. Or perhaps mine had been like there’s. I have a hard time telling which one I prefer. For instance, a while back I had a conversation that went something like this:

-“Bro if you don’t love her, its easy you should just crack.”

“Man I don’t really know about that.”

-“Shem, you’re overthinking , trust me just do it.”

To save you from suspense I didn’t end up having sex with her. It had nothing to do with how she looked but a lot to do with how I felt. I am a slave to feeling. I realize that not many guys are. I stand out. I notice and care about the little things like why she didn’t ask me about my favorite fruit after I asked for hers. I’d be lying to say it doesn’t consume me.

I spend a lot of nights wondering what life would look like if I just lived it like most guys. Something like river-water on a steep cliff. Raging and willing to hurt others as long as its moving. Unfortunately, I can’t be. Some would say fortunately, again I remain uncertain.

Most of those nocturnal thoughts show up especially due to my romantic affairs. A sensitive man is doomed romantically under the wrong person. You are taken to be insecure for wanting constant affirmation. Weak for wanting her to care about you as half as you care about her. A loser for cancelling plans with your friends to make more time for her.

“when a sensitive man cries, the angels weep with him as his tears are pure and genuine.”

I look back on this quote on such nights. It holds my hand and tells my heart that its fine. It’s okay that I wrote about her on my journal each day. Okay that she only loved what I offered and not me. Okay that it she never valued my time.

Though its working progress, I’m learning to appreciate that my ma made me soft . Even on days that it hurts and I wish I were otherwise. I refuse to call her gift a curse. And if you’re anything like me you shouldn’t either.

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“we accept the love we think we deserve, but stay for the love we are afraid of not getting again”

No matter how hard you want it to happen a housefly could never love a flower the way a bee does. I was a flower in love with a fly. It fascinated me and drew me closer. I gave myself , as best as I could, to it. How fast it forced me to learn that my nectar was worthless under the wrong legs!

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Where am I getting at? Some people are just not made for you and you have to make peace with that. I have always had a strong opinion on what love should feel like. Don’t we all? I would read and watch stories of Marina and Ulay with awe at what love could be. I’d watch performances like Rest Energy where, Marina would allow Ulay to point an arrow at her and sigh at the thought of my love life. I wanted to be vulnerable with my person. I want to trust. I craved a love that was worth documenting. Again, don’t we all?

I recently, read an article titled date someone who is interested in you. As a sapiosexual, I don’t believe love can exist without curiosity. I say this with the conviction of martyr willing to die for his faith. There is no greater intimacy than that of the mind. I wanted this. I craved to know her. To make her reveal the sides of herself she doesn’t show to anyone. How else could I stand in front of the world and claim that I loved her? I needed depth! My love could not exist without it.

Don’t I deserve a love like that of John and Yoko. A love that made you call each others name for twenty minutes in a song while using your heartbeats as the beat. I couldn’t do basic. Frank ocean must have understood this when said basic takes its toll on me eventually on White Ferrari.

I need a love that inspires me. One that gives me a reason to write poetry or make art. Something pure and true. Not pretense. Not convenience but love. The kind that makes Dostoevsky write

“Your hands are cold, mine burn like fire how blink could you be Nastenka”

One that feels like a recreation of Normal People. To love someone so much you place them above everyone else. To sing their praises. To see no one above them. To believe they are the smartest person you have and will ever meet.

A love like this , however , comes at a cost. It consumes and therefore must be replenished. It simply cannot be a bad religion (frank reference) . It cannot accept any form of unrequitedness. Both of you must be consumers and creators. You must care for each other more than you care for yourselves. That is what love must mean for me.

How does a flower tell this to a fly ?And in my case how do I articulate this to the Nairobi girl that only cares about drinking ? Or to the one that can’t distinguish love from convenience ? The bitter pill here is that such a love is very hard to find and it causes you to lose good people because your idea of love may be insatiable. But the lost people also count. You lose them not because they did something wrong but because they couldn’t love you in the ways that mattered most to you.

So dear flower, I advice for your own sake , to let go of the flies that you may notice the bees. For then shall you truly find love! However, be wherry of calling a bee a fly for you shall never heal from such a sin.

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The gush of wind as I was praying only felt like a gush of wind instead of divine touch. I had chosen to take the red pill. To swallow it whole despite knowing it would forever change my life. Prayer was simply letting words roam in the air. There was no receiver. My heart was no darker than yours. I had not done greater sin than that of a man bound to do it. The answer was simple, God was dead. I choose to believe so.

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His existence would simply destroy me. To believe God still run the world and still choose to worship him was simply absurd. What God would choose a leader like Ruto? Doesn’t his existence demand me to think all leaders are chosen by Him? Why would a God be so cruel to his creation? Then again why would his cruelty shock you? Do you wish to pretend you don’t see it all the time? A cruelty that leads him to create an antelope that is hunted immediately it is birthed. A creation that is only made so it can suffer! How could he watch this without a sort of malice in him? Didn’t he set the system? Was it to hard to make all animals herbivores? Or remove pain receptors from them? Have they too sinned against him to deserve such suffering?

Why do you allow God to give a newly born baby cancer ? And no I don’t believe that you’re born with sin inside you. Why would a perfect deity make such an imperfect system? How does a believer worship such a God with no guilt? How dare someone give a testimony of how they just bought a new car while their God chooses to allow others to die of starvation!! How selfish could you be? The world allows more churches to be built than shelters for the homeless? Is this really his will? Does He care more about his good word than the comfort of his creation? Is that the love we speak so greatly of ?The one, every being is entitled to? Just like life?

“you gave me life unwanted”

That is a line from the film Frankenstein, they are words the creature tells Victor (his creator).I feel the same way about God? What is just about being born without my consent? So just about being born an Afghani woman forced to suffer in the arms of the worst form of misogyny? So just about being forced to wrestle with the idea of God with the threat of hell?

How am I to worship a God that once commanded genocides against innocent children and women?

“Now go and attack Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have; do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, infant and nursing child, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.”- 1 Samuel, verse 3

To worship a God that gives rules for slavery as a black man?

“When a slaveowner strikes a male or female slave with a rod and the slave dies immediately, the owner shall be punished. But if the slave survives a day or two, there is no punishment; for the slave is the owner’s property.’’ -Exodus , verses 20-21

To worship the all knowing God that didn’t understand the anatomy of the female body ?

Deuteronomy 22: 13-21 A situation where a husband claims his new wife was not a virgin at marriage. The case is brought before the elders, and the woman’s proof of virginity is supposed to be blood-stained sheets from the wedding night. If there is lack of this evidence , she is stoned to death!!

Scientifically 30 to 50 % of women do not experience noticeable bleeding during first vaginal intercourse!!

I’m constantly reminded of a quote from Silence by Martin Scorsese.

“I’m afraid. The weight of your silence is terrible. I pray but I’m lost. Or am I just praying to nothing? Lord, I have fought against your silence.

I believe that every believer has at least once asked for God to reveal himself ? I have too. I needed something that would be more than mere chance or coincidence. A sign worth being documented in his holy book! Irrefutable proof of his existence. But there was silence. But it was okay because miracles had gone extinct after the invention of cameras. All we had left were phenomena science couldn’t answer just yet. This is still enough for the ones unwilling to question their belief systems. They forget if you praise God for saving someone with cancer you must also blame him for the ones he chose not to save.

I write this not to discredit your belief but to show you why they cannot be mine.

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“Bro love doesn’t exist in Nairobi”

‘‘Ati which girl, walai msee UTAGONGEWA!”

“Love in Nairobi is just high risk no reward..don’t commit”

You stare at the people telling you this the way you stared at your parents when they told you not to touch the fire that burned you as a kid. The words make your heart heavy and the air all of a sudden gets denser.

For most, this aren’t words of malice but a sort of safety signage to prevent you from the same naivety that led to their hearts being wounded. Looking at them, I always remember a quote from The Dark Night Rises by Christopher Nolan.

“You either die a hero or live long enough to watch yourself become a villain”

Normally after enough provocation, you always ground breaking story that make you question if Greek stories like those of Orpheus and Euridice are even that good (that was an extreme take I love that story) .

For instance one of the craziest stories I’ve heard was from one my homies lakini this time he was the doing the "gongea-ing.” Tea time. This guy was out clubbing when he saw this really pretty girl. So naturally as a guy if you are feeling confident enough, you approach the girl. So he did. After a bit of dialogue and letting his intentions be clear, the girl said, “I have a man,” .And so my homie was willing to respect this but after a bit of pressing, “He isn’t here though”. For the sake of context, the guy is a conventionally attractive type of man. So one thing led to another and the both of them ended up engaging in erotic activities. The part that gives me goosebumps is when she started crying after they were done. Saying, “But I love my man!”

Stories like this riddle me. How can you love someone and cheat? Isn’t what makes love beautiful the fact that it is a feeling exclusive to the both of you. The grace of walking while knowing this is my person and I’m hers.

Most people opt to not putting a label on their relationships after engaging with this thought. A fear of commitment. They leap from one girl to another with no remorse. Simply predators catching prey. Their connections often built on the weakest foundations. All in the illusion of guarding their hearts. Lakini, pilipili usiyoila yakuwashia nini?

I crave depth. Like Dostoevsky said,

“and so they settle for shallow connections calling it love while dying quietly of loneliness”

I choose to risk touching the fire that I may learn to use it to cook. Love requires a sort of naivety. It demands you to break all the walls you have spent years building. However, I believe for love all this is worth it. To see heaven without ever being there.

“If I were to kiss you and go to hell, I would, so then I could brag with the devils I saw heaven without ever entering it” -William Shakespeare

It’s always been deeper for me than just, “ panda kitanda”. To some, this is stupid. A recipe for disaster and perhaps it might be. But, doesn’t the thrill excite you? So I will love in Nairobi. I choose not to go gentle into that goodnight!!

Earl began his music career under the name of Sly Tendencies rapping to the same beats as MF DOOM .The sound quality was lacking but no one could deny the power in his lyricism.After this project, he became acquainted to Tyler the creator and after a while Odd Future was birthed. In 2010, Earl dropped a mixtape titled Earl.Fans loved it so much they started claiming he was better than Nas at only seventeen including Tyler who thought the album was better than Nas’ Illmatic.

The album was very experimental but that was to be expected from a rapper that was so young.After this, Earl Sweatshirt went missing after his mum took him to a reform school in Samoa.

In 2013, he returned and for me this is where the magic in his music began happening.He released Doris, a 44 minute album with features from the likes of Tyler the Creator and Vince staples .The lyrics cut like a blade.It was perfect and it still is.

The second song on the album is titled Burgundy and its one of my best songs on the album.The lyrics are raw and sprinkled with pain.

Vince staples goes first followed by Earl Sweatshirt who mouths the following five bars that allow you to pierce through his thoughts and you can instantly imagine what he is going through.He tackles the feeling of losing his grandmother while trying to get his rap career back on track.It’s a dark and cold place to be in and weighs heavy on you too.

The fourth song on the album is Sunday with Frank Ocean and its my best on the album.The lyrics are tattooed onto my mind.Earl portrays a failing entanglement in which he feels like he is giving more into it despite being in a position where he could easily rid himself off the trouble.It’s a terrible thought to have and he knows it.

It not really grief-striken song but I think it deserved to be mentioned.

The last song I’d like to talk about is Chum.Its a treasure to Earl Sweatshirt’s fans yet for some reason Earl hates it.

From this lyrics you can tell that Earl is struggling to express his emotions towards his father who isn’t as close to him as his mom.This is because Earl was mostly raised by his mother making his bond with his father unstable.

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I like this verse a lot because it shows how hard Earl Sweatshirt is trying to fit in yet he can’t which is a position I’ve found myself in more times than I’m willing to accept.

In 2015, Earl released an album titled I Don’t Like Shit,I Don’t Go Outside.The album is 30 minutes long and it feels like sinking into an abyss.

The first song I’d like to talk about on this project is Grief

The lyrics feel like Earl is feeding you bitter truth.He talks about the cycle of being an addict and the mental drain of knowing what your doing is terrible for you but not having the resolve to do anything about it.

In the same year Earl sweatshirt dropped Solace.A ten minute album that puts you in a state of Anhedonia.I can’t possibly imagine anyone dropping anything more sad and depressing.It was a reaction to the death of his grandmother and you can tell he was in a pit of despair.

I’ll admit to shedding a tear to this project ,however, I’m not to be blamed.The verses leave a lingering sense of loss.

The album was later followed by Some Rap Songs in 2018

The first song on the album is Shattered Dreams where Earl battles with the thought of people seeing him being depressed but not intervening to help him achieve a happier more fulfilling life

Every album after Some Rap Songs seems to come with a version of Earl Sweatshirt that is more fulfilled and happy.Its almost like a reminder that amidst the chaos and trials anyone can find joy.However, bliss isn’t the only emotion humans are capable of feeling and thats why albums like this exist and I’m not ashamed to love them despite the sonic blues they offer.Earl Sweatshirt is truly a genius and I think everyone should at least give him a try.