Kĩmandi Ecology

I prepared an eclectic but simple beef recipe to celebrate the retirement of Dr. Charles Sydnor, a great farmer, eye surgeon, brain surgeon and a colleague in sustainable agriculture. Dr. Sydnor ran a 500 acre farm in Snow Camp, NC. It was a magical place to visit and observe healthy grass fed beef operation where the cows were moved three times a day to ensure that the didn’t overgraze, feed on top of their feces as well as discourage the spread of ticks. Each paddock was fitted with a watering  self-feeding system that required the cows to press on a ball at the bottom of a small bucket. The water would keep filling the bucket as long as the cow was pressing on the ball. Once the cow had enough water and raised its head, the ball would automatically lock in place to ensure no more water filled the bucket. That meant that the cows didn’t have to drink pond water which might cause the cows to have worms. The whole farm had 20,000 feet of pipes running through all the paddocks.

Dr. Sydnor would take my children and I on cart ride to see how the cows were doing from time to time. In other words, going to buy meat was a treat that my children will probably come to treasure just as much or even better than vacation trips. Now that there are no more chances of a golf cart rides around a 500 acre farm before buying some high quality Red Devon beef and bones for stock, even my children are recognizing the importance of having visited the local treasure. 

That’s why I made some sumptuous simple but flavorful beef recipe to appreciate the transitions that are happening all around us. I am especially mindful of the importance of Elder Ngugi Wa Thiong’o’s passing. I am grateful for the many intelligent people I have met in my life. 

I named this recipe Kĩmandi, a term I first heard in my village after a neighbor’s cow died from an accidental fall into a deep ditch, breaking its leg. The cow was quickly slaughtered to save it from excruciating pain. Since the cow is too much for the family to eat alone, the owner sells the meat to the neighbors at special prices and soft terms. There is no scale to measure the exact weight and no set price, it’s a price of the heart. 

The interesting bit is that this is the one transaction that huckens to our traditional economy. During the transaction I witnessed, little money changed hands as the neighbors probably didn’t have the money at hand. There was no recording of how much meat each person got as everything was based on trust. Just to be sure, the owner of the cow would mention the price loud enoungh for those assembled to hear. The very act of both parties knowing that there were witnesses discouraged default. I never heard of a case where any of those who received some meat failed to pay. 

But there is a less obvious point that has to do with the spiritual sensibility of my community. In that regard , my ancestors believed that you can’t lie to the land as it has always been there and will always be here. We all came from the soil and will eventually return there. So once a word is uttered from your mouth and in the presence of the soil/land, the record is permanent. By dying a liar or a cheat, you equally affect the soil/land. The value of the soil/land is more than the fertility of the soil but also the justice degree it holds from all the accumulated credit worthiness of all those it has created, nurtured and received back. It is for that same reason that libation is poured into the same soil/land. 

That is how my indigenous community avoided institutions such as DOGE, characters such as ELON and disgrace such EPSTIN and epidemics such TRUMP. Like the story of soil/land, the problem is not these characters but the soil/land they come from. That soil/land is our creation and we are responsible as witnesses who have heard. We can’t hear, not act and think that we are innocent. Our very souls are depreciated by tolerating injustices. 

We need more such heart quenching stories to eat by, live by and ultimately to die by. That is ecological balance through indigenous economy.

Cry My Beloved Malcolm

I am exceedingly thankful to Alex Hailey for his vision to write the autobiography of Elder Malcolm Shabazz, otherwise known as Malcolm X. That book was the third book I read upon my arrival to the Americas. It was during one of the most difficult periods in my life. The book offered such a solid foundation that I would carry a copy around just for the sake of it. I felt both grounded as well as inspired just having it around.

A few years later, I almost shed tears when I heard of a judge in Memphis who would offer young African American men in legal trouble reduced sentences in exchange for reading the Autobiography of Malcolm X and writing a brief essay on lessons they may have learned. What a brilliant idea it was? I would actually pay money to talk to a few of those men who took up the generous offer from a legal system with a severely historical record. It was an injustice that I knew both personally but also historically. As a student of Political Science, I once argued in class that Lady Justice is a poor representation of blind law as racism seems to come from the heart. That meant that having a statue of a Caucasian with her eyes blinded by a folded cloth and a scale on her hand is a mockery to justice relative to indigenous Americans, African Americans and the economically underprivileged. I suggested that a set of shackles should be hung somewhere on the statue just like the set of shackles on the Statue of Liberty in New York. 

The above example is just one example of the active life I had in college. I took the lesson of reading from elder Malcolm and that meant that I got more college than I otherwise would have. But the most significant changes that Alex Hailey’s writing influenced me was the set of friends I chose and the cause for which I dedicated my life. My friends tended to be serious in learning as well as in discipline. Some brothers from the Nation of Islam were some of my classes. Those Muslim young men were probably students of elders who had been taught by Elder Malcolm himself. That group of young men were always clean and active in the community. Even though I wasn’t interested in being a Muslim, we found much in common. I ended up buying a bow tie just to fit it. 

I am humbled to have learned about the work of Elder Malcolm at an early age. But that experience is not without its set of tears. As we mark a century since the birth of this wise sage, the world is in a far worse shape than it was during his passing. I remember how touched I was when I read the last chapter of his autobiography where Osie Davis was quoted as saying that the morticians that examined his body claimed that it was the cleanest body they had ever seen in their career. It is for that reason, amongst many many others, that I call him an exemplary leader. His fight for justice and liberation did not ignore justice to his body and organs, in other words food justice was central to who he was. How can anyone be just to others unless he is just to his or her own body. 

I have a hard time believing someone who is unfair or unjust to their own body. I therefore salute this remarkable man. I am not making claims about Elder Malcolm based on what others said or wrote about him, I heard a tape recording of the FBI trying to entice him to be an informant. That clip is online, thanks to the freedom of information act. Elder Malcolm, true to his stand,  categorically refused to share any information about the organization he was a member for he knew that he was not engaged in any illegal activity.

Yet after such an illustrious life, to all I can say is : Cry My Beloved Malcolm. Our bodies and our resolve do not demonstrate justice. The state of Africans worldwide, is sorry, the long historical injustices notwithstanding. Our food and our commitment to upright values would make Elder Malcolm cry. Maybe the shackles I was suggesting should be hung on our heads and our stomachs. while it’s true some people are making spirited efforts to make the world a better place, the destruction is far greater than the building. The Dooms Clock, set up in 1947 by the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, was designed as a quick illustration of how far the world was to a nuclear war. The clock was set at 7 minutes to midnight. Midnight representing doom. The Doomsday  Clock today is set at 89 seconds. That is how much “progress” we have made in the wrong direction!

Surely America has refused to change. Instead it wants to be the old self again. In the city where Elder Malcolm was assassinated, a poem by Emma Lazarus entitled The Great Colossus is still legible on the Statue of Liberty. But it’s the words “tempest tost” that best captures my feelings today as I think about the pain of resurrecting our human colossus to match that of Elder Malcolm both in resolve to stand for justice and  with a body that is equally just. I don’t only cry for Elder Malcolm but I also cry for thee.

Traore & Continental Mothers Day

War is the unconditional response to his cultural and class countdown calculator. The countdown calculator is what life insurance companies use to calculate the risk of insuring a particular person’s life to make sure that they don’t lose money. It is an amazing science and one I have borrowed from heavily in understanding the politics of race and class. 

The important lesson worth mentioning here is that there are very few life insurance companies that have ever filed for bankruptcy under normal conditions. Its also worth noting that the countdown calculation results are not only based on an individual's choices and conditions but those of your ancestors,  the social and economic conditions of your neighbors , amongst others.

This a perfect illustration of the difference between the continental countdown calculations between the classes of the countries represented. The African here ensures that his county will have very high risk factors for tens of generations to come assuming that everything stays constant. 

Before any African starts  condemning any of these people in the photo, ask yourself what your countdown score would be relative to the conditions of the African Continent today. How will your choices influence the countdown calculations risk of the future generations?

The next time you make a choice on what food to eat, fashion to buy, what vacation to take, ask yourself how that would contribute to the birth of another Ibrahim Traore. It might be the best gift to yourself and to the eventual liberation of the whole world. The global  political system in the world is designed to ran on the fuel of injustice. As such, it rewards the few who are driven by greed and transient appetites. The biggest tragedy is that the biggest supporters of this unjust global system are the exploited masses. If they understood the way they are in, they can crash that system by withholding their support. Can you imagine a what it would take to have every president in the entire world with a vision of president Ibrahim Traore ? That is unlikely to happen with current numbers of the global countdown calculations.

The exploitation of the African continent is similar to the poisoning of the stomach as Africa is both the center and the mother of the world. Do the right thing whether for Ibrahim Traore and his mother, your mother or your Motherland and your own countdown calculator’s score. If none of that appeals to you, do it for the sake of Justice. Otherwise you can count yourself as a high priest amongst the fathers of injustice and the prophets of doom and the proponents that ensure the abortion of visionaries like Traore and millions of others across time and space who live for victory in the struggle for a just world. 

I am therefore sending the kind of vibration and intellect that will make our mothers free today and in the future just like the mother of Ibrahim Traore has brought so much hope in the hearts of so many who recognize what the liberation of Africa would mean in the world today and in the future. Let’s start an Afro Futuristic tradition of Continental Mother’s Day for our Motherland by the one thing we all do: Eat Well. Don’t eat trash from institutions of war, otherwise known as conventional supermarkets and restaurants that only make us super malnourished and sick while poisoning the wombs and seeds that will birth a just future for us all. For once let us be kind to our stomach, from the biological home from whence we were born and our Continental Motherland, where were first nurtured. After all what else would make us mankind if we can’t be kind to our stomach, ourselves, each other and ultimately to our Motherland?

Ibrahim Traore is not just a president of Burkina Faso but the symbol of the highest aspirations of people of African descent, both recent as well as primordial. In other words everyone is included in that list. Her there symbolizes a womb that is fertile and pregnant with justice and kindness for mankind. Now that is something you can hold on to without shame, guilt or blood on your hands like the African puppet holding on to the French president, two men who are a disgrace any just mothers and all of mankind of goodwill.

Traore: Africa on the Cross

America, under the leadership of Barrack Obama and Hilary Clinton and the NATO forces deposed the government of Muamar Gaddafi, killing and humiliating him. President Gaddafi had recently announced the introduction of a single currency in Africa and the introduction of an African Central Bank as two solutions to circumvent the control of African economy using foreign debt. The main culprit in using debt to plunder African resources is the World Bank and the IMF.

The issue of gold has always been a hot topic in American and western politics at almost every major crossroads. In 1896 U.S. Presidential elections, a democratic candidate by the name of William Jennings Bryan give a famous speech during the Democratic Party nominations in Nebraska popularly known as the Cross of Gold Speech. Jennings was campaigning for the use of both gold and silver to back the dollar. The popular play Wizard of Oz was also partly inspired by the issue of the gold standard debate. The populist forces lost the debate and gold became the standard of monetary policy in the U.S. as some of the big boys in government wanted.

The issue came back in 1944 following WWII at Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, where two main ideas of having the dollar as global reserve currency or a neutral currency known as Bancor. John Maynard Keynes and EF Schumacher had come up with the concept of Bancor. America used its power and the dollar was picked as a reserve currency to be backed by gold.

The dollar would be back by gold until 1971 when Richard Nixon announced a temporary suspension of the convertibility of dollars into gold. America had been printing more gold than it had to fund the Vietnam War. France and a few other countries demanded for their gold that they had deposited in America as part of the Bretton Woods agreement. That was the beginning of the demise of Bretton Woods agreement and the move by Nixon.

But it was Paul Volcker who put the last nail on the coffin of the international trade as he proposed to Henry Kissinger a way in which America could print money and export the resulting inflation to other countries. That job fell on the Federal Reserve to print money without control. Along with the arrangement of Saudi Arabia selling their oil in dollars, a powerful military with almost 1000 bases in foreign countries, the denomination of all IMF and World Bank loans in the dollar, the supremacy of the dollar was guaranteed.

The consequences of those policies was to make Africa the source of raw materials and poorer with time. That is why Gaddafi’s plan had to be stopped immediately. It didn’t matter what color of the skin the president of the U.S. was at the time. Now we see the same color in the general who wants to overthrow president Ibrahim Traore, again on the account of gold.

America should start by telling us where Muamar Gaddafi’s gold that was in such a big enough amount to set up an African bank with a gold goin went.

Keep your eyes on the big yellow road and not the antics or the color of the skin of the wizards. Besides the military and economic war, the biggest war that Africa has to fight is the cultural war. A culture of consuming what you don’t make and selling what you don’t consume in raw form is the kiss of death. African revolution of the minds have to change if Africa is to survive and their leaders like president Traore.

Africa is a net food importer and that is gold to Africa’s enemies and a cause of Africa loosing its gold to secure fiat food that keeps them starving, sick and riddled with lifestyle diseases of the West and wealthy nations.

Traore is not just a president but gold, food a freedom for Africa. Americans can kill him but that won’t him an idea whose time has come. The word Traore is more valuable than gold for it is the representation of a true upright African and therefore a perfect reason for an upright uprising of African everywhere. America might soon be facing DUGE, the Determination of Upright Government Efficacy.

If William Jennings Bryan thought talked about the cross of gold, today we have African on the cross and we are not going to take it lying down.

Julia, Ira & A White Plate

According to the Agĩkũyũ indigenous social mores, the hut of the man who was the head of the homestead was the receiving point of any guest in the homestead.  My brother Kariuki Wa Mbĩgĩ uses the most appropriate concept of a sponge in reference to the role of a hut of the head of the home. It made sense that that hut would be right next to the entrance to what was usually a circular set up huts belonging to the family. 

The idea of a sponge is however limited as it doesn’t do justice to the purpose of the guest going through the hut of the head of the homestead. Yet, any confusion is cleared by simply understanding the etymology of the word Thingira ( capitalized for emphasis).The word stems from the word “thingira” and “Ira”. Thingira means to seal any holes or to repair, while Ira is the name of a white chalk-like mined dirt that is used in almost some of the most critical rituals. The whiteness signifies purity. The hut of the head of the homestead is a spiritual space on one hand, a defense depot on the other and healing center to repair the psychological and political wellbeing of the family and a school to educate the next generation of viable leaders who can nourish,repair, defend and teach for the sake of a truly functional community. 

It’s for that reason that the young boys of the homestead would sleep in their father’s hut and upon undergoing through the rights of passage would have their own hut which also bore the same name.

In other words, the rights of passage opened doors for a practical learning by having a hut for the young man.

For the first time in my area, a Caucasian lady spent 6 weeks in a hut as a symbolic gesture of the learning that is overdue of the part of the two cultures represented here. Caucasians are referred as white but that reference hasn’t made them immune to the dangers of food illiteracy. My indigenous community have been victims of the misunderstanding of the complex Caucasian history and the struggle for justice and especially food justice.

In the end, a humble Thingira made members of two communities literate in spite of all the poison in regard to race!

Julia’s 6-week and Thingira treatment of consuming Just Food is a resurrection of the power of Thingira to repair and purify like the mythical power of “Ira” for both locals as well as Caucasians. A plate of Just Food prepared in line with Afro Futuristic Conscious Cuisine has contributed some in making a religious community spirited, a Caucasian student white and a freedom fighter and medical anthropologist what he has always yearned to be: a free, decolonized man who is functional in liberating the very soul of his community.

What greater joy than to rebuild the Thingira even in the heart of what has been “enemy territory “Hail Thingira! Hail Just Food.

Pharaonic Birthday and The Oval Office

I was inundated with wishes of a happy birthday all yesterday and today. I lost count once it hit over one hundred and eight. That’s a lot of people for me as the one thing I find with every successful year is that I have to deal with a shrinking list of friends. The irony of it is that almost every single year for the last decade, I always travel to a new state or country and meet new friends.

My point here is that yesterday was one of the most difficult days I have had. It just so happened that the week had been quite productive with great strides on other fronts( story for another day).

I was overcome with sadness as I considered all the energy that was being sent my way and knowing that it wouldn’t change the reality we live in for one single second. Happiness is not a one day affair when one wakes up and pushes the pause button for the sad reality in the world. This is one sick world and I am more scared of those who claim special powers, supernatural abilities and special abilities to make things better.

I can say a lot but I will wrap up with a write up going back a year back when I said that I will never wear a suit ever in my life. I came to realize that there things I hold as golden standards that promote injustices in the most blatant ways.

I almost cried therefore when I say one grown adult with a round object on his neck standing in front of a foreign dignitary from Ukraine, in front of the TV, and the only question he found worthy asking is why the president of a country in war couldn’t wear a suit to a meeting that was expressly designed to steal the minerals worth trillions of dollars for a fake peace without guarantee and the illogical condition of allowing Russia to keep all the stolen lands that have enormous wealth. And what do the people of Ukraine get? Nothing.

Nothing was what my day was about yesterday. I don’t mean to burst your bubbles but we are a sick people period. I am neither proud of my American citizenship nor my country of birth. The masses, Black or Caucasian, are interested in finding peace, success and happiness in a world that has none.

Every dollar in your pocket or toy or nice house has a heavy cost on the global happiness index that is hidden. As long as enough people are so smart to value a suit over justice and human life, we are all fucked.

America lied to Gorbachev that it would not advance an inch of NATO territory towards the territory of the former USSR and did the exact opposite. Putin is just trying to protect his territory and ensure he has access to a sea port that can allow him to trade with Chine should America blockade him as he has.

Yet, the sponsors of terror globally have the audacity to ask for a thank you and claim loudly that the American people have been disrespected by someone have a conversation. Trump even told him that he had spoken too much.

Okay, that is Ukraine. What about Congo? When are they planning to come to the Oval Office? What would they be coming to do if they saw the interview? What about Africans and other national here? Do we all have to dress a certain that conservatives feel is appropriate?

My heart is heavy and my wish is not to be happy but for justice to roll like a mighty river. Our first violence and “suit” we wear is the food we put in our mouth and the fake narratives we hold in our own “Oval Offices” we call heads. We are in very bad shape and we are headed in the wrong direction very fast. Prioritize justice and happiness will come.

African is a miniature of its past glory. Consider the 3,200 years old statue of the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses II, known to have been one of Egyptian great pharaoh. The statue of Ramses the second weighs 83 tons. What kind of suit did he wear to rule that long and better yet, what kind of food did those who carved such a statue eat? How just was their “oval office” atop their neck and the one above their waistline?

That was then, I wonder how the ancestors would compare to my gracious friends on social media, especially with the over abundance of happy meals and other over speeding food otherwise known as fast food as the equivalent of “suits” for our “oval offices”. We too have a silent war going on against healthy food and sensible culture that supports and nourish our environment and community. Only with sustainable and nourishing oval offers amongst the masses can we expect the politicians to reflect our values allow us to celebrate every day with happiness. Happy “Oval Offices”, which apparently connected through by Vagus nerve. Apparently the word vagus is the same root for the word vagabond. I am now truly lost on account of the condition of the corrupt “oval offices” I dream of a rebirth pharaonic era that makes all of us feel at home.

Thayũ Thayù

Sunflower Capture

Captured Sunflower 

I have been following the changing dynamics of organic seeds for over a quarter of a century. It’s one of the reasons I became an ardent collector of organic seeds. The other unintended consequences of my interest in seeds is that I have also been able to track the changing cost of what I call Just Food. The cost of seeds have a big bearing on both the availability and cost of just food in ways that is less obvious to the general consumer. 

Today I looked at a few gorgeous photos of our organic sunflower seeds being grown by our astute farmer, one Muchemi Njenga.. The seeds growing in Kitengela are a perfect snack for the birds, especially during the current  dry season when food is scarce. That means that we have to put nets on a big number of sunflowers to ensure we can harvest enough seeds for our seed bank. 

While Muchemi is keeping an eye on the birds, I am keeping an eye on the price of seeds. According to the price of our latest sunflower seeds we are adding to our collection, 2 seeds costs the equivalent of a liter of milk in the local market. If one considers the cost of producing a a liter of milk, it becomes clear that the price of organic seeds is already one of the biggest obstacles in increasing accessibility of Just Food to most people.

The end result is that more and more stomachs are being captured and placed in Unjust bags of the evil forces of doom who thrive from peddling toxic chemicals and medicines. While Muchemi’s bags are keeping the birds from eating all the Sunflowers, he is gracious enough to share the bounty with the birds. Unfortunately the same cannot be said about the enemies of Just Food, the foundation of any sensible food system or any semblance of viable civilization. What we do have instead is an insidious and pernicious web with astute super structures which dictate that a food system that is increasingly becoming dominant, or adored is essentially antithetical to justice, sustainability and civic gastronomy. The problem is so serious as to surpass the level of epidemic, yet its as if the majority of the masses are in denial. This epidemic hasn’t provoked the kind of ire one would typically expect gauging by the cost the problem costs all societies.

What many don’t see is the proverbial bag used to capture the masses by imperialists and the peddlers of toxic chemicals is the exact opposite of a sunflower. The word sunflower combines two beautiful words, sun and flower. Those words denote light and beauty. That light and beauty is exactly what unjust food obliterates, albeit slowly and over a long time.The end result will most likely be darkness and distortion. Put simply, many easily understood what state capture means: that the benefits intended for all citizens are hijacked for the benefit of a few crooks. Sunflower capture represents the same hijacking of a food system for the benefit of darkness, distortion and fiat culture.

We are thankful for all those who support our Sunflower seeds but also our efforts to promote light and beauty in our community and beyond. 

ThayùCulture

Sovereign Rhubarb

The Greeks are believed to have given rhubarb its name. Rhubarb’s oldest name amongst the Greeks was Rha Barbaron, a word that translates to “foreign rhubarb”. In short, a plant that is believed to have originated from China but dispersed globally from Europe, the foreign bit of the name has stuck around.  We have however decided to create a welcoming environment in Gathĩngĩra for this gorgeous and flavorful plant. As a sign of our commitment to our promise, the committee of ThayũCulure, using the principles of Afro futurism, have arrived at the name of Mariuki( meaning resurrection) as the most appropriate local name. 

We are delighted to have Mariuki flavor as a local gem to enhance our food experience. We are staying true to our believe that even indigenous foods are foreign in most of the places you currently find them. The best of us is the one with the biggest collection of clean organic and heirloom seeds that will ultimately become localized. In other words, one who resurrects clean seeds in their local zones.

It would be a form of self-imposed discrimination for me to leave in this world and to only experience life with the tip of my tongue. If I can live one good life, I can leave the collection of wonderful flavors we have for those who will come behind me. Depending on how good of a job we do, the flavors will mark our efforts and I hope that like Mariũki, those who will follow in our footsteps will know that they too are on transit and that they should both preserve and energize food, flavors and community to make this world a better place. 

One way to kill that dream is to be stuck on only the food of your ancestors. If I ever become one, I would be highly disappointed if those who had a chance to eat better opted to pass the opportunity. Whatever their reasons, I hope I won’t be one of them. I practiced food sovereignty on a domestic level, by eating the best I know how, even when all I could do is guess. Don’t forget that the second name of rhubarb was “Barbaron” a word that means barbarian or savage. How interesting is that?

Compared to the Greeks, our ancestors did not think of seeds as foreign. Whenever traders and travelers would find new seeds while traveling, they would bring back some of them. If asked where they got the seeds from, the common answer was that the seeds had been offered by the highest deity amongst my people.

If all else fails, just find your way to Gathĩngĩra and walk “ .. down hill and up heal with the rhubarb medicinal energy.” I promise you that energy is sovereign. Africans have been living and eating like foreigners for too long and the consequences are obvious for anyone with eyes. It’s time to be majestic with our food and our consciousness of its consumption. If my ancestors treasured seeds to that degree, ThayũCulture must be following in their footsteps. We know of no better service to engage Gathĩngĩra in than to keep amplifying the work of our ancestors and keep refining it along the way.

ThayùCulture