When historians go through the logs and archives of Kenyans’ complaints on the internet, they will undoubtedly stumble upon the neo-nazi institution that is ArtCaffe; responsible for wielding their racism to cause many a tear to trickle down dark skin.
Most recently, the owner of the restaurant allegedly had a guy arrested for ordering more croissants than his racial stature was entitled to. Continue reading
Hello my name is iCon and I’m addicted to coffee.
It’s been about 10 minutes since my last cup and I’ll be downing my next one as soon as I finish typing this.
I picked this horrible habit up as a child and amplified it to its current volume somewhere in the piss stained alleyways of Brooklyn, New York. Since then, I have been more faithful to that dark elixir than I have to any other aspect of my life. I’ve considered creating a contraption where I can put a huge bag of it on my back and siphon it into my body intravenously but I like the taste too much. So instead I nicknamed it “Unleaded Diesel” and created a ritual around drinking it. Yes, my coffee has a name. And yes, that ritual involves a dance. Continue reading
May I vent?
The other day, I had gone to meet one of your pretty cousins for coffee at some nearby overpriced piece of sh** excuse for a cafe.
[Frankly, not a big fan of Java and Dormans. I have Nescafe and milk in the kitchen if you’re thirsty. Just bring sugar, some of us drink it black.]
Anyway….after we placed our orders and chatted for a few seconds, Paul Tergat walked by. I recognized him immediately but didn’t react. She, however did.
“OMG, it’s Paul Tergat.”
[Just to clarify, she actually said “OMG” and not “Oh My God”.]
So I gave her a shoulder shrug as if to say “…and so….?” but instead she immediately assumed and blurted out the following.
“You don’t know who Paul Tergat is? What kind of Kenyan….” and her voice trailed off.
I gave her a half smile and had half the mind to just walk away.
But I didn’t. Not because this was acceptable, but because it wasn’t the first time that it had happened. In my numerous years living here, there and everywhere, people always assume that I’m from the furthest away place possible. Currently, I’m American, as I just returned from Obamaland. And no matter how hard I try to remind people around me that I’m just a kid from South B, I’ll forever be subconsciously bunched with the foreigner I frequented; a lesser African by decree of the people. Continue reading