Banjo's dead. Long Live Banjo.

There's something very personal about the rough glide of graphite on paper.  In stark contrast to the manic dance of long fingers on plastic keyboard.  Assuming anyone is reading this, the transfer to the digital realm eventually did take place, but these words were conceived in a lonely, insufficiently lit room, when 0.7mm cluch pencil made hurried love to A4 hard cover exercise book.  The latter doesn't belong to me.

I write at a time when I feel creatively stifled.  My guitars are two thousand kilometres away.  I don't have a phone to share my twisted thoughts 140 characters at a time.  My Blackberry Torch was a casualty of my overly enthusiastic exertions on the dancefloor of our local watering hole two weeks prior.

Release is important to me.  I'm in constant need of an outlet.  I wake up some afternoons with my mind racing, a million thoughts per second going through my head.  Mostly sensible things, sometimes deeply philosophical thoughts.  And of course lots of silly things, much of which I share with my Twitter followers.  Mostly in-your-face, uncensored, I-can't-believe-he-just-tweeted-that kinda stuff.  I know it makes some people uncomfortable and others find my tweets downright offensive.  Some days I feel guilty.  Most others, I don't.  Truth is, I like to shock people.  Its a bit of a perversion of mine.  Another truth is, some people like it.  Their retweets tell me so.  The retweets and favourites are shouting loudly to me "Go, stretch, go!!"  Their perverse enjoyment of my reckless tweets feeds my desire to come up with even more shocking material.  Until we're in some depraved cyber orgy.  A sick (and very, very fun) little Catch 22 on the world wide web.

99% of my tweets are gospel truth.  The other 1% contain embellishmets.  Dont act like youve never added spice to a story.

I word of advice though.  Take my tweets cum grano salis.  I always insist that my internet persona is not the same as my real personality.  I'm a fairly introverted and soft-spoken being in person.  I'm only loud and talkative when I'm drunk or in an uncomfortable situation.  I sort of over-compensate for my shyness by being especially mouthy.  My internet persona is an extension of my radio persona "stretch.dj".  stretch is a douchebag who says risqué things on air, flirts with callers and gets drunk and thrown out of nightclubs.  Nkandu Kataya on the other hand, pays his taxes, dotes on his mother and likes cats.

Oh and Banjo Wirez?  He's dead.  Long live Banjo.

Three Full Moons

I've been fascinated by sex since I was a tiny little thing.  I don't think I was more than six when I first stumbled upon soft porn.  I wasn't sure what was going on, but oh how bare breasts excited me!  Thankfully I was raised in a sheltered, religious environment.  The tumultuous teenage years passed largely uneventful for me.  The first kiss at age 14.  Feeling boobs for the first time a few months later (the most perfect D cups ever.  I'll never forget them).  Mostly it was me whacking off to naughty thoughts of girls at my school.  I told myself I was saving it for marriage, or at least for some person and time worth saving it for. 

At sixteen I had my first real test.  She was my age, a close family friend and we were tipsy, in the back of my mom's car, somewhere in Jesmondine.  I still vividly remember how her smooth, dark skin shone in the moonlight from the open sunroof.  She was wearing a matching bra and thong.  We kissed, we grabbed, we groped and we grinded on each other like our young lives depended on it.  We steamed up mommy's windows. 

But we didnt do it.

I just couldn't let myself.  Tomorrow would be Sunday and I was determined that that we would both be at the Kingdom Hall with our mothers. Hangovered, but singing Jehovah's praises heartily, consciences unbothered by thoughts of the previous night's fornicating.  So we put our clothes back on and I dropped her off at home, and headed home myself, with her bra as a souvenir.  Lord how I fapped that night.  In retrospect that probably would've been the perfect introduction to the wonderful world of the flesh;  a girl I actually liked, in a fairly safe and comfortable environment.

Because a year later, my resolve was finally broken.  Like most boys, my first time was with a more experienced woman.  Again, alcohol was involved.  Mosi.  She reeked of the stuff.   She led me behind the Chudleigh tank, mere metres away from her house.  She kept thrusting her tongue in my mouth in a way that I hated.  I didnt have a condom.  She lay down on the ground in the moonlight and divested herself of clothing.  She fumbled around with my belt, and suddenly I found my shorts around my ankles, my pathetic bare buttocks ironically exposed to the full moon.  It was all over within two minutes, with me pulling out just in time to bust an awkward, apologetic nut on her belly.  I was a few weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday.

That damn moonlight.