Where do you want to go today?

Zinga mobile app.

Concept: John Alogo

TVC 20 Sec Teaser

He lies still on the large, circular bed in his hand-tailored pyjamas. This is where he creates his ultimate reality and bends it to his will. Everything in this room is deceptively simple. He’s not flashy but the kind of stylish only people with real money and taste would appreciate. Just like his eyes. Deep when you catch his attention. Right now they are closed even as the muted sound of an alarm buzzer fills his ears. It’s not the kind of alarm that jars him awake. He doesn’t need an alarm to wake him up. It’s part of his ritual of existence that roots him back in the material plane. A reminder of sorts. He’s master of his universe. Well part of it.

His eyes open. He is very aware of his surroundings and exactly where his smartphone is. It’s not really a smartphone. It has no visible branding. Branding on phones has been left behind in the wilderness of gaudiness - replaced by technological advancement. All branding exist on the virtual user interfaces. He lives in his own time. A place where the past, present and the future converge at his will.

Through the rectangular piece of glass in his hands, he can see the ceiling fan rotating lazily – just enough to swill the perfectly conditioned air around his sanctuary. A magical piece of technology this glass. The letter Z cast in holographic three dimensions pulsates in tandem with the buzz of the alarm. A touch of his manicured forefinger silences the alarm and dissolves the cryptogram to reveal the words he has been dreaming an answer to. “Where do you want to go today?” It’s not a question. It’s a beckoning. An invitation to his daily adventure to destiny. It has been the same question since he came into possession of the doors.

It takes only a moment for him to prepare to open the door. It’s not a door in the conventional sense. It’s a monolith of intricately carved hieroglyphs. He has been decoding them since he found the room of doors. Or did the room find him? His shoulders widen in his Bernini jacket ever so slightly as he takes a deep breath. He has done this many times now and always come back victorious. Slightly exhausted, but more experienced for the next level. It’s a bit like a game, only he can’t lose more than what he gained yesterday. The rules are clear. That would make him have to choose another door. Maybe he’s ready for that. Just not today. There are fifteen doors in total around him, arranged in a circle. Each door has different hieroglyphs on it. Fifteen doors. In the space between the doors are vortices of energy pulsating and arcing in various wavelengths. All parallel realities caught up in a cauldron of timelessness and unbound by space. It’s been years since he went into the material plane without going through his doors. It’s survivable but highly chaotic. They doors are a part of him now. And not everyone can afford a door.

He can make a choice of where he wants to be. What happens there is entirely formed by his imagination and mental stamina. Today he dreamt how to control the drifting caused by the shift in blue energy as he floated in mid-space. An opportunity shall avail itself for that skill today. He just needs to keep an open mind. Today he has decided to go Indian. And he needs to get to make all his meetings on time. That’s how he can afford to keep the doors.

He touches the picture on his phone. A majestic elephant. Bejewelled and decked with gold ornaments. Its tusks inlaid with mother of pearl and jade. He waits for the transformation to begin. It’s quick. He has to be ready. The phone always takes the shape of the picture. Today it’ll take the shape of the elephant. That or the Taj Mahal in the background. One can never be sure what. Deftly, he fits the flat crystal elephant into the recess n the granite panel on the door. It’s part of the door now but will be back in his hand on the other side. Placing his palm on the pearlescent glow of the elephant, he turns it fourteen degrees clockwise. He closes his eyes and steps forward into the swirling vortex.

...

He can barely hear the angry traffic below, only the afro house track projected in 3D stereo from his phone. He thunders above it, perched on top of a trumpeting giant pachyderm. He waves at Jaija across the road, who nods politely - visibly impressed by the beast he’s riding today.

“Have you heard of Zinga?” pops up on Jaija’s phone screen. Well, it’s not crystal glass, but it can receive text. Right below the Z cryptogram is a download link with the words “Where do you want to go today?” Jaija looks up from the phone, raises a hand to his temple in thankful salute with a smile, riding on his matted wooly mammoth. Jaija is also old school, maybe too old school. But he’s a sharp dresser. You’ve got to give him that.

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Fragmentation

It's the highest form of disrespect. Trying to read a person.

The battle. Chapter 1. Verse 1.

You know what's sick with this world? Wanting more money than you know what to do with. What's sad is not knowing what to do with it.

Respect this

Admiration is a poor substitute for respect. I care for neither and put them to the test frequently to cut the wheat from the chaff.

He ignored the sing-song taunts of the dusty and pot-bellied children dancing around him. With the car battery perched gingerly on his head, he did look like an old woman coming back from the market with unsold wares. He smiled, wiping his glistening brow with his free hand. His callused palm smelled of cow's intestine. So did the other, which was clutched around a leaky newspaper wrapping. As he wiped his hand on his trouser bottom, he made a mental note to remind Ada to mend his khaki trousers. He adjusted the clump of itchy sisal fibre that cushioned his head from the hard battery plastic, wordlessly cursing the flies that had somehow found their way from his left hand and were now buzzing as annoyingly above his forehead.

The pair of red and black cables under his left arm were uncomfortable, but he didn't have much farther to go, he told himself. If he quickened his pace, and connected the battery as instructed, he would catch the early evening news on his black and white TV.

The evening light was waning fast. "I must remember to buy some tomatoes to fry the matumbo", he thought, spitting out the bile that accompanied his rumbling stomach. He never even noticed that the raggedy children had stopped following him. He quickened his pace, whistling tunelessly.

A Dark Night

All the shops were closed. Shuttered with security grilles. A flickering lightbox provided the only illumination accompanied by electrical sizzle from within. There was very little traffic on the road and no matatus to be seen. It was cold but I reminded myself not to put my hands in my pockets. The streets were no longer safe. I might need both fists. I blew into my hands to warm them up, staring back bleakly at my reflection on the wet tarmac. I rubbed my hands and made my way warily down the street. I heard her voice before I could see her. A heavy smoker and a heavy drinker, or maybe the weather was getting to her. "I don't know", I replied. It was true. I didn't know what time the matatus stopped plying that route. It was my first time there. She took a couple of steps back into the shadows. I barely caught a glimpse of her face. A fine nose, and beautiful red shoes. Pity about the voice. A warm red glow and a guff of white. Ah, a smoker. Foul habit. Glad I had quit. It was cold and it would keep her warm. I took one look over my shoulder once I was in the shadows just to make sure I wasn't being followed. The streets were no longer safe. I squared my shoulders, hunched my back against the biting cold and picked up my pace.

I tried to whistle, but my lips were too cold and numb to carry a tune. Taking a quick look around me, I blew into my hands again, rubbed them together and put them inside my pockets. I have to remember to ask my wife to fix the hole in my pocket, I told myself. Then it hit me hard. I was on the wet ground. An unkempt crowd rushing by me from the alley on my left. There was no sound from them but the patter of plastic-soled shoes and cheap pumps. I instinctively knuckled my fists over my face until they passed. I turned my face to the alley, picking myself up warily. In the dim light over the tinny sound of a pocket radio was the silhouette of a security guard in a waterproof coat. Maybe a policeman. He squatted and slowly pointed a finger into the dimly lit doorway in front of him. Two shots echoed thunderously from his hand. I got up, trembling. He stood up slowly, and fired three more rounds into the doorway. Then he turned and looked at me. He raised his gun towards my face. Twenty metres away from my face. I stumbled and tripped backwards over the pavement as the shot rang out.

I don't quite remember how I found myself next to the bridge. It wasn't really a bridge. It was a series of odd-sized planks tied over a pair of twelve inch water pipes. I didn't remember running over it either. All I remember was the cop staring at me from across the black river just before I disappeared into the bulrushes. I emerged into a clearing after what seemed like an interminably long stumbling run before I felt the first sting of a hundred cuts from the napier grass blades. Bent over with my hands on my knees, I quickly took in my dim surroundings. I had never been across the river before. Very bad things happened on this side of the river. Above the rise of the river bank was a black matatu, I clambered up and circled round to the passenger entrance, coughing through the acrid exhaust smoke. It was cold inside the matatu. I asked the somber passengers whether the matatu was going to town. Most were in various stages of despair and tears. Then I smelt it. A rotting corpse. It wasn't the black river. I was in a hearse. I hurled myself out of the morbid vehicle, bumping into wailing old women and drunken laughing youth.

The run across the muddy road almost got me hit by a motorcycle without headlights. More long grass on the other side of the road. I wasn't going through that grass again. I half ran and half walked, not wanting to draw attention to myself. The grass was getting shorter and the music grew louder. There was a bonfire at the end of the grass with half a dozen teenagers dancing around it. I was desperate. I slowed down just enough to ask them the direction to town. One girl in dreadlocks with a baby strapped in a lesso on her back grinned at me and pointed in the direction I was going. Her other hand was clasped around a bottle of glue she was sniffing from. The boys started getting into formation and I started running again. My lungs were burning and bits of driftwood and jagged rocks flew past my head. As their shouts faded away, I realised they had given up the chase.

What was I doing on this side of the river, I asked myself. I was as good as dead. Finally, some form of residential building built of stone. There was some nocturnal activity at the matatu stop. It was floodlit and the lights were protected with a wire mesh so the rocks catapulted there wouldn't smash the lights. I was safe again. I pointed at the plastic bottle and the deaf-mute hawker signed twenty shillings with his clenched fists. I dug out a bunch of coins from my good pocket to buy a bottle of water for my burning throat. I hadn't run so far and so long in more than a decade. I took a long swig of the water as I slumped into a chair in the matatu wondering what I would tell my wife. That was the second phone I had lost in as many weeks. I slid over the vinyl seat to make space for the lady asking to sit next to me. The last thing I remember before slipping into unconsciousness was the taste of the water. It was a little bitter. And her hoarse voice. A heavy drinker. Or a smoker. Her fine nose and her bright red high heels.

Dog training

So these 'dog trainers' (or are they 'canine behavioural psychologists'?) say that dogs sniff each other's asses to identify one another. So tell me this 'DOG TRAINER' - If you trained this pair of dogs for this single lady in Kileleshwa to the point that her friends declared them the smartest dogs EVARR... Didn't you train these two mutts to be smart enough to know that there's no other dog "apart from the two of us. Just checking. Nothing to see here. Now move along". Let's be real here. Dogs just love to sniff other dogs' asses. Dogs even love to sniff their own asses. They LICK their own asses. Ass is like CRACK to dogs. I have cats, too, and they get along fine. And the dogs keep sniffing their asses. And when my son starts crawling they'll be sniffing his ass going like "That's some different kind of ass, dudes. Let's sniff it". That's why you don't try to smuggle coke up your butt, because the sniffer dogs will be sniffing your ass and "bingo!"