Wait what, now this is dark humour 😂😂😂😂😂😂 https://odysee.com/@TheBabylonBee:7/starving-african-children-raise-money-to:d

"Ike Walton's Prayer" I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything.- Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstore I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;- Just the wee cot-the cricket's chirr- Love, and the smiling face of her. I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,- Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o’er An oaken floor, New-risen with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby’s head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drove of bees, With afterhushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again- The cricket’s call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not! I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway, - I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day- Yield me this horny palm to hold, And I’ll not pray For gold;- The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth- The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet. And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her. — James Whitcomb Riley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

I followed Governor Mutai's response to the circulating video and his apology. He received appropriate feedback after sharing a press release of his apology. This is what Kenyans had to tell him. Governor Mutahi Kahiga, this statement of yours is not an apology it’s a coward’s confession wrapped in political grammar. You call your remarks “personal views”? Let’s be honest those were not personal views, they were tribal venom, laced with hate and arrogance. You didn’t speak as a private citizen; you spoke as the Governor of Nyeri County, a national leader, and the Vice Chair of the Council of Governors. Every word you uttered carried the weight of your office, and every syllable dripped with contempt for an entire community that has contributed immensely to the making of this nation. You now say you were “misunderstood.” Governor, stop insulting the intelligence of Kenyans. We all heard you clearly. You didn’t stumble over words; you spoke with conviction. The language you used was not accidental it was tribal, divisive, and demeaning. What you said wasn’t just about Raila Odinga; it was about the millions of Luos who saw in your tone the same hate that has killed Kenya’s unity for decades. You’re a father, a teacher, and a leader yet you stood in public and poured poison into the ears of young Kenyans. What values do you teach your children? Do you tell them to despise their Luo classmates? Do you whisper to them that leadership belongs only to their tribe? If this is the example you set as a father and governor, then you’ve failed both your home and your country. Let’s be real stepping down from the Vice Chair of the Council of Governors is not accountability, it’s damage control. You didn’t resign out of integrity; you resigned because Kenyans saw through your tribal mask. You resigned because you became a liability to the same government you were trying to please. If your conscience was truly alive, you would not just step down from CoG you would step back from politics altogether and spend time learning the meaning of humanity. You claim you “meant well” when you said Raila’s death sends everyone back to the drawing board. Tell us, Governor since when did death become a political reset button? Raila Odinga was not just a politician; he was a symbol of struggle, democracy, and resilience. To use his death as a punchline for political commentary is not just insensitive it’s wicked. You, Governor, have become a national embarrassment. You have shamed your county, embarrassed your office, and stained your own name in the eyes of history. You have shown the world that tribal arrogance still lives in the hearts of men who should be building bridges. The children who will one day read about this will know you as the governor who mocked unity at a burial, who divided Kenyans when they were mourning. Kenya does not need leaders who speak the language of hate in 2025. We need leaders who speak the truth of equality, justice, and peace. You, Mutahi Kahiga, owe the Luo Nation more than an apology you owe this country repentance. Because when leaders like you speak, they don’t just divide tribes they destroy futures.

"Joy and Peace in Believing" Sometimes a light surprises The Christian while he sings; It is the Lord who rises With healing on His wings; When comforts are declining, He grants the soul again A season of clear shining, To cheer it after rain. In holy contemplation We sweetly then pursue The theme of God's salvation, And find it ever new; Set free from present sorrow, We cheerfully can say, E'en let the unknown to-morrow Bring with it what it may! It can bring with it nothing, But He will bear us through; Who gives the lilies clothing, Will clothe His people too; Beneath the spreading heavens No creature but is fed; And He who feeds the ravens Will give His children bread. Though vine nor fig tree neither Their wonted fruit shall bear, Though all the field should wither, Nor flocks nor herds be there: Yet God the same abiding, His praise shall tune my voice; For, while in Him confiding, I cannot but rejoice. — William Cowper #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Hymn 121" Children devoted to God. [For those who practise infant Baptism.] Gen. 17:7,10; Acts 16:14,15,33. Thus saith the mercy of the Lord, "I'll be a God to thee; I'll bless thy num'rous race, and they Shall be a seed for me." Abram believed the promised grace, And gave his sons to God; But water seals the blessing now, That once was sealed with blood. Thus Lydia sanctified her house, When she received the word; Thus the believing jailer gave His household to the Lord. Thus later saints, eternal King! Thine ancient truth embrace; To thee their infant offspring bring, And humbly claim the grace. — Isaac Watts #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

When Nobody Claps, Keep Going. Sometimes life calls you to do big things — stuff that’s deep, impactful, and honestly draining — and yet… no one notices. No one claps. No one says “Good job.” And that’s when you learn one of the hardest truths: not all great work gets applause. Sometimes your reward isn’t fame, money, or likes — it’s the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did something that matters. Think about our mums. They cook every single day, raise entire human beings, hold families together — yet no one’s out here giving them awards. You won’t see them trending for “Best Meal 2025.” 😅 In fact, sometimes people complain: “Why is the food cold?” “We’ve eaten this twice this week.” Meanwhile, she’s just done a full day of work, kept the house running, solved everyone’s problems, and somehow still has energy to check if you’ve eaten. But does she stop? No. Because real purpose doesn’t need a crowd. That’s the thing about meaningful work — it’s often quiet, consistent, and thankless. No hashtags. No interviews. No clout. Yet it’s the kind of work that builds families, shapes futures, and changes communities. Our mothers, fathers, teachers, farmers — they’ve been planting seeds for years, and we’re the harvest. 🌱 So if you feel unseen right now, if you’re grinding in silence and no one’s cheering for you, please — don’t stop. Not every season is for applause. Some seasons are for planting. Your work matters, even if it doesn’t trend. Your effort counts, even if nobody’s posting you. Some of the seeds you’re sowing now are meant to bloom long after you’re gone — maybe for your children, or their children. That’s how legacy is built. That’s how our ancestors did it. They built slowly, sacrificed deeply, and believed in futures they’d never live to see. So don’t lose heart. Keep building. Keep showing up. Keep doing good work — even when nobody claps. Because one day, the world will look back and realize… you were part of the foundation all along. That’s it from this side. If no one told you this week, we see you, we’re proud of you, and your work does matter. ✍🏽 – Adogo

"Brother of All, with Generous Hand." 1 BROTHER of all, with generous hand, Of thee, pondering on thee, as o’er thy tomb, I and my Soul, A thought to launch in memory of thee, A burial verse for thee. What may we chant, O thou within this tomb? What tablets, pictures, hang for thee, O millionaire? —The life thou lived’st we know not, But that thou walk’dst thy years in barter, ’mid the haunts of brokers; Nor heroism thine, nor war, nor glory. Yet lingering, yearning, joining soul with thine, If not thy past we chant, we chant the future, Select, adorn the future. 2 Lo, Soul, the graves of heroes! The pride of lands—the gratitudes of men, The statues of the manifold famous dead, Old World and New, The kings, inventors, generals, poets, (stretch wide thy vision, Soul,) The excellent rulers of the races, great discoverers, sailors, Marble and brass select from them, with pictures, scenes, (The histories of the lands, the races, bodied there, In what they’ve built for, graced and graved, Monuments to their heroes.) 3 Silent, my Soul, With drooping lids, as waiting, ponder’d, Turning from all the samples, all the monuments of heroes. While through the interior vistas, Noiseless uprose, phantasmic (as, by night, Auroras of the North,) Lambent tableaux, prophetic, bodiless scenes, Spiritual projections. In one, among the city streets, a laborer’s home appear’d, After his day’s work done, cleanly, sweet-air’d, the gaslight burning, The carpet swept, and a fire in the cheerful stove. In one, the sacred parturition scene, A happy, painless mother birth’d a perfect child. In one, at a bounteous morning meal, Sat peaceful parents, with contented sons. In one, by twos and threes, young people, Hundreds concentering, walk’d the paths and streets and roads, Toward a tall-domed school. In one a trio, beautiful, Grandmother, loving daughter, loving daughter’s daughter, sat, Chatting and sewing. In one, along a suite of noble rooms, ’Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine statuettes, Were groups of friendly journeymen, mechanics, young and old, Reading, conversing. All, all the shows of laboring life, City and country, women’s, men’s and children’s, Their wants provided for, hued in the sun, and tinged for once with joy, Marriage, the street, the factory, farm, the house-room, lodging-room, Labor and toil, the bath, gymnasium, play-ground, library, college, The student, boy or girl, led forward to be taught; The sick cared for, the shoeless shod—the orphan father’d and mother’d, The hungry fed, the houseless housed; (The intentions perfect and divine, The workings, details, haply human.) 4 O thou within this tomb, From thee, such scenes—thou stintless, lavish Giver, Tallying the gifts of Earth—large as the Earth, Thy name an Earth, with mountains, fields and rivers. Nor by your streams alone, you rivers, By you, your banks, Connecticut, By you, and all your teeming life, Old Thames, By you, Potomac, laving the ground Washington trod—by you Patapsco, You, Hudson—you, endless Mississippi—not by you alone, But to the high seas launch, my thought, his memory. 5 Lo, Soul, by this tomb’s lambency, The darkness of the arrogant standards of the world, With all its flaunting aims, ambitions, pleasures. (Old, commonplace, and rusty saws, The rich, the gay, the supercilious, smiled at long, Now, piercing to the marrow in my bones, Fused with each drop my heart’s blood jets, Swim in ineffable meaning.) Lo, Soul, the sphere requireth, portioneth, To each his share, his measure, The moderate to the moderate, the ample to the ample. Lo, Soul, see’st thou not, plain as the sun, The only real wealth of wealth in generosity, The only life of life in goodness? — Walt Whitman #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

Adults are just children who earn money. – Kenneth Branagh #motivationalquote #positivethinking #dailyboost

"Death" Death is a road our dearest friends have gone; Why with such leaders, fear to say, "Lead on?" Its gate repels, lest it too soon be tried, But turns in balm on the immortal side. Mothers have passed it: fathers, children; men Whose like we look not to behold again; Women that smiled away their loving breath; Soft is the travelling on the road to death! But guilt has passed it? men not fit to die? O, hush -- for He that made us all is by! Human we're all -- all men, all born of mothers; All our own selves in the worn-out shape of others; Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be ill-used brothers! — James Henry Leigh Hunt #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

"Ode on Venice" Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do?--anything but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers--as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. Oh! agony--that centuries should reap No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years Of wealth and glory turned to dust and tears; And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets; And even the Lion all subdued appears, And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, With dull and daily dissonance, repeats The echo of thy Tyrant's voice along The soft waves, once all musical to song, That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng Of gondolas--and to the busy hum Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoftened terrors, And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere Death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, And apathy of limb, the dull beginning Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, To him appears renewal of his breath, And freedom the mere numbness of his chain; And then he talks of Life, and how again He feels his spirit soaring--albeit weak, And of the fresher air, which he would seek; And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy Chamber swims round and round--and shadows busy, At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth That which it was the moment ere our birth. There is no hope for nations!--Search the page Of many thousand years--the daily scene, The flow and ebb of each recurring age, The everlasting _to be_ which _hath been_, Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear Our strength away in wrestling with the air; For't is our nature strikes us down: the beasts Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts Are of as high an order--they must go Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return? A heritage of servitude and woes, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. What! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, And deem this proof of loyalty the _real_; Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? All that your Sires have left you, all that Time Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Spring from a different theme!--Ye see and read, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed! Save the few spirits who, despite of all, And worse than all, the sudden crimes engendered By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tendered, Gushing from Freedom's fountains--when the crowd, Maddened with centuries of drought, are loud, And trample on each other to obtain The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Heavy and sore,--in which long yoked they ploughed The sand,--or if there sprung the yellow grain, 'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bowed, And their dead palates chewed the cud of pain:-- Yes! the few spirits--who, despite of deeds Which they abhor, confound not with the cause Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight With a few summers, and again put forth Cities and generations--fair, when free-- For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee! Glory and Empire! once upon these towers With Freedom--godlike Triad! how you sate! The league of mightiest nations, in those hours When Venice was an envy, might abate, But did not quench, her spirit--in her fate All were enwrapped: the feasted monarchs knew And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, Although they humbled--with the kingly few The many felt, for from all days and climes She was the voyager's worship;--even her crimes Were of the softer order, born of Love-- She drank no blood, nor fattened on the dead, But gladdened where her harmless conquests spread; For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallowed her sheltering banners, which incessant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles; Yet she but shares with them a common woe, And called the "kingdom" of a conquering foe,-- But knows what all--and, most of all, _we_ know-- With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles! The name of Commonwealth is past and gone O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Venice is crushed, and Holland deigns to own A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, For Tyranny of late is cunning grown, And in its own good season tramples down The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Bequeathed--a heritage of heart and hand, And proud distinction from each other land, Whose sons must bow them at a Monarch's motion, As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Full of the magic of exploded science-- Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, Yet rears her crest, unconquered and sublime, Above the far Atlantic!--She has taught Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, May strike to those whose red right hands have bought Rights cheaply earned with blood.--Still, still, for ever Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, Dammed like the dull canal with locks and chains, And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Three paces, and then faltering:--better be Where the extinguished Spartans still are free, In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ, Than stagnate in our marsh,--or o'er the deep Fly, and one current to the ocean add, One spirit to the souls our fathers had, One freeman more, America, to thee! — George Gordon, Lord Byron #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho

Reposted!! Tanazanian artist Diamond Platnumz says that he is aware not all the children he is raising are biologically his but he takes responsibility for all them - @kenyasgossips

"Mont Blanc" LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters,--with a sound but half its own, Such as a feeble brook will oft assume In the wild woods, among the mountains lone, Where waterfalls around it leap for ever, Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves. Thus thou, Ravine of Arve--dark, deep Ravine-- Thou many-coloured, many-voiced vale, Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene, Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning through the tempest;--thou dost lie, Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, Children of elder time, in whose devotion The chainless winds still come and ever came To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging To hear--an old and solemn harmony; Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep Which when the voices of the desert fail Wraps all in its own deep eternity;-- Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion, A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame; Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, Thou art the path of that unresting sound-- Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, In the still cave of the witch Poesy, Seeking among the shadows that pass by Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast From which they fled recalls them, thou art there! Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep,--that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.--I look on high; Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled The veil of life and death? or do I lie In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep Spread far around and inaccessibly Its circles? For the very spirit fails, Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep That vanishes among the viewless gales! Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Mont Blanc appears,--still, snowy, and serene-- Its subject mountains their unearthly forms Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread And wind among the accumulated steeps; A desert peopled by the storms alone, Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, And the wolf tracts her there--how hideously Its shapes are heaped around! rude, bare, and high, Ghastly, and scarred, and riven.--Is this the scene Where the old Earthquake-daemon taught her young Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea Of fire envelope once this silent snow? None can reply--all seems eternal now. The wilderness has a mysterious tongue Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, So solemn, so serene, that man may be, But for such faith, with nature reconciled; Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood By all, but which the wise, and great, and good Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel. The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, Ocean, and all the living things that dwell Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain, Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, The torpor of the year when feeble dreams Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep Holds every future leaf and flower;--the bound With which from that detested trance they leap; The works and ways of man, their death and birth, And that of him and all that his may be; All things that move and breathe with toil and sound Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell. Power dwells apart in its tranquillity, Remote, serene, and inaccessible: And THIS, the naked countenance of earth, On which I gaze, even these primaeval mountains Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice, Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power Have piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, A city of death, distinct with many a tower And wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destined path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown The limits of the dead and living world, Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; Their food and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost. The race Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, And their place is not known. Below, vast caves Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high--the power is there, The still and solemn power of many sights, And many sounds, and much of life and death. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there, Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, Or the star-beams dart through them:--Winds contend Silently there, and heap the snow with breath Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home The voiceless lightning in these solitudes Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods Over the snow. The secret strength of things Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy? July 23, 1816. — Percy Bysshe Shelley #poemoftheday #cityvibes #kericho