A Quick Note to the Blog Audience!
No, I’m not dead.
No, I’m not sick.
And sadly, no—I’m not sitting on a horse.
You may have noticed the time gaps between episodes of "From Riches to Rags" an African Odyssey are widening like potholes in Nairobi traffic.
It’s not because I ran out of tales. Quite the opposite.
The more I write, the more idiotic episodes crawl out of my memory:
Bureaucratic torture chambers at the KCAA.
Nairobi traffic engineered by Satan’s interns.
Mobs carving each other up like Thanksgiving turkeys.
Land Rovers that exist solely to put you through a never-ending purgatory of British “ingenuity.”
Believe me—the material is endless.
And yes—writing is therapy.
Nothing cures unresolved childhood trauma and adult stupidity quite like dragging them into the spotlight.
You should try it sometime.
The writing, not the drama.
Pretty sure you’ve got that latter part covered already. 😈🧨
So why the delay?
Because I’m currently pretending to be four people at once:
THE BEE PROJECT
Nicole (underpaid sidekick and emotional clean-up crew), Drax (emotional-support liability), and I are trying to launch another scheme in Africa.
This time not with elephants—but bees.
Regrettably, it’s even more expensive.
Saving elephants was expensive.
Unleash the Bees makes a NASA mission look like dollar-store ramen cooked in a motel sink.
Just like with the elephant mayhem circus—
Everyone loves the idea.
They nod, they smile, they clap like caffeinated seals—
As long as my deranged, espresso-fuelled pitch stays hypothetical.
But the second we mention money—
They evaporate faster than a nun at a bikini contest
strapped to a rocket headed for Burning Man.
Suddenly, the passionate support turns into ghost emojis and half-assed excuses.
"Oh, I’d love to help… but I just bought a fourth paddle board and my dog needs chakra therapy."
Still—we dig.
Because quitting is for poodles.
DRAX, THE CHAOS LABRADOR
Instead of stabilising my life, he’s chewing it into fragments.
He demands 4–5 hours of forest rampages daily, chasing “prey.”
(Translation: discarded sandwiches and emotional damage.)
Through him, we also discovered the charming hypocrisy of POD platforms:
Apparently, you can’t print “Bacon” on a shirt without offending a militant vegan, a rainbow-flag basement dweller, or a religious zealot who thinks pork is a personal attack.
THE CAMPFIRE SYNDICATE LLC
Somewhere between Unleashing the Bees, Drax potty-training, and merch production, we founded a real LLC in Wyoming.
Why?
Because starting a business in Forever West takes 15 minutes—coffee break included.
Trying to do the same in Europe?
You’ll burn your lifespan and your sanity.
And possibly get flagged as a suspicious anarcho-entrepreneur.
But let’s be honest:
If we wanted to sell stickers—or God forbid—a T-shirt,
We needed a legal entity.
Otherwise, we’d end up on Germany’s most-wanted list for unlicensed sarcasm.
Speaking of LLCs:
Free Advice (No Subscription Required)
This one’s on the house—
And no, it doesn’t come with a “Monthly Enlightenment Plan™”
from your local Mormon knitting circle
with pastel fonts and passive-aggressive Bible verses about obedience.
If you’ve ever thought,
“Hey, maybe I should start a business somewhere that doesn’t bleed me dry,”
then stop Googling and start listening.
Don’t fall for the digital snake oil.
Those online ‘experts’ promising you a Wyoming LLC for $2,000
while sipping Pina Coladas on a catamaran named Tax Haven
are about to ghost you harder than your ex after a silent retreat.
We did it ourselves. In 15 minutes. On a Tuesday.
With coffee. And a Labrador licking the keyboard.
Want the same?
Email us. Masked IP optional.
We don’t judge. We just detonate.
Because unlike your government,
we actually want you to succeed.
THE BOOK
Oh, and did I mention the book?
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
Yeah. That one.
You might think writing a memoir is simple.
You sit down, pour your heart out, craft a compelling narrative, and boom—done. Book on shelf. Applause. Oprah calls.
No.
Here’s what it actually looks like:
You write.
You rewrite.
You wrestle with grammar, trauma, and your own delusions.
You drink—because therapy is expensive and whiskey is faster.
You record your audiobook in a sound booth that smells like broken dreams.
You drink again.
You scream into the void when Amazon rejects your cover file for the fifth time.
You collapse—momentarily believing that this, too, is character development.
And then, just when the clouds part and you glimpse a future where readers discover your work...
You meet the gatekeepers.
Publishers who want your life story—
as long as it’s polite.
And sanitised.
And doesn’t offend anyone with a gluten allergy or a personal vendetta against punchlines.
So you do what any unreasonable person would do:
You self-publish.
You dodge overpriced POD platforms built to censor your commas.
You email obscure printers in Poland who communicate only via emojis and PDFs.
You pray the first shipment doesn’t smell like diesel and guilt.
And you send out every copy by hand like a missionary for dark humor and creative freedom.
It’s exhausting.
It’s brutal.
And it’s worth every drop of sweat, sarcasm, and scotch.
Because in the end, this isn’t just about publishing a book.
It’s about taking your story back—
even if you have to do it with duct tape, desperation, and a Labrador chewing the manuscript.
Thank you.
(Please buy the damn book.)
So yes—time is tight.
But From Riches to Rags will continue.
I just need a few spare minutes between saving the world, wrangling a lunatic Labrador, dodging sanctimonious POD platforms, and pretending crowdfunding is a legitimate business model—rather than legalized begging in a fancy hat.
Stay tuned, derailed disciples.
Because if you’ve made it this far, you clearly enjoy watching a slow-motion car crash narrated by the guy trapped inside.
The next chapter’s coming.
Soon.
Probably.
Maybe.
—Marcel Romdane,
Signing off with the serenity of someone who finally accepts he’s saner than his Labrador—
Which is like bragging that you outscored a doorknob on an IQ test.
