Friday, July 18, 2014


This is my post from Storymoja this week.
I feel very strongly.
Can you tell?

If you haven’t gathered from the last post, I like to talk about Vaginas And Their Environs. Also, it’s a post kind of about a hip hop song, so…yeah. Even more cussing than the last one. Just letting you know.

Recently I watched the T.I. video ‘No Mediocre’ featuring Iggy Azalea. Now, I usually love T.I. Right after he rapped on Justin’s Future Sex – My Love, I was IN love. I still quote him every time someone says ‘Why yes. You can have whatever you like.’ (this really does not happen as often as I would want and/or require) I LOVED the gangster virtuosity of What You Know. Heck, I even watched his reality show with Tiny.

But I CANNOT with this song.

I’m a feminist, for the most part (which means, you know, that I think that people should have equal rights all together, so basically I’m a humanist in the basic definition of the word, which, really, ALL PEOPLE SHOULD BE), which makes it rather hard for me to be a hip hop fan. But I love hip hop; I’m a writer. I like words. And smart words? Wit? Satire? Funky town wordplay? I’m done, son.

But if it isn’t Rick Ross spewing some idiocy about drugging a girl so he can sleep with her, it’s ‘hoes’ not being loyal. My problem is that I fucking love those songs. That’s my fucking problem. So more often than not…I ignore Rick Ross (who, to be fair, can’t rap anyway. If you’re gonna roofie a girl, muster some lyrical prowess at least, why don’t you. *rolls eyes*) and interpret Chris Brown (who, again, should I be listening to? Nope. Thank you, YouTube, for allowing me to not enrich these people. No? Pirate Bay? Kick Ass Torrents, anyone?) how I prefer to interpret him, because let’s be honest, sometimes, the bitches you know really aren’t loyal.

But I digress. (there are a lot of buts in this post. And I digress…again.)

These are the first four lines of T.I.’s rap, and the song:

Right hand in the air, I solemnly swear
I never fuck a bitch if she don’t do her hair, no more
You won’t get no dick if it’s a bush down there
Girl, I should see nothing but pussy when I look down there

I replayed this bit a couple of times because I couldn’t believe this line. Now, this doesn’t happen often for me. Yeah, I listen to the words, but sometimes the words don’t hit me immediately (like when I FINALLY heard what they say in Bendover after twerking it a couple of times in the club). I suppose it should though. But this one hit at me immediately because it was so directly offensive to things I have been fighting people about since I was, like, 12.

I’m sorry, what was that, T.I.? You won’t fuck a bitch if she don’t do her hair? Because hair stays exactly the same all through – like a perfectly coiffed metal do? Riiiiight. I see that all of the video vixens (and your wife, yay!) have done their hair, so that is great for you. Just to clarify – you’ll fuck her but won’t wife her, or…because there’s nowhere where you say you’re interested in wifing anybody (because…you know. Tiny.). So you’re either A, talking about the chick you are going to fuck who you aren’t wifing, or…you’re talking about your wife. Ok. Great.

Now this is where I got really turned UP (in all honesty…I should also quit with offensive hip hop. *sigh*).

T.I. is trying to tell women everywhere who want to date short sexy (I’m sorry, he really is) daddies (I’m sorry, again, for that uncomfortable visual – but dude has like 7 kids, yo) like him that their vaginas need to look like a 5 year old boy’s.

Look, I have nothing against manscaping…scaping…masochism…honestly. As long as it is YOUR CHOICE. NOT because some random guy tells you to. And really, guys…what is WITH that? Why do guys feel the need to direct women so specifically about how they should look/what they should wear/how they should sound DOWN TO WHAT MY PUBES SHOULD LOOK LIKE?

I mean, I’ll do it if you will. Back, crack and sac. I’m down. I’ll take off my weave (ha! Figuratively of course, because…dreads) if you’ll put the toilet seat down EVERY SINGLE TIME.

I mean, guys. Really. This is the most. It’s about SMASHING. I think the dynamics are different when you go into a big holy building and swear to love a person forever in front of your deity of choice…but this song is about SMASHING. The song is talking about him only wanting bad bitches, but I am interested in being the ONLY bad bitch (quote unquote…mostly), not one in the bevy surrounding him in the video (who, of COURSE, are wearing about as much as his hat). He won’t fuck a bitch who won’t do her hair? Dude, I have dreads. They’re messy, and they’re gonna look like this for a while. In fact, I probably won’t do my hair just to weed out the dirtbags who sing songs like these. I am sooooooooo not interested if this is something you think, amirite?

And I’m not going to shave my vagina, either. The idea of a razor so close to my labia minora makes me distinctively uncomfortable for more than just historic reasons. On top of that, it itches, it’s uncomfortable, and painful, but aside from that, I JUST DON’T WANT TO.

Welcome to the bush. Have a pleasant flight.

If you, like, deserve it.

lyrics courtesy of

Thursday, July 17, 2014

The Lion King

This post has nothing to do with the Lion King, except for a passing reference that is on my mind. Think about the Lion King (if you even liked the Lion King. If you didn't, stop reading this right now. What kind of human doesn't like the Lion King? Unless. They're. Not. Human.)

I have a new crush.
She's a girl.

This has a tendency to happen to me when I switch working locations (though, strangely enough, not at my last job. That I can remember. So if I can't remember, it wasn't much of a crush, was it?), and voila, after quitting my job (which I want to quit again...but that's another blog), here we are again, on the eve of something beautiful, some...wheeere...over the raiiinboooowwww...

So anyway...
new crush new crush falalalalala

She's not ugly. She's not Halle Berry, but she's not ugly. Above average would be the grade I'd give. I don't really have a type, to be fair, on either side of the divide.
What IS beautiful though, is her mind. I can't get enough of it. I could sit and listen to her all day (and she's a talker, lemme teeeell you). But I keep acting stupid around her.
You know that thing that people do when they have crushes? An average conversation goes like this.

tSN: Omg X is so dumb.
C: Really?
tSN: I mean..not duuuuumb, like, dumb...but smart it's dumb, you know?
C: I don't think so.
tSN: I think whatever you think. *wipes drool*
C: What?
tSN: Nothing. Great weather, right?
C: Um...
tSN: I mean, not great like GREEEEAT...

...and so on and so forth. I second guess myself constantly. And it's making me feel dumb.
I mean, not duuuuuumb, like, DUMB...


Wednesday, July 9, 2014

On Crazy Women, 2

I'm still aliiiiiiive!

She didn't hunt me down like all crazy people in a movie, and we can all be thankful that the blog can go on.


So many things have happened since my last blog. These events mainly include feature films...i.e. Transformers and X-Men: Days of Future Past which I have really been waiting ETERNITIES to watch and thanks to wonderful people (I really do know some super amazing people), I watched. Hey, I got the popcorn (at the new cinema at Prestige - yes, it has opened again).

But the short post I wanted to write today as I am being ditched for football is about this post, aka Some Not So Super Amazing People.

You should click on it before you continue or the rest won't make sense/will be a spoiler.

Have you clicked?

Did you read it?


Just go.

It's not long.

I'm lying, it is.

A little.

Just go, AH!

Good boy.

So, anyway, the chick in that blog?

IMAGINE she texted me jana.
Ok don't imagine, because, as in, she did.
So now what do I do?
I couldn't even text back, guys. I didn't know what to say.
She was all '...sorry...' '...strained our friendship...' '...I'll keep you posted...'

GUISE. I'm so confused. What do I do? I had totes decided to sue her (3 years later...enyewe passive aggression si poa). It's like she had sensed a disturbance in the force when I was talking to my lawyer.

Sa nifanye?
I reply?
I call?
I sue?
I write a blog post...again?



Thursday, July 3, 2014

On Crazy Women

I’ve always said that relationships are hard. And the reason they are hard is because most people are one of two things: immature, or crazy.

The things that make them so are several: people are immature because they lack experience in relationships. They think that playing games as if you’re in a life-long rom-com is the way to snag a guy – a list of tips ad misguided judgment will not, actually get you to the aisle in no time. You’re not Katherine Heigl, and this is not high school.

Other people are crazy, simply because love makes you do crazy things. I have in fact been known to do crazy things, which I will not mention on this forum – or rather, on this particular post –but there is solid evidence behind my theory: parents.

Our parents are crazy and drive us crazy because they LOVE US SO MUCH. It’s a blessing and a curse; there’s a thin line between love and suffocation. The way your parent loves you is a love of extreme proportions; they alternately want to shower you with affection and whip your butt blue with equally strong levels of feeling.

I think love, romantic love, is the same. I have always said that what romantic love really is is choosing not to strangle someone when you have the choice –by someone, I mean significant other, as opposed to other people (who may or may not be fair game, depending on whether you think orange is the new black).

Which brings me to the point of my post.

The other day, in the middle of the night, I got a text from a girl. It was 1 am. I was doing the usual not-nightrunning activities: series, Twitter, etc.

This girl – and I deliberately use this word, because though she is older than me, she doesn’t really act like it – asked me why I don’t understand the concept of boundaries where her boyfriend is concerned.

Now, I can see where she is coming from. One, people generally suspect platonic relationships between members of the opposite sex are false. Two, she’s crazy with love.

I asked her what boundaries she meant and why she was using his phone to text me. Yes, you read that right. She didn’t even bother to think about the fact that he would see it; she just unlocked his keypad (and loosened her cranium) and clicked send.

Maybe it is true what they say - love does make you stupid (or in the very least, blind – to the fact that you are being stupid).

In any case, she did not reply my message, but it got me thinking about the psychoses that women nurture to explain away their insane behavior. It all boils down to love. Whether it’s peeing all over your man to mark your territory (i.e. sending texts from his phone to prove a point) or tying him down as best as you can (by alienating all his female friends because who needs another female in his life?), she texted me because she was scared to lose the love of her life to his friend (either that, or she’s been watching Misery and is taking it to the next level one step at a time).

Much as it is admirable to fight for love, we risk fighting to also unscrew a few bolts in our head. You don’t want to look like the girl who has the look of madness in her eye, tottering on a broken heel as you chase after your fleeing (screaming) man yelling sonnets of dedication. It’s not a good look.

Moral of the story: He doesn’t love you? Buy a cat.


p.s. Orange is the new Black Season 2 is GOLD.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Am I a literary hoax?

There's a big fat sign in the corner of my blog. Have you noticed?

This is the blog from the Storymoja blog this week.

I have been struggling valiantly to read Dust by Yvonne Owuor. My cousin has hailed it as one of the greatest novels of its time; she says something about nuances and descriptions and the true depiction of Kenyan life evolving through neo-colonialism…something…something…really great…something…something.

I can’t seem to get past page 3.

And I thought it was just me, but I am not the only one. I asked my friend, who reads far more than me, if she was reading it – she is plodding through as well. I even asked the significant other to give it a go – he said that it was too ‘artsy’ for him.
Now before you look down your artsy noses at me (well. I am sure it is already too late), consider this: not everyone loves the greatest books, and not all the greatest books considered so by people are actually the greatest.

Surely though, you protest, she is one of the only Kenyans to have gotten the Caine Prize? (With any luck though, Okwiri Oduor will wow their socks off with her generally stupendous je-ne-sais-quoi. Who’s being artsy now?) That couldn’t have happened if they found her language bombastic, her descriptions overly flowery and her though process convoluted?

Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I was not on the board. (A girl can dream…)

I like my writing the way I like my poetry and my people: simple. I am planning to release a book of poetry which will probably be the easiest thing to read since the Run Spot Run fables of our childhoods (or Anansi, depending on what your parents preferred). I cannot abide complicated writing.

And this ranges through to the books I read. I won’t read Shakespeare unless you force me to do it – I mean, yes, I will like it, but it will have to be dependent on a grade or a gun to my head. A child I tutor had to read Romeo and Juliet for school last term and I thought it was atrocious that a 12 year old should have to read about love –something she can barely identify with – involuntarily? I mean, I read Romeo and Juliet at about that age, but I wasn’t being forced to take a test on it. I think Shakespeare is a bit difficult even for word lovers.

Is it a terrible thing that I enjoy Marian Keyes and C.S. Lewis more? Is it so horrific that some of my favourite books are children’s ones, with short easy paragraphs and snappy, snarky action? Think of the worlds of Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton, and how much easier being a reader was then. Why must we overcomplicate what we must read? Do we intend to sound more intelligent? Is it that much like a certain tribe that I belong to *cough*, a sentence isn’t a sentence without at least 4 words containing 4 or 5 syllables? Or is it all a show?

Look, I admit it. I haven’t read all the books one who considers themselves a book lover ‘should’ read. But that doesn’t make me less of a book lover and it doesn’t mean I have to keep trying to read *shudder* that book. If I was a manuscript editor (another one of my dreams) I would probably toss ¾ of the material that comes my way and just glance over the next ‘novel of the century’. And that’s ok. Because for every Audacity of Hope/Paulo Coelho touter (yes, I know that is not a word), there has to be someone on the other side able to have an hour long discussion on How Sweet Valley Should Have Ended, right?

...originally posted here.


p.s. Or Hardy Boys...or Tom Swift...or Cricket...whatever your poison...

Monday, June 2, 2014

On the word FUCK

Guess what?

This post has cussing.

:D Also, is a rant. So the sense level, might be, you know, maybe not as up there as I would like. And I've had an emotional evening. So, yeah.

I just watched the Game of Thrones episode where the Mountain (Queen Sersei's champion) fights Prince Oberyn (Tyrion Lannister's champion) (emotional evening). Needless to say, I cussed a lot when it was over. I also hit the rewind button once - just once - to see if what I saw was what I thought I saw.

I then went on Facebook (because what is FB for, if not to NOT spoil everything on every show out there) to express my shock and horror, and my post started with "FUCK." then proceeded to "SHIT." and then to just...onomatopoeic sounds about my emotions.

The first comment on this status was "Wow, so many four letter words. Ladylike?" I felt a sigh welling up in my soul; a deep, bone wearying sigh about why this is still something that people are talking about and indeed; why this is distracting me from onomatopoeing about GoT.

I thought about whether or not to write this post or not, because the person who read it is probably going to read it.
But then I remembered that I don't give a fuck, and even if I do, I shouldn't. #fakeItTillYouMakeIT YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH LIFE CARING ABOUT WHAT PEOPLE THINK.
Unless they're your mom.

1. It was nice to be able to mourn GoT in peace. For all of 2 seconds.
2. Ladylike. What does that word mean? Does it mean not allowed to cuss? Because if being a lady means not being able to cuss, then I am ok with that. If I can't say DAMNIT really explosively when I stub my toe, then obviously, it'll never heal. This is clearly life and death.
3. Seriously, though. Who determines what that word means (the word ladylike, not the word fuck)? Is there a board or something? Is it a word whose definition can be decided by societal obligations/OPoP (OtherPeoplesOpinions)? And why? Could they at least possibly have vaginas so we can discuss it from a point of knowledge?

I don't know.
I do not think, however, that anyone but the lady should be deciding what the word ladylike means to her.
I also think that situational awareness is important. Like, I'm not going to be screaming 'YOU PUNKASS BASTARD!' in front of my dad (at the screen, of course). But on MY Facebook account...yeah. I'm all up in it.
My brother always says I cuss too much, and I'm like...yeah. Yeah I do. Is it going to be a problem, or...
But it's taken me way longer than it should to get to this point and I'm exhausted to be a rent-paying adult still explaining herself. If you're going to like me, I'm going to cuss a lot around you so you can make an informed decision about our friendship/Twitter following status et al.

So at this point...FUCK IT.


Thursday, May 22, 2014

Film: Endless Love

Look, it wasn't my choice to revive this section of the blog with a flimsy flick such as this.

Ok, I guess it was, because it's my blog.

But those are just details. Aaaanyhue...

Ati Say Goodbye To Innocence. Say goodbye to all those minutes you'll never get back, especially because you clogged them up with this cheesy ridiculousness.
Like I said, flimsy flick. Oh, teenagers, oh forbidden love, oh they both have a shadowed past, ooooh, he shows her how to live again, bla bla bla snore.
It kept getting me to the point where I thought I was going to cry, but it wasn't enough of a tear jerker to take me all the way, you know? Except like at the EEEEEND, and that scene wasn't even about the main characters. What I'm saying is, I have Movie Tear Blue Balls. They owed me, what with the sappy title. They promised me things. Ugh, I should have known. #AlexPettyfer (he was in Beastly, which I don't know how anyone who was in it didn't run away screaming from its idiocy. Yes, that includes you, Neil Patrick Harris. For SHAME.)

Don't bother with this unless you like silly sappiness that goes beyond the point of being fun. It gets like a 1 and a half.
Oh, but there IS one seriously funny dude in it - the only black guy, a chap called Dayo Okeniyi, who, as it turns out, was in Hunger Games (Thresh) and is a) half Nigerian and half-Kenyan (it was only a matter of time before these two made strongjawed lovebabies, no?) and b) is going to be in Terminator Genesis. You Kenyans. Just TAAAAAKING over.

(but not, in the cinema. For this movie. Get out. Out out out.)