Tuesday, December 27, 2011

The journey home

Today,I came to a scary realization about my humanity and abject passive aggression.

I was sitting - ok,am sitting - in a jav on my way home. The condi kept stopping for more people. Even when there were 4 or 5 people on every row but my row,he would still stop. This irritated me to no end.

As I will do in such situations,I began to imagine what I would do if he put someone else in my row. What I would say,in the exact sheng I would say it. Because of the way I speak,my swa is often not taken seriously,and thus diction is often my saving factor. Actually not really. Sometimes,I WISH I could just yell at them in my slightly accented speech and have them fully understand the impact of and fury behind my insults. Because boy,is there a lot of fury.

I envisioned myself causing. I envisioned the conductor mocking me and ignoring me as I asked for the half price of my seat,seeing as I was now sharing it. I saw him laughing at me,pulling the 'Sasa ni nini na huyu mwanamke',as if my sex was a valid excuse for his stupidity...for a quick moment,my imagination was so well crafted that I felt despair for my sex. (my imagination is slightly dramatic,yet still it exists,and still I blog) I felt helpless.

Why is it that some men cannot take you seriously unless you are a man? Unless I speak the language of the penis or the fist,my word is on an even lower level than a politician's promise. Or at least,sometimes that's how I feel. Let the men talk,dear. *pats head* I felt discarded. Disregarded,though nothing had even happened. Yet. But you see,something always happens. Eventually. I felt frustration at this system that led me to this matatu.

In my head I saw myself protesting,demanding my money back and then getting off the matatu. I saw the conductor reaching out and grabbing my behind in a lewd gesture of disrespect and perversion (I mean, it's different in the club. Ha. No it's not. It really isn't). In my vision,the outcome went two ways. I whirled around,angry,but unable to defend myself,trammeled by bonds of fear by his reaction,always scared that whatever I could do to him,he could hurt me much,much worse. The matatu would speed off laughing at my idiocy.

Or I could step out and calmly pull a purse sized pistol from my - well,purse. I would aim it at the dead centre of his forehead. I would cock it. The matatu would go quiet and he would plead with me to show him the milk of human kindness,none of which he showed me. I would contemplate this,then make him apologise for being inappropriate; make him swear never to do this to any woman again. Put the fear of woman in him so badly that his balls would shrivel everytime he ever wanted to ever dare...he would stammer over the words,sweating and swearing profusely. I would show him mercy and walk away. And one man would have changed. I would be a modern day Walker Texas Ranger.

This is Kenya. If the second scenario happened, he would hunt me down and slaughter me,with his cronies having their way with me before I started walking to the light at the end of the tunnel. I like to think I would blast off a few prostates in the process,though,Sin City style. But I'm no Batman,no masked,untraceable vigilante of the night. I'm only human. But if I had a gun...would that even the playing field? And doesn't everyone who is carrying a gun think they're 'right?' Think they'll only take it out to scare,not scar? Doesn't absolute power over life and death absolutely corrupt?

Some people think these things and never say it. Some people say it - or blog it - and never do it. Some people think it, say it,then one day they snap and DO it. The line is thin.

Also,possibly,I've been watching too much Revenge.


p. s. Lqtm. At the bottom of this,it says, 'Give labels for this post,e.g. scooter,vacation,fall.'

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Confessions of a best maid

Best maid. What does that even mean? That I'm the best damsel,the best girl,in the archaic sense of the word? Best among who? That I'm the best servant? We all know I'm far too narcissistic to be the best at serving anything,except perhaps sarcasm,and even then,really...anyway. The wedding. It's over! *does a leap* Now I well and truly am on HOLIDAY. My thighs and back feel like death,but I'm FREE! *cue Sarafina*

It's been a tricky couple of weeks - sorry,months. (see how I flog the dead horse. See.) A lot because I am recently single (why do people say that like you look for men more or less depending on how recently two became...well,one? As if if you are in a relationship,you are suddenly blind,or the recently single/long-singled are hungrier for fresh meat.) and so all men look like a chance to find again what I once had. I was looking quite attractive at the wedding,however,but reading everyone's signs all wrong (the game has changed since I left lol). There was the bald guitarist (good with his hands,obviously), the overly friendly cousin (a whore,or a hopeful), the eager groomsman (clearly looking for someone to settle down with and have - ugh - kids)...and then there was Jetson. *le sigh* *le yawn* Who I will write about tomorrow when my body and my bed are not engaging in an illicit affair. All I'm saying is,some people really know how to wear a suit. Damnation. *sighs again*

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


Praise Jesus, December has finally kicked in.

Have you not noticed the sunny days, sans a wet blanket of rain? The clear Mombasa Road, as people have gone on leave? The joyous Christmas promotions that I will never win, yet like to look at anyway? I am very excited. I am able to wear shorts. SHORTS! And laugh at people who still think we are in dreary, bleak November as they parade around in polonecks. I laugh in the face of a poloneck. Bwahahahaha.

I am glad it is sunny. I do not know how people survive in London. My friend who went to school there says she forgot what the sun looked like. I am never going to London anymore,more,more (ah, the fantastically incorrect grammar we used to sing as children). I am built for the tropics. Except for the bugs. Never the bugs.

Summertime means summer bunnies. Welcome, summer bunnies and fam alike, who refuse to read my blog to the end and thus will never see this message!

I am not sure how I feel about the ending of the year that is supposedly is the last (full?) year on earth, but we will see how that goes. I am supposed to be making resolutions now, right? And, at this rate, I may just move house again. To, as I have said countless times before, Rwanda. (PLUM!!) This waterless can't be done. But who cares? IT'S SUNNY!! (Ok, *I* care. Because you go out and sweat all day and come back to the digz and...there's no water. Camaaaaaaaan.)


p.s. I just watched The Three Musketeers for about the thousandth time today. It is still as good, if not better, as it was when I was 6. Jack Bauer in tights, fighting for love? Appeals across the ages, man. Across the ages.

p.s.s. Also, aside from Will Smith, Summertime - Shaggy is another theme song for this period. If you didn't know, now you know.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Book & Film Book 1: A Series of Unfortunate Events - The Bad Beginning

Long have I prowled the streets of Nairobi looking for these series, and finally I found it. (Ha. There's a pun in there) I kept finding number sijui 11 sijui 13 (which means I have quite a ways to go, sigh). I now realize I should have bought them while they were 50 bob, because nowadays, vendors tell me 200 as I resist the urge to not laugh in their faces.

ANYhue, (post officially begins here>>) A Series of Unfortunate Events is a series by Lemony Snicket. I found the first book (or rather, Book the First, as he prefers), which is called 'The Bad Beginning'. Of COURSE the first thing I wondered was whether that is his real name, and so, God Bless Wikipedia, I Wikid him. You should too. It's an interesting read. Both the Wiki page and the book.

Lemony Snicket is the pen name for American author Daniel Handler. 'The name's similarity to Jiminy Cricket, whom Handler described as "exactly the kind of overly moralistic, cheerful narrator who [sic] I despise", was "likely a Freudian slip". When writing A Series of Unfortunate Events, he and his editor thought that the books should be published under the narrator's name, rather than his.'

At the end of the book, it declares that 'Lemony Snicket was born in a small town where the inhabitants were suspicious and prone to riot. He now lives in the city. During his spare time, he gathers evidence and is considered something of an expert by leading authorities.' Just the kind of author's description I like.

The illustrator is Brett Helquist, who was 'born in Ganado, Arizona, grew up in Orem, Utah, and now lives in New York City. He earned a bachelor's degree in Fine Arts from Brigham Young University and has been illustrating ever since. His art has appeared in many publications, including Cricket magazine and The New York Times.' It figures I would like the drawings, for I used to LOVE Cricket when I was a kid (ok, ok, I STILL love it. Sheesh) and often (still do, yes, yes, potato, potato) wished to write for it.

I apologize, dear reader, I underestimated my long-windedness where books are concerned. This may go on for a bit. I can't make any promises.

On the cover there is a sticker that says this was recommended in Jacqueline Wilson's Great Books to Read Club or something. Which follows, because I love me some Jacqueline Wilson. As should be apparent to you by now, I am severely attached to my childhood, seemingly incapable of venturing out to other authors I didn't read during it and part of my psyche still exists as an extension of said childhood. This, of course, explains a lot.

Anyway, on the inside cover, it says 'Ex Libris', which I think is awfully romantic (not in the sense you think that word means), because in Latin, that means 'from the books of' or 'from the library of'. I can't wait to write my name in. I feel I need a calligrapher's pen, or summat.

This book is about three children who quickly become orphans and are sent to live with an evil relative. Normal (Kenyan) story, you say? Hardly. I think it is very well written, in the exact kind of fanciful way books for children SHOULD be written (Roald Dahl-y) in order to try and make them more intelligent than they actually are. It works. Look at me. The author is always explaining what words that he perceives as difficult mean. It is SUCH fun (oh my. I'm a bit of a word whore). I know a lot of words, more than the average human being but less than a literature professor (who I will be one day so there) so when I come across a word I don't know, it excites me, because to be honest, it is rather rare (probably because I don't read a whole lot of non-fiction lit like law journals or medical ninininis, ha). And I had never really been sure as to whether anchovies (and then, what are artichokes?) are omena. He describes them as small, salty fish. That's omena. Right? If so, WHY THE HELL WOULD ANYONE PUT OMENA ON PIZZA???!!! *breathes* So the word in this CHILDREN's book that I didn't know was MULCTUARY. And he didn't explain what it meant. Go look it up. (which also led me to the word PECUNIARY)

The writing sounds very Brit, which is surprising to me as he is American. It took me less than hour to finish, because the print is rather large, but it is such a good read. I was reading it in the middle of the book I was SUPPOSED to be reviewing for this post (Marlfox by Brian Jacques) and I couldn't put it down. I desperately wanted to watch the movie when it came out, because Jim Carrey was in it, and I am on a parallel universe having his babies, and he was the original Johnny Depp. I really, REALLY (reheheheheheheeaaallly) like Jim Carrey. Still haven't watched the movie, though.

It gets 4 stars. You can get it from me for 20 bob for a week, after which I will start charging you an unnecessary amount of interest.

I leave you with an excerpt from the book; page 1.

If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book. In this book, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle.


p.s. Whop whoop! My first review!!
p.p.s. Also, did you see me in the paper? The blog, I mean. Zuqka for Friday.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Book & Film

So, I am starting a new bit in my blog, where I review - you guessed it - book & film. It's kinda secretly my dream job. I may not be good at it, but it's my blog so I don't care. Ha.

Most of the books and films reviewed are available for rent from me for 20 bob apiece for a period of a week. I will hurt you if you do not get them back to me, and that's the truth.

Now. What book to do first. I am trying to choose between
1. Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
2. Redwall - Brian Jacques
3. Their eyes were watching God - Zora Neale Hurston
4. Perfect Together - Lisa Plumley
5. Full Blast - Janet Evanovich and Charlotte Hughes
6. Valley of the Dolls - Jacqueline Susann
7. Perfect-Judith McNaught

Oh my. I need to branch out. Lol.


ps. I JUST watched Avatar. I know this looks bad. But I did. And that's the truth. (also, for 20 bob. Hehe.)

Monday, November 28, 2011

Egypt is not my home, neither

I am beginning to see the value of a husband.

After I escaped the evil clutches of the desert of MORDOR (yes, I lived in Mordor. I refer to it as a desert because there was no water...ever. Turning on taps at work became a favourite pastime to cleanse my soul, because I would be so very excited that something was coming out.), I moved to Foreverland. Foreverland is a nice place to live. It is very, very far from my kind mother who brings me nyoyo and nyuka. Ah, nyuka...however, it has its benefits. Namely...RUNNING WATER. So far, I feel that is all...I get by...hehe.

Now, on my second night, it rained cats and dogs (refer to previous post before I launch into another lyrical...waxation on said also rained other things, as you will soon see. By Jove, I hate the rainy season.), and thus, Foreverland turned into a massive pond. As I stepped out of the public tranportation vehicle that wa transporting me (also, I have not figured out any of the names of the stages around me. I keep throwing out arbitrary landmarks around the esto lest I land it. I am currently on the supermarket and kindergarten nearby), a small black...thing hopped and flailed about near my foot.

It was a cute little frog. I rapidly scurried away. Upon entering the estate, I met its mother. Not so little. Not so cute. I let out an embarrassing shriek (and thus met 2 of the neighbours, not counting the frogs) and ran past it trying to keep a healthy one metre between us (like it was a boy) and leapt (nine lords a'leaping, was it? Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten maids a'milking, nine lords a'leaping, Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a'leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a'milking, seven swans a'swimming, six geese a'laying fiiiiive golden riiiiings! Fourcallingbirdsthreefrenchhenstwoooturtledoves AND A PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE! I barely like Christmas, but am apparently quite fond of digressing) into the digz. After which I proceeded to plug what now seems a gaping hole under the door (poor thing was probs just for ventilation).

When I got inside, everything just seemed to be making noises to agitate me. (of COURSE) I haven't unpacked, so all the plasric and sijui what keeps making...noises to agitate me. And agitated I was.

My points are as follows:
1. Had there been a man around, I would have been too distracted to notice plastic getting comfortable on the floor. I realize that this works for any other species as well, but I started off with husbands, so.
2. A man would have valiantly offered to smash - ok, chase away - the gargantuan (3 inch. Like a killer heel.) Mother Toad (Motherload. Get it? Hehehehehehe) who was attempting to make my digz her home base. And I would have felt better.
3. All other critters would have been warned away from this valley of the shadow of husband.

Moral of the story? I need hypnotherapy for my phobias. For real, doe.


p.s. Am I the only one in the world who did not know that miscrepancy is NOT a word? For shame, internal dictionary. For SHAME. *wags finger*

Monday, November 21, 2011

A prayer

I was talking to the good Lord this morning today about this RAIN ALL
THE FREAKIN TIME thing. I envisioned Him as most people do; an
old,wizened trickster with rosy cheeks (the model upon which Santa
Claus/St. Nicholas was molded. If Jesus was a swarthy Israeli/hot Arab
dude,God could be Dutch and able to yodel - smite me not,ye gods
against neo-colonialism - and thus,there is a fairly good chance that the
Holy Spirit is black,hence the reason you barely see the dude,hiding
from the cops etc lol jk),laughing heartily at me as I shook my fist
at the sky and He called out something completely unhelpful in my
current predicament,like "Think of the farmers!" or "Rain is a
blessing!" Ok,though honestly,the farmers thing may help. Starving
people and all.

I decided to detail all the things bothering me about these showers of
blessing,in case he feels the need to comment below.

1. On Sunday, I was wearing a pretty cotton dress, which might as well have been nylon for all the good it did me. I got home so soaked, a random stranger in the hood said "Pole kwa mvua." I felt like a wet, bedraggled cat, and I also found out that my leather - hereby referred to as pleather - is not impermeable to water. *sigh* Had I NOT entered Tuskys to buy that Snickers bar...

2. I walk for about 20 minutes to get to work (but my slim figure is ABSOLUTELY natural). Now, when it's raining, I'm going to either be sick when I get to work, or not leave for work until it stops (as I am not in possession of a car, a driver, or a rich man to provide either). When the rain does not stop, however, the world is deprived of my genius. This, is bad.


4. This weather is not conducive for anything but following your commandment (be fruitful and multiply). Within the lawful boundaries of course. Of course! Sheesh.

You know, maybe you could give the rain to the people who really need it. Like the farmers and the drought-stricken, etc. I suppose that would completely defeat the point of Matthew 5:45 : "...because he makes his sun rise on both evil and good people, and he lets rain fall on the righteous and the unrighteous."

We can't just remove that verse, can we? No? Ok.


p.s. Also, as soon as I started writing this post, the rain stopped. I guess that was his comment. I have His ear, y'all. Halla at a girl.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Grown folk bidness, part 3


You will all be pleased to know that I have purchased a few things for my humble abode (I'm really not kidding with the humble part),and I am now the proud owner of several household items,some of which include a torch,a mwiko,not one but FOUR sufurias,and a bed (WITH a mattress!), all of which I am resisting the urge to label with my name in permanent marker like I'm in high school.

Moving was a bit of drama. I started moving into the place at 5 p.m. because the dodgy ex-tenant hadn't left yet. But it was done,and thanks to the wonderful helping hands of @chichikimani and @arungaian,it went much faster than it would have done had I been going at it alone.

Then I realized that the bed I was given by my brother had no screws. Because I have never had to assemble a bed before,I had no idea I even needed screws. To which I was asked,kwani you think it's Lego?


I like my place. Can you believe that? My place. All of a sudden,any song that has the word 'independent' is MY JAM. However,I am thinking of moving again,because I have not had water in the digz since I moved in. I managed to find the one place in Mordor,a well-known arid,desert-like and generally evil-involving area (as one can gather from the name),where the landlord doesn't have a tank. It's one week and counting. I'm pretty gangsta,but even *I* can't hack.

ION,people in this our Nairobi actually buy and use butt cutlets,to the point that they're sold out in shops.



Saturday, October 29, 2011

Grown folk bidness, part 2

Well, it's here, and I have no idea wtf I am doing.

I am moving out tomorrow. I have not packed, I have not planned, and the only things I have bought are:

- 3 toothbrushes
- Toothpaste (I think Aquafresh. Going back to ma roots)
- A secondhand kettle for 1800. Was I ripped off? I am too anxious to really care. Ok, I care. Was I ripped off?

Should I be worried about this amazing lack of organization? No. I will tell you why. This is what moving out is supposed to teach you, right? All those grown folk thaaangs. To always be the (wo)man with the plan. So. I will meet tomorrow (and blog about whether it's as pretty as it's assumed to be)with the confidence of...oh crap. Am I working tomorrow?


Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Grown folk bidness, part 1

I feel the rush of adulthood churning in my veins!! And thus, dear readers, you all must share it with me, for upon this new frontier that I am planning to traverse, I can have no end of well wishes, prayers, and donations. It has been a long time coming, but finally, opportunity presented itself in all its glorious, overall-wearing array. Oh how I danced with opportunity, he who resembles a janitor! How I cajoled - and still continue to - with he who loans me his wings to fly above the sky of my circumstance; he who I hope will not let me fall.

Basically, I'm moving out.

Hence the verbiage! I am too excited to talk straight, LOL. Gosh. So excited! When I can talk straight I will describe the process. In the meantime, all ye who have already grabbed self-determination tightly to your breasts (which you should go have checked lol), what are the 4 things you found you could not live without when you moved out? Sufuria? Pasi? Meza, makaa, meko? (I find alliteration makes life so much sweeter) Hit an independent sista up! #noChrisBrown

Also. Dish out all'a dat spare ish you know you have lying around the digz #soIknowitsreal. Hehe.


Tuesday, October 11, 2011


It's all well and good to say I am not going to have children when I'm 14, but when you get to *ahem* my age, you wouldn't believe how quickly potential lifetime mates start to fall off the radar after you say that phrase. Problem is, it's true. I'm not planning on children. Ok, not this week, anyway.

I say that for the benefit of all the women reading this and rolling their eyes, thinking "Yeah, sure. Wait till your clock starts ticking." You know what? I think some phrases (like that) are a conspiracy. You hear something for so long, you begin to believe that it has to be true. Much like religion. HA. Anyway, I guess I will not know till I am, what, 65? In which case if I want kids, I will adopt. I don't, right now. At all. Like I always say, they are only cute when you can give them back.

So where does that leave me? I have a few theories. 1, I will be THAT CHICK at the club/garden party/wedding who will have conversations like these:

"I'm Nebuchadnezzar. You can call me Chad."
"What's your name?"
"That's a gorgeous name. Exotic. Are you..."
"Filipino? No."
"I was going to say single."
"Because I'd like to get to know you."
"Do you want children?"
"Children. Kids. Spawn. A procession of your lineage."
"That's...jumping the gun a bit..."
"Not really. You see, I'm at the age where I don't really have a lot of time to waste picking up the pieces after my heart is broken, so if I'm getting into a relationship, or a dateship, or, whatever it is you want, it's going to be a serious one. I am not planning to have any children, so if you are, you're wasting your time."

See what I mean? Then it'll turn out to be my friend's (whose wedding I am attending) brother and I'll be mortified, but whatever. My cousin thinks I am never going to get married (he also thinks my ovaries are community property. Can't fault him, seeing as in Kenya, to have any procedures done in your nethers, you have to get a signature from a male member of your family. Because it's HIS junk. #$%^&*%^&%^!@**!) A valid supposition, seeing as how many red-blooded (because, yes, English language, you can be otherwise) African males - males, generally - do you know who don't want children? (feel free to leave their numbers in the comments section)

Or, 2, I could find love at an old age when everyone has had kids and they're done with the brouhaha, then they realize they never really wanted them anyway (LOL). Which means till then, I will be going through a cycle of a, friends with benefits, b, intense self love, c, nothing at all (it's possible. I promise.) or d, relationships that I know are going nowhere but I get into them nonetheless because, as we have previously gathered, I am secretly masochistic.

So I'm giving it 20 years, during which I'll get rich, or at least feel rich because I'm spending all my money on myself, buy a cat, go on vacations and generally live the selfish life I am very much looking forward to. *puts on shades* *drives off into the sunset*


Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Because my life is a movie.

Before attempting to write a novel (which ended up as 20 chapters of a fantasy world I cannot believe I thought up) and illustrating an alphabet book when I was 5 (which does not count, seeing as it was just illustrating, and, camaaaaan. Everyone knows the plot of those alphabet books. So it doesn't count. So eliminate the first sentence and go back to Before attempting to write a novel...), and blogging, and scriptwriting, and literate but not particularly interesting prose, and college essays for other people (I really need to start making them pay for that), there was (drumroll) poetry. Poetry is and has always been, my first love (sorry, Boyfriend #2.). Poetry saw me through an adolescence that was much easier than I thought it was at the time (leave it to a hyperactive, dramatic teen to exaggerate), and a high school/culture shock experience that was way harder than I was willing to deal with, except through words (let's just say, if I was an animal, I would be an ostrich. Ok, wait. Or a cougar. *WINK*) I have been writing poetry since I was maybe, 8 ('The author has been writing poetry since the age of four.' So boring. So last year. 8 sounds like maybe I had something to say, instead of the alphabet.). I would write words and out them to song (in later years, I realized that the first song I wrote - I use the word first tentatively - sounded almost exactly like 'Kiss de girl' from Disney's The Little Mermaid) and my mom would show me off. Fun times.

I am going somewhere with this. Afer high school, I rather fancied myself a poet, and begun to attend Open Mics, spoken word thingies, and read Kwanis in a bid to prove my artistic know-how. People think I cut my hair because I'm an artsy artist/modern-day hippie (you don't wear underwear ONE TIME and they brand you. As in?), but really, it's just that I don't like hair. (I could wax lyrical here, but I've done that before, here, so I won't again) So I performed at a coupe of thingies, and then decided I don't like how I perform, and that my poetry is waaaay better read than said. And that was the end of that.

So, along the line, I realized that not only do I not like how I perform poetry, I don't like how other people perform it either. Really, I think it sucks. I hate how they force rhymes, and try and be all deep and Black American and Def Jam and shii (may I never fall into the abyss of such pretentiousness, and if I ever do, may I at least make it look good), and think that EVERY DAMN THING needs to be a poem (it really doesn't. It's not blogging. HA!), and...ugh. There are very few Kenyan poet recitals I enjoy. Kennet B is good. I like Manjoro. Wanjiku Mwaurah...Geneiva Arunga...anyway. The point is. I think its a badly constructed farce to help Kenyans believe they're more cultured than they think they are (much like Blankets and Wine, as Biko would say).

Don't even get me started about Kwani. That book. *shivers* It throws me into a frenzy of denial and simultaneous shock about how much I did not like any of those books. I thought they were cliche, in the terrible way that African writers can be when attempting to depict the DARK CONTINENT (can you see the sarcasm dripping from those words? I hope you can. I can. Because I wrote them.) as a bunch of poor, unfortunate souls (The Little Mermaid, again) living in a vapid wasteland of poverty, disease, and death, then throw in how savagely sexual we's a convoluted mess. @Abbakidenda offers a tutorial on said subject on her facebook, from Binyavanga Wainaina's book:

How to Write About Africa

#1. Always use the word ‘Africa’ or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’, ‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky’, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’. Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas’, ‘Timeless’, ‘Primordial’ and ‘Tribal’. Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.

You might want to read this as well.

Kwani irritated me to no end. I could not even finish one. Or the other ones I subsequently made a valiant effort to read.

On to the point of this post.

I was at a dinner party (I sound SO VERY COOL to me) and someone says to me "Well, tSN, you're a writer (how I LOVE it when people start sentences like that. VALIDATION! I AM WORTH SOMETHING! LOL),...have you read Kwani?" My instantaneous and immediate - nearly involuntary, really - reaction is to roll my eyes. They asked, "What do you think of it?" So I go on and on and on and ON about how presumptuous and cliche and classless and beneath me it is (basically everything in this post). She lets me finish, and then turns to another guy there who was listening to the conversation and goes, "K, which story in Kwani was it that you wrote again?"



Saturday, September 24, 2011

Thoughts on a life well lived

I guess it was bound to happen. Nairobi shows no discrimination to its victims, no fear or favour, you know, the way the government is supposed to. I'm still in a bit of denial. My phone was on for a while after. Kept calling it to see. And Airtel was refusing to pick up their phones so I could block my SIM. Not that they could really use it anyway,...could they? Damnit I may have removed my 'Ask for PIN' settings...anyhue, I didn't ati have a g on my phone. I barely ever use Zap, so there's like 2 bob on there. I wish I knew someone in the CID who could track my phone. Plus, they probs can't sell my phone coz I have a security phone, SUCKERS. HA.

The idiot bouncer at the club. Ugh. I asked him if we could search the club. His response was that he has seen me leaving the club to receive calls. WTF does that have to do with anything? That I left it outside? That it must have been stolen inside? That my locomotion rules me out from a search? Ugh. UGH. Does this happen everywhere? I suppose there are stupid people everywhere, so.

Are phones like people? If it is their time to go, it is their time to go?

I keep thinking if I had done something different, changed my plans, something, anything, I would still be with Mr. Miyenn right now. Damn these pickpockets, yawa.

Damn these thoughts I had of how muggings can never happen to me. Not that they can never...just that when it doesn't happen to you for a while, you think you're home free. Like accidents. Or syphilis.

This has taught me that:

a. Leave the club when you SAY you're going to leave the club.

b. Stop thinking that it could never happen to you.

Oh...that's it so far. As my method of coping (ha) these posts about my late phone might be a couple.

I can't believe they left the money. I mean, I'm glad they left SOMETHING, but I wish they'd've taken the money instead. Tight jeans lie to you with a false sense of 'Of COURSE you'll feel it if someone tries to steal anything.'



p.s. I didn't know that syphilis only had one 'l' until I did a spell check. See? Good things come to those who are stolen from. Being positive...happy thoughts...crushing testicles...

This world is NOT my home.

Today, we mourn the loss of a great man.

Mr. Miyenn.

MM was bought in July 2010, and served as a faithful anchor to my topsy turvy life. He was always there for me when I needed him. He had his flaws, like all men do, but at the end of the day, he always made an effort to support me. Through hanging, the rave, relationships, stupid Airtel rates and network signals, dark stormy nights and trips to Karachuonyo, he was by my side. I blogged from him constantly. He was an ever-present companion on my trips to the bathroom, serving as a much smaller form of entertainment but proving to be invaluable. Clearly, however, it was his time to go.

He is succeeded by his earphones and his charger, and will truly be missed.

I am currently accepting phone donations, whether monetary or in kind.

May he rest in eternal peace, and may the toes/fingers of whoever stole him shrink to the size of the dot atop this i <<< in proportion to their brain.


Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Is this world your home?

Troy Davis was found guilty of murdering a police officer 19 years ago, based upon the testimony of 9 witnesses.

-7 : that's how many of the nine original eyewitnesses have recanted their testimony against Davis.

— 0: the amount of physical evidence linking Davis to the crime (no fingerprints, no DNA, no weapon recovered).

— 3: the number of jurors who voted for death in the original trial who now believe their vote was a mistake.

— 22: the number of years the family of slain police officer Mark McPhail has had to wait for an answer to the question of whether or not Davis would die for the crime.

- 3: The number of executions that Troy Davis has appealed successfully.

Lethal injection began yesterday at 10:53 p.m. (Eastern Daylight time, about 5a.m. here) after an appeal to stay his execution was denied. He died at 11:08 p.m.

His last words were

I'd like to address the MacPhail family. Let you know, despite the situation you are in, I'm not the one who personally killed your son, your father, your brother. I am innocent. The incident that happened that night is not my fault. I did not have a gun. All I can ask ... is that you look deeper into this case so that you really can finally see the truth. I ask my family and friends to continue to fight this fight. For those about to take my life, God have mercy on your souls. And may God bless your souls.

Caylee Marie Anthony (August 9, 2005 – June 16, 2008) was an American two-year-old girl who was reported missing in Orlando, Florida in July 2008, and whose remains were found in a wooded area near her home in December 2008. Her 22-year-old mother, Casey Marie Anthony, was tried for the first degree murder of Caylee but was acquitted. She was, however, convicted of lying to police officers.

Caylee lived with her mother, Casey, and her maternal grandparents, George and Cindy Anthony. On July 15, 2008, Caylee was reported missing to 9-1-1 by Cindy, who said she had not seen Caylee for 31 days and that Casey's car smelled like a dead body had been inside of it. She said Casey had given varied explanations as to Caylee's whereabouts and finally admitted that day that she had not seen her daughter for weeks. Casey fabricated various stories, including telling detectives the child had been kidnapped by a fictitious nanny on June 9, and that she had been trying to find her, too frightened to alert the authorities. With the child still missing, Casey was charged with first degree murder in October and pled not guilty. On December 11, Caylee's skeletal remains were found with a blanket inside a trash bag in a wooded area near the family home. Investigative reports and trial testimony altered between duct tape being found near the front of the skull and on the mouth of the skull. The medical examiner mentioned duct tape as one reason she ruled the death a homicide, but officially listed it as "death by undetermined means".

The trial lasted six weeks, from May to July 2011. The prosecution sought the death penalty and alleged Casey murdered her daughter by administering chloroform, then applying duct tape, because she wanted her freedom. The defense team, led by Jose Baez, countered that the child had drowned accidentally in the family's swimming pool on June 16, 2008, and that Casey lied about this and other issues because of a dysfunctional upbringing, which they said included sexual abuse by her father. The defense did not present evidence as to how Caylee died, nor evidence that Casey was sexually abused as a child, but challenged every piece of the prosecution's evidence, calling much of it "fantasy forensics". Casey did not testify during the trial.

On July 5, the jury found Casey not guilty of murder, aggravated child abuse, and aggravated manslaughter of a child, but guilty of four misdemeanor counts of providing false information to a law enforcement officer. With credit for time served, she was released on July 17. The verdict was greeted with public outrage, and was both attacked and defended by media and legal commentators. Some complained that the jury misunderstood the meaning of reasonable doubt,while others said the prosecution relied too heavily on the defendant's allegedly poor moral character because they had been unable to show conclusively how the victim had died.

Humans scare me.

-Sourced from this article in Time and Wikipedia.


Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The cycle continues.

She gave me my first perm.

I was sleeping over at her house,babysitting S and Y (C wasn't even born yet). They were getting perms or doing their hair or 8 year old memory is rather fuddled. She asked me if I wanted her to do my hair. I nodded,excited at the novelty of not breaking combs and blowdriers. In about an hour,there I was,looking like the girl on the Dark and Lovely box (not really). Now that I think about it,that was a great name for that. Down with LSBs? Not so much. Just yay,let's do this black beauty ninininis. My mom must have been so annoyed when I came home with - well,slick,smooth,black,white-like hair.

She's the reason I like brown rice. For some reason,everyone hates brown anything. (I draw the line at brown ugali,though. Trauma from when I was a child and Mom told me it was chocolate and I took the hugest chunk,and the biggest - first and last ever - bite) Not me. I'm all like,whoop,brown rice this and brown porridge that.

She had the most radiant smile,and remains one of the women whose examples I would quote as people who look freakin amazing with short hair. She was gorgeous.

I ushered at her funeral service today. It was weird,of course. Death never really feels like death,never like it's going to happen to you,or those around you,as if you live in a bubble free from the things that bother other humans. Like you're special,or somehow immune. I'm of the opinion that God should just make those whose time has come die in their sleep,instead of through intense pain.

I was looking at her husband. You never think,when you're saying your vows to someone,that that 'forever' bit isn't true. Or you hope you're the first one to go,selfishly,so you don't have to be the one to carry on,to raise the children you made together,to put the love of your life in a dirt grave.

Being an usher is weird for me. I don't like people,nor do I particularly enjoy associating with them. So having to hand out programs,and not cry,and find them places to sit...weird. I keep getting into these situations - sijui bridesmaid,sijui emcee.

The church was packed full in an hour. Maybe it's because I was brought up Adventist,but it does not make sense to me to come to church in jeans. A jean skirt,I can forgive. Skinnies and untidy hair? #iCANT. It's a funeral service,not a pool hall or sijui a road trip. Camaaaaaaaaaan. Nobody had better come to my funeral service in jeans. You heard - read - it here. I may haunt you. Which will be hard,because ghosts don't exist,but whatever. Which of course,gets me thinking about my own funeral,and how I'm going to convince someone (namely,said mother) to cremate me. I have faith.



Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Of youth who don't live in Amsterdam

In view of Kenya's recent tragedy, I traipsed down to Bomb Blast Memorial Park to offer my pure (awesome) blood. Upon reaching the front of the line after standing for 2 hours, I may or may not have been disqualified from donating.

Why might I or might'nt I disqualified,you ask? Well,I'm not saying I was or I wasn't. I may or may not have given blood. But if I was disqualified,it may have been because of the section on the form that said 'Have you,in the past 12 months,partaken of any non-medicinal drugs such as marijuana or cocaine?' If I was disqualified. Which I'm not saying I was.

All I am saying,however,is,whatever the answer was to that question on OTHER people's forms,the question is grammatically incorrect,therefore how can one really answer it correctly? Like,cocaine may be non-medicinal,but it sure is healthy. It'd probably HELP whoever got it from my blood or anyone else's,if they had cocaine in it. Sure helped Scarface,from what I could see in that Lonely Planet video (LOVE me some Michael Bolton).

As for Mary Jane,EVERYONE knows it's medicinal. They prescribe medicinal marijuana in several hospitals. It's legal in lots of countries. Are you telling me that AAAAAAAAAAALL those citizens of those countries,and every old person with a pain problem can't donate blood? That's a pity - for them,of course.

Anyway,whether or not I was disqualified,it still doesn't make sense. I mean,I called up 2 doctors and they have no idea why that would disqualified anyone who had marked the 'yes' box. And they would know,right? I just feel sorry for all those people who were turned away for lighting up a joint that was probably,like, || that big. Dude told someone weed takes 7 years to get out of your system. So they can't donate for 7 years. Really? That seems like an injustice. And y'all know me. I'm all about championing rights and stuff.

But seriously. It really was probably like || that big. Smh. Poor thing. I felt so bad as I watched he-him walk away,after waiting for 2-so long. *coughs* *no jointo*


Rated AM (i.e. if you are in possession of sensibilities, skip to the next post)

We all go through that phase at some point in our lives. Well, most of us anyway. Save for those few who were fortunate enough to wind up with that perfect combination of genes, after generations and generations of Mother Nature’s dice rolling, of exchange of dominant and recessive roles between the good and the bad genes, that subconsciously sought after mix of superior and dominant genes that gives us, well, something close to me. The contemporary Alpha Male. Yes, I see you roll your eyes, like here we go, but let me stop you. I actually am serious. I AM the alpha male. I am that seemingly unidentifiable man all men want to be. I am that man you want to be, or your boyfriend wants to be, or your brother, uncle, and yes, even your father. Wants to be and wishes he were. I am the quintessential male. I am Mother Nature’s ultimate goal. Evolution is a quest for perfection, and I stand at the end of that quest. I am the closest thing to god you will ever meet.

I digress. So I shall backtrack. I started off talking about a phase. Even with my near perfection, I too went through that phase, albeit very briefly. That unsure phase of your life. That bit where you’re uncertain of everything. You don’t quite know what you want. Or how you want to achieve what you want. You’re funny looking. Things are not quite in proportion yet. And there’s one other thing. What was it. Oh yeah. You’re a fucking retard. Make no mistake, mine was fleeting; blink and you would have missed it. Most of the people in my life cannot even identify it. But nonetheless, I went through it. Which takes me in the direction of my subject. Women. Even in that phase, I still seemed to do quite alright in that department. I mean no doubt I had the usual blustering nerves that plagued most of us, but I got by. Then the fleeting period passed. I blinked. Almost literally. And my world changed.

Backstory. Allow me to indulge myself. I am fucking brilliant. I put it like that for emphasis. You see, there is brilliant, then there is very brilliant. Then there is fucking brilliant. I am the latter. My current career of choice is in the manufacturing industry. Strategy and policy. This decision was made after I blinked. However I say current because it shall not be my last, and neither shall my next one. That’s right. Fucking brilliant. Digressing again. Apologies. Upon blinking, my life quickly picked up pace. Mentally, financially and inevitably, sexually. I started to notice an improvement with the ladies. I seemed to develop a far greater appeal than before. Now, this has little to do with looks, although, for the reasons stated at the very beginning, I am, naturally, a good looking fellow, a fact that helped me through my blink. But now things were different. I exuded something…..seemingly unique. So what was I to do? I indulged the effect. Throughout the remainder of high school and my campus years, I indulged. And wound up with very interesting early sexual encounters. Very interesting. But those are stories for another day. I came away from those experiences with two things:

One, I learned that my Midas Touch had nothing to do with my latter, if you can call them that, successes. I am in my early twenties and already making very good money. Driving a beautiful Chevy Camaro. Cabrio of course. Obstinately confident. Bla bla bla. You know. The usual story of a late thirties, early forties chap. Except I am in my early twenties. The work of my brain. But today I am talking about the work of my dick. So let us proceed.

Two, my Harem began to amass. In leaps and bounds. Where shall I start…

Angie. My sister’s best friend. Younger sister. Angie is one of those girls who just oozes sex appeal. Little. No. Scratch that. Tiny. And boy could she fuck. Fuck. After I blinked, I would go out with my sister and Angie. And noticed she would give me the eye. So I thought it only fair to give her the Dick. She’s that all important iPod Nano shag. You know. The oh-so-portable-one. The one you can lift up and pin to the wall and fuck her brains out without breaking a sweat. Yes. That one.

Marla. My sister’s friend. Elder sister. Similar story. Clubbing together, got a little too touchy on the dance floor, one thing led to another, and bam. Or should I say bang. My first experienced shag. She taught me so much about mind blowing sex that I came to the conclusion what I was having before her was not sex. Guys, you gotta get a more experienced lover at some point. The things they can do will blow your mind. Marla gave me my first experienced blowjob. Not that biting, slobbing, saliva rubbish most girls do. She Sucked Dick ™. She literally sucked the cum out of me. And swallowed. My body convulses just thinking about her. And the best thing about it, she loves every second of it. It turns her on incredibly. And she knows her body. And she is….wait for it…the ever elusive…..squirter. Yes. Admittedly, it is a feat we have only accomplished thrice (really due to the fact that it is faaaaaaaaaaaaaar too much work), but each time leaves me in utter awe. Been like four weeks Marla…..where’d I put that number…

Fiona. Primary school best friend. Turned instant fierce lover once I blinked. In a steady relationship throughout (not with me of course), but can never quite say no to me. She is that apprehensive shag. Like, she knows she shouldn’t be doing it, but can’t quite help herself. Like, no, no, no, no…..yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, YEEESSS!!!

Ciru. Gotta have a Ciru. LOL. Was a neighbour. Kept running into her as I walked my dog. Ciru is a giver. The submissive type. Nothing boosts a man’s ego like a giver. She spreads herself, all wet and eager, for me to take her as I please. And she has a serious case of that thing some girls have, um….instant wet? Only takes a touch and she is all lathered…beautiful.

Stella. I made eye contact with Stella’s arse at a corporate function. She was in a tight little red outfit that absolutely killed all the men in attendance, and later that night, I took the concept of attendance to a whole new level. I attended my ass off. LOL. She was my first one night stand. She broke my one night stand virginity. I am ever so grateful, Stella, *sob sob*, you taught me so much. Stella is currently my go to blow job girl. I mean, that girl can suck a dick. And not just randomly, and guys, I know you will bond with me here; she will work at your dick like it’s a fucking job-on-the-line assignment and the fucking deadline’s running out. If she put half that effort in her work, she’d be fucking CEO by now. First time she gave me head, she sucked the sperm out of every last orifice in my testicles. And then swallowed. That day, I knew this one’s a keeper. You absolutely MUST have a PHD equivalent blow job girl in your harem. And, to add icing to the cake, Stella’s a screamer. Goddamn. Shakes me up just thinking about her.

Ciru’s best friend. Yeah I know. How cliché. But gotta do a best friend right? At this point I must say, you ladies are your own worst enemies. So I don’t really know how these things work with girls, perhaps Ciru went on and on about how I *brushing my shoulder* laid the dick down, perhaps her best friend had always liked me, who knows. Who cares. Long as she fucking, right?

Phyllis, Mary, Laura, Virginia. My workplace girls. My boss is feeding me on more fronts than he knows. LMFAO. And to show my sincere thanks, I cum all over his kitchen. And his boardroom table. And his bathroom sink. You get the picture. Perhaps morals amongst working class girls are decaying (so says the whore ) but fucked them all within the second out of office encounter. Two on the first. The amount of sex I have within the office premises is ungodly. And I have identified two more prospects. One on our offices on 8th floor, another on 15th. To be honest they are the last workable prospects in the company.

It’s unbelievable. Really it is. I honestly do not know what it is with me, but most women seem to be attracted to me. They cannot help themselves. If I was female, I probably couldn’t either. I have gotten overtures from mothers, wives, girlfriends, sisters….you name it.

Now the most beautiful thing about my little harem, each and every one of my girls is at my beck and call. My women are house trained. They await my call. And when I call, they fucking come running.

This will probably come off as very pompous, but I am not one to sugarcoat. I am telling you like it is. Like I said, I must be the so called Alpha Male, because there simply cannot be any superior to me. Gentlemen, I apologise in advance, as I suspect little of this has gone down well. But take heart. We cannot all be me. Just don’t bring your girlfriend around me.

And to close, there’s a saying I saw somewhere in the bible that could prove to be of some comfort to you. It goes:

“Ye that owneth and driveth a Toyota Corollaeth knoweth only your Toyota Corollaeth, and cannot fathom the superlativeth experienceth of he that owneth and driveth an Aston Martineth, Ferrarieth, Lamborghinieth and Rolls Royceth; so looseth not hearteth."

A. M.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Why I prefer Batman (cartoons) to Transformers (movies)

The song that is running through my head right now, is one of the greatest songs ever made, in my opinion. Or at least, a really, really good one. The words are genius.

Broken Hearts Parade

by Good Charlotte. It is also the second link on my blog to music. Ah, such growth. :o)

On to the topic of the day.


Without a doubt,(in my head, anyway) the greatest superhero ever. He comes up in my blog often, the first time being one of my very first posts. A self-made man who still fits all the superhero rules. An unforgiving, shunned vigilante, often misunderstood (with, supposedly, at his inception, homosexual tendencies, but who really cares in a league of superheroes where you ALL where underwear over tights) and misconstrued, but never, ever subdued in his constant battle for justice and retribution. *sighs* I could go on and on.

The other day I was watching Batman: Under the Red Hood. (aside: it disappoints me that I enjoy the animations more than anything Christian Bale has ever made. Dude. What's with that.) It's a keeper, folks. I will probably never delete it, yea, though I walk through the valley of No Space in my Hard Disk, I shall not erase it, for his stunts and his coolness, they comfort me. And it struck me that (other than my intense and overwhelming love for all things batty that is revamped every time I see the Bat signal...did you know they actually MADE the BatMobile?) the reason I enjoy Batman is because I have a simple mind. Let me explain.

Batman's tricks are easy to follow. He does one at a time, and they're all cool. There's not too much evil and mayhem going on in the background, no explosions to distract you from B-man (that's what I'd call him if we were best friends. Or, like, Bizzle. Biznit?). You are fully exposed to his awesomeness, slowly and clearly. You don't miss a thing (cue Aerosmith). Simple.

Transformers, on the other hand, tries too damn hard. Don't get me wrong, I love the fighting, and the effects, bla bla bla. But the story is, more often than not, weak (ok I don't reeeeally think so, but whatever). This Michael Bay chap tries to cram 3 movies into 1 movie. I felt like in Transformers 2, he was tryna do a sitcom, National Treasure and Transformers. Pissed me off that I only saw the cool girl motorcycle robots TWICE in the whole movie; at the bit where they were lining them all up, and at the end where the purple one was being destroyed. (In T3, the bot who was a Ferrari, the cool one with the whips? TWICE. Or, like, four. CAMAAAAAAAAN.) Half the time during the fights I have no idea who is on whose side. Maybe I'm not a die-hard Transformers fan (clearly my allegiance is with Biznit), but...really? I hate that I miss so much, and that usually I have to watch the movies at least twice.

Hence, Batman remains my one and only. Honestly, Transformers for me just needs to calm down.

Also, I think Airtel has a conspiracy afoot to keep sending you texts about how you're on Club 10 so that you spend money thinking so and then have to buy more credit when you realize you're not, which, unless you're the once-bitten-twice-shy kinda Kenyan, will happen again and again. Hmmmm. *strokes chin ki-Mafia*


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Of Mice and Men

There are boys...and then there are men. The problem (of our generation is finding a good way to spend iiiit :D) more often than not, is sorting the chaff from the gems. (that actually kinda rhymes. Kinda. Camaaaan.)

I have something against the male species who originate/reside in a specific sub-location in this our Nairobi (which will from now on be referred to as MORDOR). Back when I was young and innocent, and a little further stil, I had several dealings with these species from MORDOR, and I finally gathered sufficient data to conclude the following, characteristics which are applicable to a majority but not necessarily all of the species:

1. The male species from MORDOR should more likely be referred to as boys.
2. The boys of MORDOR are incapable of efficient decision-making, which often leads to girls being led on and long, drawn-out annoying pre-date conversation.
3. The boys of MORDOR also appear to be generally incapable of expressing themselves where females are concerned, as well as having clean dealings with said females (as they nearly always involve more females in what was not supposed to be a menage-a-quatre)

So, I stopped my association with MORDOR and moved on to greener plains, after forming a dating rule: MORDOR? No more. (Yes. Yes, it rhymes.)(Disclaimer: Rules are made to be broken. Or windows, if he behaves in such a manner that deserves such)

I met an ex yesterday (although, I use this term loosely, as we were never official, mostly because I think he was a pansy who just wanted my goodies. He claims differently, but I have watched too many he's-just-not-that-into-you movies to let his 'heartfelt speech' penetrate. Not much else penetrated either. Also, the theory that will soon be explained may also be the reason we were never official). And, as I hear this rarely, if ever, happens, I thanked the Ye Olde Clothing gods for allowing me to look fabulous. (This also takes me back to when we had just decided to part ways, seeing as we could not break up because there was nothing to break up, and I met him at the movies with a friend of mine who didn't know HE was the one I had been dasting coz they had never met... #awkward...what is it with my friends and my exes? I don't actually mind, it's just...can I get a lil warning? Can it please not be so freakin soon after we split? CAMAAAAAAAAAN. Anyhue. He was on a date with her, and I was on a date with my soon-to-be, which made it better. On this particular day, the soon-to-be was a was, which also made it better as I waved happily. Lol. It's the small things. But really. Don't you LOVE it when you look so good after it's over? Which girl doesn't fervently wish that he still misses you, especially with that particular bra on? Ah, the sweet wallowing of a vengeful soul. *wallows deeper*)

Anyhue, this particular not-ex resides in MORDOR, and predictably, acted the douche. You know why stereotypes exist? Because they have truth in them. I would probably stop thinking dimunitive thoughts about MORDORians if I could meet more than the paltry few who are sensible.

I leave it to you to figure out where MORDOR is. It shouldn't be too hard; they're a special breed.


p.s. Shout out to Fi and D. :o)
p.s. Yes, this is the same post. It's a long story.

Monday, September 5, 2011


Yeah, yeah, yeah, I love Nairobi. And Kenya. Yay for Maasais and Sonford and Harambee. In fact, my last post was all about how awesome Nairobi is, and how it is me.

I'm still gonna move, though.

This city, like the person I am, has a lot of ugliness in it. Now, while I can take my own ugliness (much like you can wipe your own arse after you take a dump, because it's YOURS), I can't take Nairobi's. I'M NOT YOUR NURSE, DAMNIT! YOU'RE NOT SENILE! It's the little things that make our already complicated relationship a null and void one.

Today, I was in a matatu. (SURPRISE!!) Ah, matatus. The bane of my poetic existence. I hate them, but I love them. Their beautiful disorganization thrills me, and then kills every fibre in my being (except the ones in my fingers, apparently). I love that I can get a jav anywhere. I hate that they can decide to drop me anywhere, especially NOT my destination. I hate sharing seats (which @brendawambui inspired me to not do anymore, but I get dirty looks all the freaking time! Man, if I had telepathic/telekinesis powers, or just something that could shrink balls with a look...the Ballinator. Yeah. I can see my underwear costume now, fighting crime beside Batman, because you know it would be Batman, who would secretly be scared of me, because...well, duh. Then we could...ok, back to the story.), but I love how they drive on the sidewalk and you feel like you could possibly be canoodling with death as you hang on for dear life (and wish you were a superhero. Yes, yes, we ARE back to that).

As I was leaving the matatu (after sharing a seat with the lovely @C_Leo_Patra), SOMETHING stabbed my shin. Not the nice are-you-just-happy-to-see-me kind of stabs. The I'm-going-to-rob-you-blind kind of stabs. Only it was a chunk of metal, looking like it was trying to wrestle my shin. It won. The gougefest was a bloody, gory one, and it left with enough of my skin to make sijui a humanskin coat. Or shoes. Or a bag. An entire pimp outfit, damnit. This, as you can imagine, is highly uncomfortable in skinny jeans.

Ok, it wasn't bloody. But there WAS blood. And I was pissed enough to mutter "Fuck!" as I left the battle scene (I'm that passive aggressive. I only muttered. Like Muttley. I'm so ashamed.). Either way, as Sparta does not exist, I'm moving to the nearest closest thing: Rwanda. It's run by a Spartan. Good enough for me.



p.s. Also, I want to live in a country where I can sue the wankers for violation of safety rules. That CAN'T be safe. By Jove, I could be so. Freakin. Rich. Then I could retire, and REALLY work on my costume/BALLMOBILE.

Of Mice and Men.

There are boys...and then there are men. The problem (of our generation is finding a good way to spend iiiit :D) more often than not, is sorting the chaff from the gems. (that actually kinda rhymes. Kinda. Camaaaan.)

I have something against the male species who originate/reside in a specific sub-location in this our Nairobi (which will from now on be referred to as MORDOR). Back when I was young and innocent, and a little further stil, I had several dealings with these species from MORDOR, and I finally gathered sufficient data to conclude the following, characteristics which are applicable to a majority but not necessarily all of the species:

1. The male species from MORDOR should more likely be referred to as boys.
2. The boys of MORDOR are incapable of efficient decision-making, which often leads to girls being led on and long, drawn-out annoying pre-date conversation.
3. The boys of MORDOR also appear to be generally incapable of expressing themselves where females are concerned, as well as having clean dealings with said females (as they nearly always involve more females in what was not supposed to be a menage-a-quatre)

So, I stopped my association with MORDOR and moved on to greener plains, after forming a dating rule: MORDOR? No more. (Yes. Yes, it rhymes.)(Disclaimer: Rules are made to be broken. Or windows, if he behaves in such a manner that deserves such)

I met an ex yesterday (although, I use this term loosely, as we were never official, mostly because I think he was a pansy who just wanted my goodies. He claims differently, but I have watched too many he's-just-not-that-into-you movies to let his 'heartfelt speech' penetrate. Not much else penetrated either. Also, the theory that will soon be explained may also be the reason we were never official). And, as I hear this rarely, if ever, happens, I thanked the Ye Olde Clothing gods for allowing me to look fabulous. (This also takes me back to when we had just decided to part ways, seeing as we could not break up because there was nothing to break up, and I met him at the movies with a friend of mine who didn't know HE was the one I had been dasting coz they had never met... #awkward...what is it with my friends and my exes? I don't actually mind, it's just...can I get a lil warning? Can it please not be so freakin soon after we split? CAMAAAAAAAAAN. Anyhue. He was on a date with her, and I was on a date with my soon-to-be, which made it better. On this particular day, the soon-to-be was a was, which also made it better as I waved happily. Lol. It's the small things. But really. Don't you LOVE it when you look so good after it's over? Which girl doesn't fervently wish that he still misses you, especially with that particular bra on? Ah, the sweet wallowing of a vengeful soul. *wallows deeper*)

Anyhue, this particular not-ex resides in MORDOR, and predictably, acted the douche. You know why stereotypes exist? Because they have truth in them. I would probably stop thinking dimunitive thoughts about MORDORians if I could meet more than the paltry few who are sensible.

I leave it to you to figure out where MORDOR is. It shouldn't be too hard; they're a special breed.


p.s. Shout out to Fi and D. :o)

Thursday, September 1, 2011


The first thing most people think when they hear ‘Kenya’ is the classic brilliant sunsets silhouetted by the figures of colorful Maasai warriors and elephants on a savannah. And of course, loud, ‘African-sounding’ drums. There are always drums.

I’ve never seen an elephant. And of course I can’t run particularly fast, not since I was 12 years old and had less to carry across a finish line. My Kenya is contained within the pulsing, vibrant metropolis that is Nairobi. In My Nairobi, you can find anything (from pirated DVDs being sold in broad daylight to tycoons walking among the ‘common folk’), go anywhere and be absolutely anyone. The sunsets I see are marred by the buildings across the skyline. In other words, none.

I was born in Nairobi (which, as if it didn’t sound cool enough, means place of cool waters in Maasai), but spent my formative years in Ethiopia. My family moved there when I was five years old. I went to international schools, dabbled in learning Amharic (which really is as difficult as it looks) and lived a somewhat charmed, sheltered life. By the time I came back to Nairobi, I had apparently lost everything that my fellow Kenyan would use to identify me as a countryman.

This irritated me immensely. I felt like people had no right to classify my identity for me, regardless of where I grew up or how I spoke. How did citizenship become a test? Was I supposed to get a grade or a trophy to put on my un-Kenyan mantelpiece? My logic was that one is not Kenyan because of a checklist they fulfill. One is Kenyan because…one is Kenyan. It is not a course. You do not have to try to be Kenyan, or speak the language. There is nothing you can do to be more Kenyan like eat more ugali (our staple food) or learn how to play a nyatiti (a traditional instrument). Being born here should have been validation enough, if validation is what was required. Identification with the culture, with the people, with our struggle, should have been enough.

The culture shock was incredible. Not because it was new and unusual, but because it was unabashedly abrasive, the rude guest you never want to have at a party who, to add insult to injury, is a plus one. I did not get over it until four years later, in the thick of boarding school (Kenya High). Sometimes I would wake up crying because I just did not understand what I was doing here, and how I was supposed to be doing it. Even more so was the confusion of experiencing culture shock in my home country. The concept in itself was baffling, to say in the least. But finally, I learnt what my city was trying to teach.

Painfully, gradually, fortunately, I grew into myself. I grew into the weird and wonderful twists of my city, like screaming matatus and confusing lingos that expect you to understand; roadside hawkers and the teargas that inevitably followed; the nights to be outside and the streets to avoid to maintain a supposedly sterling reputation. I became what I perceive as a beautiful amalgam of the two completely different worlds I had lived in. I learnt how to balance my two sides – which were just the same person expressed in different ways. I began to be comfortable in my own skin; which really, had not changed. I am proof of the fact that what does not kill you makes you stronger – and funnier. The adversity rubs against you, and what you think is tearing you down is actually the sand crafting the pearl in the oyster. Nairobi was my cruel initiation into life, the quintessential harsh professor who gives you hell because he knows what you are capable of, but you think he hates you the whole time. Yet, after the fact…it didn’t feel so bad.

My Nairobi is an extension of myself. A confusing mass of beauty and evil; the exact representation of a human soul, my soul. It captures your heart while robbing you blind, then apologizes with a smirk. It accepts you, and breaks you. Always understanding, but mocking, and amusedly sarcastic. A thick and potent mix of mystery and seduction, an ever-changing and ever-present, alluring charm. My Nairobi is…me.


Nairobi - Sauti Sol

Storymoja Hay Festival

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

I learnt...

...that sometimes, no matter how much you love people, sometimes you just wanna take out a 9 millimetre and send them to their Maker.

...that I need to stop quoting stuff I see on the net like it's the gospel. The net is like Wikipedia. But worse.

...that I do not believe in shaving, and possibly never will. Come on, now. It's painful. I am not masochistic. It itches like self-inflicted poison ivy. Who DOES self-inflicted poison? It was meant to be there. Unless I have a moustache and back hair (and even then, just get a cover-all swimsuit. Ha.), it is not that serious. *hides from the mob of glamorous socialites who want to lynch me with tweezers*

....that there is such a thin line between adolescence youth and adulthood, between disrespect and backbone. There is standing up to your parents, and there is breaking their hearts, and there is finding yourself, and there is being grown up enough to find a delicate balance. I'm not there yet.

...and on that note, that I am still so very, very young. BOOYAH, BIRTHDAY!! BOOOOOYAAAAAAH!!!

....that it sucks how much small scale problems - like a new pimple or stupid boys and foolish games - takes away perspective from the bigger picture - like Turkana. Humans. Smh.

...that sometimes,even if you're being unreasonable,you just need to get that shit off your chest. This does not apply to crazy people. Disclaimer. Right there. Put down the flame thrower.

...that patience, for some reason, is sometimes harder with those you care for, because you think that they, of all people, should understand.

...that you can sing #1 hit BIG BOOTY BITCHES to I LIKE TO MOVE IT by Eric Morillo and it sounds fantastic in the kitchen when you're doing dishes.

...and while we are still on the subject, this year, I MUST learn the words to Baby Got Back. I will have a void in my heart until I do so. A deep, yearning need.

...that I must eat and make merry, for tomorrow, I may dine in hell, and memories will be all I have left next to what used to be my consciousness.

...that one can find love in the most unexpected yet expected places.

...and that truly, everyone is different. Not everyone loves Michael Bolton, or has an aversion to pumpkins. *shrugs* Go figure.

In spite of its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
- Desiderata


Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Happy birthday to me...

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.


Monday, August 8, 2011

My mind is a strange place to live.

Last night, I dreamt of San Pedro. And it all seemed like yesterday,not far away.

Not true. Actually, last night my dreams were a bit warped. I dreamt that my parents (or was it the entire world? I feel that would be disastrous) had the power to rewind time. They did so, to when I was 14 and joining form 1. In the dream, this amused me. I do not know why, because going back to form 1 would not amuse me in the least. Anyway, they rewound time so that they could take me to Starehe Girls instead of...the school I went to, to see if the results would be different.

We had a green uniform, and 3 form 1s shared a double bed. The bed was partitioned into three, and literally had to be made like that each morning. The girl in the (our?) middle was called Mwanaume. As soon as she told me this, I burst out laughing. She was deeply offended. And, she looked like a small-faced girl who I went to primary with who I always thought was a bit weird.

After making our beds we went into what looked like an auditorium/hall, thingy, where someone was putting on a play, and I thus discovered I had magic powers. (I suppose it ran in the family) Clearly I'm having detachment issues with Harry Potter. I ended up waking up at 5 because of mosquitoes who would not leave me alone.

Good grief, mosquitoes. Why? Whyyyy? There is no more useless creation. (ok, wait. Maybe politicians and cockroaches.) I was awake till 6:45. They stole AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES OF MY SLEEPTIME. I was too irritated to cry (I take sleep extremely seriously. Extremely. High school was very hard. As is having a job. Lol). At some point, I burrowed under my blankets and stuck out my arm as a sacrifice. I could feel them feasting on my flesh, but still these miniscule monsters were not mollified. They followed me under the blankets!I felt like Osama. What was all that Navy Seal espionage? Eish.

Be kind, rewind. (who remembers video libraries writing that on all their tapes? Heck, who remembers tapes?)


ps. Blogger doesn't do spell check for sh**.
ps. Oh wait, it does.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011


I had a Barbie doll when I was 6 years old. It was given to me by my best friend. I mean, she was pretty and all, but I was never really a doll person (ironic, seeing as I still sleep with a teddy bear). I was more of a books and movies child. Especially books. One day, I was mad at my mother and proceeded to hit the doll on a glass cabinet. Her head fell off.

I was made to understand at the tender age of 12 that a Barbie is someone who isn't 'ghetto enough' or street smart enough to make the cut. Characteristics of a barbie include:

1. A barbie must live in a certain neighbourhood. Living in these neighbourhoods automatically makes you bourgeoise, whether or not you had anything to do with garnering your parents' (often supposed) wealth.

2. Barbies do not take matatus. They cab. They see matatus, but do not really know what they are, and view them as a quaint prop of 'city life' (they don't live in the city)

3. Barbies do not speak any of the languages outside the UN official languages, which are:
-Chinese (Mandarin)
-Spanish (Castilian)
Do you see sheng there? No? Then that's your answer. Swahili? Ati Kamba? Are you serious right now?

There's a bunch of things I've left out, of course, but these are the main identifying factors. If you saw a Barbie in the wild (Westgate/Vima), you would immediately be able to pinpoint the species (Barbiosa habilis).

I get offended when people call me a barbie, regardless of the degree of truth it contains. I don't know if it's because it's (partially) true that I get offended, or because of the way they say it. Like it's a disease. Like I'm the white man who enslaved them for centuries while making them pick cotton. Like obviously the only thing I know how to do is to wait for an inheritance in the back of my chauffeured BMW (I almost wish).

Or maybe it's the labelling. I mean, really, is it necessary? Because more labelling and alienating people and creation of a caste system is REALLY what we need more of in Kenya. Can't I just be...a girl with Barbie-like habits, lol, the way you can be a dude with ghetto tendencies? I don't know why it bothers me. But I will continue to - how do you say? Kasirika? - anyway.

Ghetto characteristics? Hmmmm...


image from

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Something old, something new.

I was walking in town today and nearly got whiplash because some man was yelling 'Fifty bob! FIFTY bob! Fifty BOB!' Now,the average Kenyan girl will stop at anyone that says those magic words, which are usually enough to make her stop and at least look at what he was selling.

Dear friends, he was selling books. My heart leapt with joy (across vast fields of sunflowers, of course), as if it had just found The One. I burrowed into that pile like darkness was not already eminent upon the land. (I have a sneaking suspicion that I've always wanted to use that line. Hm. Sounds like the Thriller line by

Why are men randomly nice to mamas? Ok that's rhetorical. I'm always nicer to people I find attractive. It's weird, yes. Actually, it really isn't. You are naturally more inclined to be nicer to something that appeals to you...anyway, both guys I stopped at were being oh so helpful, mpaka I started wondering if I was selling crack when I bent over. Or is it that I was bending over, ha. Making conversation and stuff...I was like, ok. You sell books, and I'm nice, so whatever.

Plus, I found Books from My Childhood. There's something extra special tasty (like Special Seasoning from Steers. MMMMM!!!) about BFMC. They hold an ancient yet still fresh magic...something old, something still new. I can't wait to (completely interrupt my reading schedule and - sorry, Woozie) read them again. (In case you were wondering: Brian Jacques - Redwall, which is awesome coz I recently re-read Salamandastron - how now does my T9 not know how to spell Salamandastron? - and L. M. Montgomery - Rilla of Ingleside, only one of the books in some of the GREATEST series - ha - ever, Anne of Green Gables) Carried away by bookish, ha, excitement, I also got a book whose name I can't remember, which is fine, because...yay, new books. :o) :o)

Who needs men/cats when there's the magic of literature?

I only partially meant that.


Ps. Other Dude also had Lemony Snickets books 12 and 13, which I've always wanted to read/watch but couldn't very well buy, because, now, book 1? As well as The Two Towers (again. Book 2.) and A Lion Among Men by Gregory MacGuire, which is the third installment in the Wicked books (a really cool re-telling of the Wizard of Oz...damn,maybe I should go back tomorrow) so obviously I couldn't buy it. I was so very tempted to throw all bookish, ha, yes, again, etiquette to the wind, but...I'm no amateur. (HA! Looks at new books excitedly and feels a thrill.) NOTHING like a really good book to sink your teeth into.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

O. M. G., K. P. L. C.!!

Never again will I insult Kenya Paraffin Lamps- erm, KenyaPower and Lighting Corporation. Ok, not for like 2 weeks, anyway. :o)

I got home a couple of nights ago and there was no electricity. Feeling like The Cavalry and simultaneously trying to feel better about the state of our toothless bulldog service providers (ha! I should use that in spoken English so I sound like a politician/newspaper lacking creativity), I called the KPLC number (which, for some strange and uncanny reason, I have). Now, my cousin had already tried the numbers she had, but no one was picking up. The Cavalry, however, as we all know, tries all possibilities again and again until they are sure that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their mission, to save, in no way can be achieved, and the ghost of failure and loss looms eerily over a horizon of blood... *ahem* so I called. Just so I felt like I had done something. Just to be sure. It's like back when I was on The Other Network and I would call Customer Care. Not because they were going to help, or their system works. Just because I needed to feel like someone had listened.

The lady picked up, and I didn't know our account number (I'm still a child). She got tired of waiting and hung up. Things were looking bleak. I called again. The nice lady said they'll send a team over. I didn't really care, of course, because I just wanted them to hear what I had to say. I went to sleep, still in darkness, but content.

An hour later, 2 nice men came in a truck and fixed the part in our meter (that had apparently burnt. How now? As well as charred all the wires around it). It took him 20 minutes. I was overcome with impressed...ness. Impression. Impressarios? I wanted to give them gold, frankincense and myrrh. I felt their quick and excellent service befat (HA!) a reward (which I suppose is us payig for elec) (as they came in, Nice Man #1 said "Poleni kwa giza." I almost started drawing maps, I was so pleased).

We discussed among members of the household whether to give them money. I had no change. Tea, perhaps? They had to rush to save yet others thrown into the dens of deep, damp, dank darkness, and rescue them from the dastardly diabolical clutches of deprivation of light.We gave them bananas. In a swirl of KPLC-emblazoned capes, they were gone.

KPLC sent a technical team at midnight. Then I saw the lights come back...and now I'm a believer.


p.s. AllWoman.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

My 5 links...

I was TOTES going to write you a post today. Ah, screw it, I may do 2...

Work's been a bit mad. Hence the lack of narcissistic reading material. You know you miss me.

So thanks to @edgicovi (who blogs here), I must now put up this. She made me work. As in? Lol. *begins copy pasting*

...‘My 5 Links’, which @eGichomo (a blogging enthusiast, among other things) who blogs here calls a chance to go into the archives and share some of the links that you feel deserve another read. It’s also to appreciate bloggers in Kenya and share mini-blog rolls for a broader read. A most noble idea, I must say. If and when you take part, tag five bloggers whom you’d like to read a similar post from.'

That being said:
1. My Most Popular Post
Whaddaya mean, my 'MOST' popular?? They were ALL RIP-ROARINGLY SUCCESSFUL!! DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?? *buries head in sand* Hold on, lemme check the stats...HA! That's hilarious. It was A Moderately Offensive Post. No offense. I loved that one. :o)

2. Post that didn't get the attention it deserved.
Erm...refer to second sentence in previous category. HA. Erm...OH! Ok i can't remember so far back, but most recently (yeah, yeah, AFTER looking at the stats), June 25. How now was there no weeping and wailing an gnashing of teeth inserted there? Why were there no heartfelt tributes, memories, video clips? Are you people serious? You are NOT serious. And you are NOT serious about Pop. I'll make my OWN damn tribute. Shiiiiiiiii. (I'm calming down in just a sec)

3. Post whose success surprised me.
Ha. Really? Coz that was gonna happen. Lol. Erm... *checks stats...AGain*... Maybe Fears that Bind. It was really long. and emotional. Not exactly my normal style...

4. My Most Controversial Post.
Erm. Wow. I'm beginning to feel like I don't read my own blog. Erm...I'm not a very controversial kinda girl. I believe in free love, sharing blunts (HA!), that sorta thing. That being said...eish. I dunno. I'll go with The Ex Rule. People are generally nice to me. It's a round face/cute smiley thing. :o)

5. Post I am most proud of.
This is a trick question, isn't it? They've all been trick questions, haven't they. Just one? Ok... here.

- @Nigmwa who writes here.
- Angel, who writes here.
- @MoNahwi, who writes here.
- @abbakidenda, who writes here.
- @arungaian, who writes here.


ps. Check out AllWoman.
ps. A few favourites:
- The do-dos of doodoo
- C.
- The Mr. T. Chronicles - Chapter 1: The Beginning.
- Holding out for a hero.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Paper-chasing pontifications

Depending on how this whole I'm-in-the-rat-race-now-and-I've-sold-my-soul-for-fiscal-security thing goes, this may or may not become a thing.

So irregardless of how absolutely gorgeous I am, it still shocks me when guys hit on me for no reason. I mean, obviously there's always a reason, but a lot of the time, I like it to be an obvious one. I don't, really. I don't know why I said that. I think I'm secretly a control freak and just like to know everything. That must be it. That must also be the reason why anonymous commenters annoy me. I like to look at your name, your profile, read your blog...can't do that when you're anonymous. *shrugs* Oh well. I suppose then I would be able to hunt you down as well, so I guess privacy and whatnot is a good thing.

So yes, the reason. Usually, there is one. Sometimes, the twins are making new friends. Or, we're the only people who don't know everyone at the party. Or, you're cute, so I go out of my way to say hello. Either way...there's usually a reason. But today...there was no reason. I'm in a jacket that covers everything between my chin and my pelvis in a thick non-curve showing layer. I had my don't-bother-me-I'm-reading-plus-you-stole-half-of-my-table-you-punk mug on. We weren't in a club/at a wedding/working a speed-dating event.

I left the office to go have lunch at The Place - you know, the one with the excellent sausages. Since I was alone, I left the office well-armed with my current literary preoccupation, A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair, generously lent to me by the (apparently generous) egregious @woozie_m (he isn't actually. I just wanted to use that word. Isn't it weird how it means both remarkably bad and extraordidarily good?)

It was pretty full. So I sat on the table I wanted that had four seats. Considering the popularity of the place, someone was bound to ask me to share. I hate sharing tables at restaurants. I mean. Dude. I'm sitting here alone for a reason. Clearly I do not desire company, unless I'm waiting for it, in which case there's no point in you asking to share. Then when there's a stranger sitting with you, there's an annoying pressure to make small talk or smile when your eyes meet, like some awkward blind date. I hate such things. Also, if I was doing something, say, scratching my toe, putting an evil plan for world domination into effect or reading a book while using half of the table, I can't do that anymore because of YOU. GRRR.

In spite of the slight anger expressed in the above paragraph, I still don't have enough steam to go on (usually) to stop someone from sitting at my empty tables. So this dude sits down. I pretty much ignore him in favour of Gilbert. When he's done with his meal, he begins to talk.

'That must be a pretty good book.'

I look up. 'Yeah.' Look back down.

'What's it about?'

My momma brought me up right. (I think. Ha.) If I meet a stranger, I don't talk to them. However,in some situations, I'm forced to be polite. Like this sharing table nonsense. Which could be prevented if I had just said I don't want to share a table. *sighs* I told him what the book is about. He then dragged me into a conversation with him, kicking and screaming, when he said 'I never read fiction.' I hold such people in incredulous surprise. I took the bait.

We talked for a bit. He told me what he does. Asked polite, intelligent I'm-a-good-listener questions. Kept his eyes well above what he must have approximated to be Twin Area. As did I, above Ring Area. I really should have looked (you would think I'd've learnt by now). Not that it matters, seeing as, you know, he's a stranger. He casually slipped me his card and asked for mine. (I want a card, damnit. In other news.) He gave me advice on life and careers...he's lived an interesting one, of course. Did I mention he probably has a child right around the age I don't like? (i.e. anywhere from 0-17) (Ok,15,because I like Justin Bieber. :D) He told me an interesting theory about how the less you pay for your scurity, the more likely your guards are to liaise with thieves to rob you. It made sense.

He waited for me to finish eating. The bill came. I paid my own. He didn't offer. Which means the speech to preserve my dignity that I had rapidly concocted in expectation went to waste. *sighs* He said, with a shy smile, that he wants to have lunch again. I said something vague in agreement and hope he didn't hear because I didn't mean to agree. We both got up. We walked. He shook my hand. I walked away.

He wasn't ati bad looking. And I didn't hate his shoes, which is usually one of the first signs that nothing is going to happen, thanks to @MuriMuriz.

I bet he's gonna call me. And has a criminal record or something disastrously wrong with his otherwise...nice persona.


Thursday, July 7, 2011

Of bovines and best maids. (HA!)

WARNING: Digressions will be rampant and arbitrarily placed throughout the course of this post. Peter! :o)

If you have been reading my blog, you have good taste, and you know that I'm the best maid for my friend's wedding. You should also have been commenting, because how do 196 people follow the blog (you awesome people, you. Much like the author) and like, 10 people max comment? People. People. People. CaMAAAAAAAAAAN. Ok I'm done. No I'm not. How do I make it easier for you to comment? How do I make it juicy for ya? Bribes? Lap dances? World peace? I want to know what you think. It's important to me. *deep, soulful look* A writer writes to write, but also to be appreciated, unless I don't like your comment. HA. :o)

So in accordance with true wedding fashion, it was necessary to receive cows for dowry for the bride-to-be. Why do we give cows? Why do we give anything, really? I won't have a dowry, whether it is 1.2 million (ridiculously calibrated by my pseudo-educated self) or 10 cows. You can't really pay back what your parents did for you anyway, so why bother? Why attempt to bother? Why allude to the fact that your MP-like exorbitance *cough highway robbery cough* is a silly attempt to bother? For something that I can't get a refund on or a guarantee? Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. If you want to give a token, take us all to Zanzibar. Whoop. :o) How much is a cow these days anyway? Duuude. Yeah, definitely Zanzibar. My colleague (:o) was talking in our (cold) office about how your parents obviously did not educate you in the hope that they would be paid back in dowry at a later point. Is that then to say that they would not have taken you to school had you decided to become a nun? Mschw.

Sunday was the cow delivery day. I woke up at 6 to be on time, and of course no one else was. The problem with punctuality is there is never anyone around to appreciate it. We ate and went. I slept all the way, because frankly, road trips are really not my thing. I come from a land far far away where men are men and women...hehehe. (again. If you've been reading the blog.) The valleys and caverns, ditches and plateaus one traverses to get to my roots are have cultivated a healthy dislike for travel that is not air. Train, maybe. Cars? No.

We get there and it begins. The men walk the cows up the hill. We eat. We leave before the rain starts and we're trapped there. Forever. Never to be seen or heard from again. Lost. (HA!)On the way back I notice huge stones jutting out from lofty crags above us. I begin to have fear in my soul that somehow the boulders will break off and crush us into dust. My heart palpitates...and I come to the realization that I am old. No longer can I simply enjoy a road trip. No longer can I pass a bunch of stones without thinking of mortality, or sit in a car with a window wide open and not leap to ideas about nine madmen a-flinging. Age AIN't nothing but a number, damnit. The rave now seems like a gargantuan effort(well, I'm stretching the truth a little to keep the flow going, burram...), an effort to freeze and be overcharged, underclothed and underwhelmed by the number of Supras about.

One of the younger ones at said gathering was required to give a vote of thanks. He did it with a youthfulness and panache that made me regret not being as self-possessed, yet suposedly older and more...knowingy. He reminded me what it meant to yourself, because that's the coolest version of you you could ever hope to imitate. Does that make sense? This is something I need to constantly be reminded about, because secretly, I'm socially awkward. Go figure.

So God never had, like, a childhood? He never learnt how to tie shoelaces, or count till a hundred? Can you imagine God as a toii, figuring out how to mix colours so he could paint the world?

Moral of the story? No cows for me. I'd rather have a cat.


p.s. AllWoman.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011


Today morning, I was gripped with a desire to cut my talk-time costs, much like your average Kenyan. I'm on a great network, which I sing the accolades of as if it were paying my rent. I get all the texts I want to to the same network, low rates for calling other networks (in fact, it costs me the same to call other networks as it would to call the States. Please note that other networks only did this after my network blazed the trail) and...well, really, that's all I need. I'm low maintenance. 3G isn't a big deal to me. I'll live. Plus the customer service is very accessible, and if I say I've been stolen from, there actually is a chance that they will refund me. It's happened. Twice. (how many people can say that?)

I think because the other people like me on my network are happy-go-lucky easy-to-please folk, they are beginning to dole out crap plans and hope no one notices. In a bid to reduce my significant phone expenditure, I went online to look at their postpaid plan.

My eyes thought they were deceiving me and decided I must be temporarily blinded by all the cake that's been in the office. The sudden effluence of calories had obviously shocked my retinas into brief but complete blackness. So I called Customer Care, hoping my ears were not suffering from the same disease.

The man I talked to was nice. He tried to calm my troubled brow, and yet I was too riled up to really pay attention. Maybe it's just me who expects more from 500 bob a month than a total of 200 minutes talk time. Is he serious? Are THEY serious? I proceeded to ask him how long it takes HIM to use 100 minutes. He tried to deflect my violent attack, tell me about 10k limits (which were horrifyingly unstructured and completely senseless) but it was too late. I had already started the opening lines of this blogpost. I hung up promptly...shocked. Dismayed. But most of all, and worst of all, betrayed.

I have been too busy to blog (can you believe it?), but this injustice caused me to leap onto my keyboard. It's therapeutic, you know. Seeing as I can't burn their offices or civilly speak to their incompetent promotion officers/marketing managers/people in charge of products and free texts and monitoring public opinion, however douchey, I do what every Kenyan with a phone and a brain and absolutely no political and/or otherwise clout does. I tweeted their company.

If they don't reply, I'm calling on higher powers. @WMutunga.

Not really.

Ok maybe.

No, not really. I'm just a bit...emotional right now.

*flees the scene to wail in the corner*


p.s. The title refers to the murder of my trust. Gory. Unscrupulous. Swift. *bursts into tears again*

p.s. Check out For all your online entertainment needs. *winks*