Wednesday, March 30, 2011

My weekend.

Church,and then an old friend comes over for lunch. It's strange how we change from our childhood states. We used to be the pervy kids,deliberately misconstruing everything our teachers said,giggling obviously behind our books. I'm still pervy,but he became principled. I was supposed to be the principled one! It was weird. Blast from the past with an indication of the future. He was the only boy I ever fought over. (refer to the Tales from Childhood post) And now that's ancient history. Am I aging?

So the kids came over on the weekend. Now,I can tolerate the lil tykes for a couple of hours,but an entire weekend? I had to leave,and fast. Especially after the 6 year old tells me she has a phone. To do what with,I inquire politely. To call my mom,and my dad,and my friends...oh,your friends have phones? She replies in the affirmative. I shake my head,bemused. I think I got my first phone-yaani bought specifically for me,not my dad's old one or summat-when I was 17. It was a Nokia1100. I loved it with a passion that was indescribable. It served me well,through 3 boyfriends and the last 2 years of high school. She's 6 years old. Am I aging?

Then the older one starts gushing over how much she loves Facebook,and how Twitter is so confusing. I smile and nod,not relating at all. She finds her old BF(best friend) online,and among a series of exclamations,they reconnect. I pray she never gets the hang of Twitter,which I hope remains the exclusive domain of the relatively techsavvy with a taste for anonymity. Damnit,I'm aging.

I flee from the digz early Sunday morning to go for brunch at a friend's spectacular house in Rongai. Rongai si Westi. You need a freaking visa to get there. And there was a motorbike ride involved,which I figure will be 5 minutes,right? Nope. It was awful. I kept thinking about all the people I knew who had died on motorcycles. I kept thinking about how I'd literally paid 150 for my death. It was milima na mabonde stories. My legs weren't steady until 20 minutes after I got off. Never again.

Chess Sunday with the usual suspects...Kenya Film Commission were showing a film on...didn't catch the title,but it was meant to be a parody of the Esther Arunga scandal. While I appreciate a good parody,I don't think this was one...thought the turban on Ian Mbugua was a bit much,but then again,I'm probably slightly biased. *shrug*

I get home and start sniffling. Damnit. The young one's given me her flu. Hence me being in bed for the past 2 days. Now I need to get up and figure out whether I'll make it for band today,seeing as UON are striking... *sigh* Aging,I tell you. Aging.


Saturday, March 26, 2011

Regressive behaviour aka The Rant.

The problem with not getting closure is that you end up living the title.

I dated this boy (operative word here,boy) (this having a blog thing is a bit destructive for my ranting. Nonetheless.). He was a word,tasty. He looked good,all the time,smelled good all the time,said all the right things,most of the time (damnit,that should've been the red flag.),and I fell,a bit hard. I mean,what do you want. I'm female. I can only resist for so long. Plus,the night I met him,I had GOALS. *in small voice* and alcohol was involved.

To cut a long story short,my vulnerable heart put itself on the train track that was his...erm...that was him,and he kinda sorta fucked with my emotions. Now,very few guys have done that. My heart is generally the happy-go-lucky sort. In fact,before him,only one guy had ever hurt that much. (that,is a good story. Soon.) It started going downhill when a month or so later,we weren't official,then he started being flaky. I put up for a week,gave an ultimatum,and bounced. I swear,the idiocy that he gave me for the reason for his flakiness was a bit,erm. Oh well. *shrug* If it sounds like sh**,looks like sh**,smells like sh**...

So I came away from that a bit messed up. I mean,the thing I wish guys would change is the whole trying to protect my feelings. Just TELL ME you're not feeling it anymore instead of being a douche...basically,it makes it worse for me when your reason wasn't plausible. I woulda gotten this outta my system by now had he been upfront with me. But NOOOOOO. *sigh*

And how do I know I'm not ok? The fact that I still look at his Twitter profile,see if he's the same,notice if someone tweets him,get nervous around his hood...and the fact that I've deleted everything about him from my life (except the poetry. Whippedness and subsequent heartbreak makes for some FANtastic poetry) and yet when I see him,I still don't know how to act...but most of all,the fact that I still remember.



Thursday, March 24, 2011

What's in my cup

I like to touch myself. I believe it's healthy to be familiar with your body, lest you develop a third eye (not the good, all-seeing self-actualization kind) and you didn't know.

I was in Mombasa one year, enjoying the repressive blanket of heat that constantly covers that coastal town, when I noticed a swelling in my boob. (And why did I notice? Because I like to touch myself. It all comes together now, ay.) I was like, um. There's, like, a swelling. In my boob. There wasn't one before, was there?

There wasn't. So I started to mildly panic. I say mildly because I'm those silly people who think it can never happen to me. Insolent, and ignorant. But I guess you're so rooted in denial that something, anything, could marr the orderly structure of your not-so-perfect life, that you automatically refuse any threats to it.

I stayed with the lump in my breast for quite a while. I didn't do anything about it until the next year (it was December, I did something about it in January). Why did I wait, other than paralysing fear?

I didn't have insurance. And even worse for me was the thought that something may actually be wrong and I would be in NO WAY financially equipped to deal with such a catastrophe. SO I got insurance, THEN I went to the doctor's.

The coonsultation fee was 2000. Then I had to have an ultrasound instead of a mammogram, because I haven't had any babies. That was 4000. My heart was pounding within my chest the whole time. I was fearful, but detached. By the time she put that cold fluid on my breast, I had set myself up to accept whatever the outcome was going to be; mostly, because I would have no choice.

"It's not cancerous," she said. Something broke within me and I almost wept. " It's a fibroadenoma (sp?)." Which is apparently just a normal lump that happens in women, sometimes. Or something. The point is, it wasn't cancer!! P. H. E. W. (X. Lol.)

I felt fortunate to not have had to go through that. But how many women go through the same thing and fid out it IS cancer? Several, of course. Worse still, how many don't go to get checked - not because they don't want to, but because they can't? I didn't have insurance, but I could get it. How about those who really, would not be able to afford the 6000 shillings needed for a consultation and an ultrasound?

The healthcare system in Kenya saddens me imensely, mostly because it's easy for an outsider looking in to believe that it only caters to the elite, those who can afford it. I have no idea what is being done about it, and no idea what a common mwananchi would do. Someone needs to educate me: what is being done to make healthcare more affordable? Is free healthcare a feasible plan, or an unachieavable ideal? What can we do? Because there is someone out there just like me who has a lump, and is frightened terribly, and feels completely powerless; and if the government can't help, maybe the people can. Maybe the people should.



Tuesday, March 22, 2011

The Affair

I have a confession to make.

Four score and twenty years ago (sic) I swore my undying loyalty,devotion,commitment et al to a worthy lover,whose accolades I proclaim to this very day. His suave appearance. His witty sense of humor. His mysterious aura that kept our love alive,aflame,passionate. His resourcefulness when his damsel was in distress.

Then,dear readers,I cheated on my beloved. And I did so in such a way that betrayed the lords of logic; I cheated on my beloved with a substandard opponent. Oh,he was big,and muscular,but not particularly brainy. He was a bully,who only agreed to see your way after you went through a beating. His reach was far and wide,but my,was it a strong reach. And by Toutatis (I've been reading Asterix lately. I'm very cool.),I had to have him.

I bought a Safaricom modem. *cue gasps,subsequent wails of horror* I know,I know. I stabbed my precious Airtel in the back. But let's be honest. The only thing that the not-so-jolly Green Giant has on Feeling Free is its data and Mpesa. And when Safcon goes 4G,I'ma be ON IT like white on rice. Or like tSN on Airtel.

Airtel really need to step up their game in this particular sector,ere they lose more customers who want the best of both worlds. I already enjoy the little jingle when you disconnect from the internet on the Safaricom modem far too much.



Sunday, March 20, 2011

A hair post.

So I went for a shave the other day,prompted by the usual undue pressures. Dude at the local barber shop was like '2 sock.' As I walked out. What is it with Suburbia and inflation? Don't answer that.

Since my shave,my hair's been itching like crazy. And I've tried everything,for real. @theycallmebiggy claims it was lice. Checked. Nope. @thogii,my favorite model ( says the barber didn't use disinfectant. Put it on myself. Nothing. Washed it. Conditioned it. Oiled the little of it left. Nada. Only things I haven't tried are a)avocado oil (@therealzasa's idea) and b)a clean shave. But that idea is mighty tempting. I guess the hair could just be growing but really? 10 days later? All this,because my hair is GROWING? Not giving birth,or building a new head lol?

Which really makes me wonder what kind of masochists chicks who get Brazilians are. See, I don't know how the process works. Does the barber-erm,Brazilier,put disinfectant on after? Do you have to weka aftershave? And DOESN'T IT ITCH LIKE HELL WHEN IT'S GROWING BACK? Ergo making you look like you DO have crabs? All because you desire the appearance of a five year old girl?



ps. Go.

Friday, March 18, 2011

In a perfect world...

I grew up on the sugar-coated idealism that was Sweet Valley High. In that world,your parents were your best friends and your biggest worries were what to wear for Lila Fowler's Halloween party. That was not,however the case for me.

Both my parents are pastor's children. Though the pressure to be an upright,morally inclined human is there,it isn't as bad as if they were actually pastors themselves...but it's still there. Of all my siblings,I'm the one who's stayed with them the longest (a 7-year stretch that I won't go into). I still stay with them,because everyone is so much older. Family planning is your friend.

I would always envy girls who were best friends with their dads. My mom is great and everything,but who doesn't want to be Daddy's little girl? (hence the evolution of the term Daddy issues) But my pops is the typical African male. Don't talk to your children. Don't bother to develop a relationship. Make big speeches at significant occasions (graduation,wedding,introduction to friends so they see you know your children's names). And so,my relationship with my dad can be summed up in 3 phrases: Good morning,Goodnight and I need money.

Not without bitterness,I accepted this state of affairs. At times I made valiant efforts to change it,but the only things dad really cares about lol are politics,soccer and church. 3 topics which for me,are soporific. So our relationship always goes back to the beginning. Square zero.

Then the other day during the Barcelona-Arsenal match,we started talking about the game,which I know nothing about,and great football legends (Weah,Maradona). And I discovered that regardless of the fact that my dad is incredibly set in his ways,I still do want to be his friend. Regardless of the bitterness and my angry chastisement of his indelible African ways,it still is something I would like,a relationship with my father. Though the path there may be in spurts of every two months (and my feminism is being betrayed at every step,lol),maybe it'll happen. Because your dad is your dad,no matter what,and really,who doesn't want to be Daddy's little girl?

Monday, March 14, 2011

Forget the poor

All right folks, I bring you my first guest post. Be nice. :o)

“This post is written for all parents who struggle to pay their children’s fees. Those who try, and make it, and even those who try and fall short, you are appreciated. Deeply. As for those who neglect the need to educate their children just know that there are a couple of obscenities going through my mind at this point in time.”

I have never been a child of the have nots. Now, don’t get me wrong I am not saying that we haven’t had our fair share of financial issues, I am saying that between my mum and my dad I have always had security. Food, shelter, clothing and education. Which to me is all one really needs growing up. I never needed to walk a million miles for water, it was always in the tap, for that I am immensely grateful. This however is the same reason I am extremely baffled when I see stories on tv of these guys who passed K.C.S(P).E and have no money to move on to the next level of education or have no means to search for it. I ask myself questions like what happened to CDF or what happened to sponsorship programs. In fact it got to a point that I was visibly angry at the amount of time that the issue came up on all the major TV stations (and at that point I started watching DVD’s).

Recently however it has come to my attention that it really isn’t as easy as it looks and I have been taking a great deal for granted. Apparently the CDF offices (you know, the ones that are meant to help with bursary) are run by the same corrupt idiots that have seen tons of maize disappear and millions of shillings hoarded behind closed doors. Tell me, how much of a conscience do you have if you keep filling your belly with beer that was bought with the money that was meant to send some poverty stricken child to a fair high school? Seriously, have you no shame whatsoever? Parents are being forced to sell of their children to make money. Fathers sell daughters to be married because they can’t afford to pay the section of school fees that says P.T.A 1000/=. Children as young as 15 are being forced to go to the streets for prostitution, now if you don’t understand how bad that is think of it this way, when I was 15 I knew sex involved a man and a woman, what they did I had no idea (and it was pretty disgusting in my head).

Truth is we let this happen. We as a society (And the society is me, you and everyone else) seem to be comfortable with this social imbalance. Whenever someone says anything we look at it like “Well, they are poor.” Probably get angry and bitch about it (like I am now). But that is it. We do not lift a finger, sign a petition, drop a coin, nothing! We just decided to le it go because you know what? Forget the poor, the disadvantaged, it is their fault, they are poor. Well, maybe they are some people who are just lazing on their bums but really when the same offices, Universities, bursaries e.t.c that we expect to help those who try to help themselves are the same offices that are shoving their faces in the dirt, something must be done. Someone must get up and speak. That is why I am particularly touched by this lady here. We have lost so much as a society, through the negative press, the media, corruption allegations, scandals and the like. All in the name of making a quick extra shilling. I really, really don’t hope that we loose our sense of humanity as well.


p.s. Check out


Friday, March 11, 2011

Never a need.

I am really craving things right now. And I'm not preggers,so it doesn't make sense. Cause for even more worry? Yes?

I'm craving Sonford fries with vinegar. I'm craving hot,freshly-made crispy chapo spread with a thin layer of honey and a cup of near-strungi. I'm craving my own apartment and deeply blue neon nail polish. And maybe,perhaps,a beating. Those scar-causing,blood-inducing incredibly painful ones,like Martin used to give Paulina. The ones that I have to say I fell. Or wear sunglasses for a week.

Those last sentences are a lie. But sometimes I wonder if that's how women who are beaten think,women who stay in abusive relationships.

I can't claim to understand or approve of the psychology behind abuse. I can only tell stories and hope people see the light. *cue Star Wars music while still maintaining the gravity of the situation*

I know a boy. He's so very attractive. In my freshman year,he was the It Man on campus. He's tall,dark,and handsome,literally. He walks like he owns the earth,or carries it between his legs,which apparently,he does. He's a musician as well. Always smells good,always looks good.

I know of his girlfriend. A petite thing,not at all shy or willing to put up with bullshit. Or at least,if you've gotten to university,you should have the mental capacity to be able to separate yourself from it. Right? And yet he locks her in the house they live in together and beats her for 3 hours straight,regardless of whether or not the neighbours are banging on the door to try to save her. Keep in mind-small girl.

They're both students. She used to live in the university hostels until he made her move out. Guess he didn't like to have to reach too far to slap. He made her give him her school fees for an entire semester so that he could...pimp his ride. During this semester that she was out of school,he would make her go to his classes-a completely different major-and do his assignments. Then he would beat her.

But,really,he didn't have to make her,did he? She could have left. Right?

The school was informed of this. The school said as it happened off school property,it didn't concern them,and they could do nothing unless the girl herself reported it. Which,of course,she wasn't going to do. Because she loved him.

So is it the school at fault,or the neighbours who don't take him to the police,or her,for taking masochism a bit too far,or their parents who raised them,or society who teaches them?

And what is love? Insanity? An excuse to treat people like scum? Or rather,is that really love? And if someone perceives love as beatings,do they not feel like their scars are an expression of affection,and when he breaks your arm,his love knows no bounds?

I don't understand. But my father has never laid a hand on me,and he has a right. Therefore,I will never wait around to give a man that right. Oh,he can try. Then I'll call my brothers,and buy a gun.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Just keep swinging...just keep swinging...

In my mind, dear reader, as you know, resides a gargantuan ego bigger than anything Beyonce ever sang about. It mutates daily into an object larger than logic can stop. Its sense of entitlement is slightly nausea-inducing; it is not stopped by criticism, failure or reality.

Which is why I assumed full and total success (redundant, I know) upon embarking in pursuit of The Girl. No heterosexual influences could bring me down! I set sail on this journey aiming to divide and conquer...from my cousin, but divide and conquer nonetheless.

When I got home, I sent her a text saying Get home safe. *insert smiley face* Tame, not too involving, sweet and showing interest, because I know for a fact that girls like when a guy - erm, girl - texts them after the rave, like same night. Or at least, I do. How do I know? *looks down* I go to sleep with a sense of fulfillment, wondering why guys whine so much about how hard it is to hit on a girl. Serious thoughts of starting to charge for lessons are the last thoughts in my mind as I drift off to Dreamland.

The next morning, I wake up. No text. Hm. Undaunted, I call up Mr. M. to tell him about my night. I was expecting him to be protective and all really? And etc...all he said was, that's all you did? Just her number? That's your confession? I get the feeling he perhaps wanted me to do more. So, because I love Mr. M and his happiness is important to me, I text The Girl again.

NO REPLY! Crushed upon the jagged teeth of reality (not really, though, know...refer to first paragraph), I contemplated my future in the girl-on-girl world. I wavered from HOW DARE SHE! to MAYBE SHE DOESNT'T HAVE CREDIT to SHE WAS WITH MY COUSIN ANYWAY to THEN WHY WAS SHE GIGGLING SO MUCH??!! to SHE WASN'T THAAAT CUTE to SHOULD I TEXT AGAIN?...the end result was that I decided to stop texting with my dignity still intact. *Delete contact*

Now I have a responsibility to the world. Even more so, to myself. I have something to prove to myself know...stuff. I cannot leave this stone unturned. So the next time I'm out...I'ma pick the drunk one. :D


Sunday, March 6, 2011


You know,no one ever thinks that they would ever do half the things they end up doing 5 years later. In the words of Justin Bieber,never say never. :D WAIT! Don't stop reading! There's a point! :o)

I have always suspected that I'd be a really good lesbian. Or I have delusions of grandeur. I like women,I like their bodies,they're fun to look at,they're fun to...anyway,yeah. So I'm at the club last night,in a small dress that makes me feel about 17-good times-when my friend J decides that it would be fun to take advantage of my currently inebriated state. We've been checking out mamas the whole night,and there's one in particular we've decided we like. So J turns to me and says tSN,I dare you to go pick her up. Keep in mind there is alcohol involved,not to mention the quickest way to get me to do something is to imply I can't.

So I go over.


I need to warn you. What I'm about to say is a bit strange.

She smiles. What?

You're really pretty.

She giggles. Yup...giggles.

And I want your number.

Giggles again. I've never been picked up by a girl before.

I gave you fair warning. We laugh. She asks me what my name is. I ask hers as well. (wa. Vital things I'm missing. How did I not ask her her name???)
Seriously,a girl has never picked you up? And you look like that? I'm going to get my phone right now. (yeah. I went without my phone. I dunno. Blame it...)


She puts in her number. The guy she was with comes back and eyes me suspiciously...then I realize I know him. Because HE'S MY COUSIN. There's an audience laughing in my head. I try and slink away while not trying not to look suspicious or like I was trying to steal his woman away. Which,to be fair,I wasn't...really. Fortunately,he's too drunk to really notice. I can't stop myself from doing a victory bow when I get back to my table.

When I'm leaving,I go up to her and say

May I kiss your cheek?

She lets me,with a smile.

I text her 2 hours later when I get home.

tSN. For women who want to score.