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.

tSN

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

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*

Summersummersummertime!!

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 existence...it 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.)

tSN

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.

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.

tSN

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.

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.

tSN

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