Wednesday, December 31, 2014


When someone tells you you look like a prostitute, you start to think about the possibility that you are one.

You wonder if actual prostitutes ever get told they look like prostitutes. You wonder if they find it offensive. If you are being called something that you are, no matter how derogatory the label (Nazi! Christian! Bisexual! Cult leader!), are you gonna be like 'Fuck you!' or 'Perception is strong in this one' and do a Yoda bow? Maybe they accept it. Maybe they don't care. Maybe they are like 'Well, that's what I was going for, so, whory looks ftw.'

You start to look at what you are wearing. Especially the shorts that brought this on. You mentally catalogue the rest of your wardrobe, dividing it in lengths of what may or may not be acceptable by the labellers.
You wonder if you should stop wearing those shorts that you like so much, the ones that make you look like a woman of the night, or so you've been told.
Are they too tight? Or is it too much thigh? Maybe the latter - they look more like old school swimming costumes (flappily decent) as opposed to the barely there booty shorts of your youth. Now those ones...those ones, perhaps, would have warranted that word.
That word.
It plays in your head. Turning. Again.

But clothes do not a prostitute make, do they? The same way clothes are not the cause of rape. Which you try and explain as well. I mean, anyone can be a prostitute. It isn't that hard, is it? Or maybe it is. I don't know. I'm not one yet. Maybe. The supply and demand chain is always at an imbalance, and let me tell you, you can be fully clothed while doing it. In fact, pushing panties to the side in the dark is easier done with loose trousers than booty shorts, no?

Maybe you are a prostitute, or maybe it is just that your choice of clothes indicates that you do, indeed, desire rape with all the fibres of your being (and the fibres of clothes you're wearing). Maybe you're just gagging for it, underneath a sheer veneer of pseudomorality. Maybe you woke up this morning and chose something that you thought screams 'Kindly ignore human values and drag me into a dark alleyway right now as I pretend to protest.' Because of the obvious clothing/assault correlation.

Or, or, maybe you are a prostitute because you like sex far too much (hence the clothing choices). Maybe you want it too much and enjoy it too much. Ask for it too much. Because heaven forbid a woman should ask for - and get - something she wants in regard to what she wants in or around her vagina. Maybe she should wait for the guy to ask her for it. Don't tell the world the secret - everybody wants sex! Even *gasp* women. But you have to act like you don't. Coz you're not supposed to. Because it makes know what.

Maybe your theme song should be Freak like me by Adina Howard and everytime you hear it you should turn it up and look suggestively around the company you're with. Maybe it should be your ringtone and your call back tune. Maybe it should be the soundtrack of your life and your go-to karaoke song. Because a freak is a prostitute. And so is a person who wears short luscious shorts. And so is the girl standing on a corner trying to ignore the cold for her next trick. And so are you.


Tuesday, December 30, 2014


I thought about accepting her friend request. I did.

But I didn't understand why I should. And the type of person I am calls for logic - tell me why I am doing something before I do it.

I am not good at following blindly, which is why my religious walk ended so abruptly. (though still not as abruptly as I suppose it should have been, but arduously, drawn out, like an unhealthy lover). And speaking of love, I may be bad at it. Love seems to need a certain blindness. Or should I say, one-track mindedness. Forsaking all else and others. Ignoring reason presented to you - but there are lipstick smudges! Look, receipts! - .

The reason I thought about it was Slevin. I think he wanted me to. But I didn't have a good reason! And I didn't want to talk about it not being a good reason. Because why? I am also the type to want people who are reading my statuses to actually know me. I am no socialite. Or spam robot. Or corporate bigwig organization faking community responsibility and giving a damn.

But then I thought about the fact that they are friends. *sigh* We'll end up meeting. She'll be shorter than me, possibly less eloquent, but the look on her face will speak volumes. It'll be a look that says, 'I wonder if this bitch is going to deny seeing my friend request' right before I deny seeing her friend request, because, you see, this is a culture I have cultivated, rather conveniently. I don't look at my friend requests so that when I say I didn't see it, it isn't actually a lie.
Though in her case, it will be. She'll know it - I'll know it - and we'll smile, cordially, at each other, her thinking I'm a stuck up snob and me resenting her for even bringing it up in the first place, because surely, if someone doesn't accept a request, like girls who give you the wrong number at the club, why, pray tell, must you flog the dead horse?

The moral of the story is, I am not an honest person, and I'm not sure if I am interested in being one.


Monday, December 29, 2014

Ramsey Street

Thank God for neighbours.

I am a firm believer in moving near people you know. For more reasons than one, and several extra benefits:

1. If you never have food in the house, much like me, or a fridge, or an oven, then there is always somewhere to go doea, store food that is going to go bad or bake stuff on those rare occasions when you are actually baking. If they have a toaster/sandwich maker/internet, will you ever need to purchase your own? NO! #passwords #freeFreeFree #sharingIsCaring
Now, there are a few times when this should and should not be done. For example, if they have company of the hanky pank variety, call first. I discovered this the hard way. Ok, it wasn't hard for me, it was hard for someone else - ok so what happened was, I had food in the house and no way to refrigerate it. So I took it to Otis and Jomo's house.

Otis and Jomo live above me. We went to uni together. Then we both moved to the same area. Then I moved. Then they moved too. Right above me. Yay!
So I knocked on the door, and we always do this thing - not always, it's not, like our neighbour THING yet, but I'm working on it - where I beatbox with their doorbell, so when Otis opens the door, he has a look on his face - a wtf kind of look - and then I wonder why - and then I see a heifer on the couch. My eyes widen because now it is too late to back down because damage has already been done and I need to think of a quick exit. See, I was going upstairs to cook, but now I can't interrupt the mood sijui the after (or pre?) glow so I dash into the kitchen and grab a slice of pizza (see what I mean? So useful. Also, pizza is very important. See #5.) and split, #banana.
Moral of the story is, I should have asked. Because I DID call. Ok, Otis should have said, damnit. HE SHOULD HAVE SAID!
Aside: But when they're having parties, you don't need to call, because you're just being a good neighbour. Visiting. Doing the rounds. #NeighbourhoodWatch. Nininini.

2. When shit hits the fan, you have someone to call. You can read about that here.

Otis is not a small guy. He's the brain and the brawn with mass left over to spare. I should start calling him the Smart Shaq. (hehehe) If you're not getting where I am going with this...Otis is huge. His hands cover people's faces. Like four faces at the same time. But what he does handle very well (aside from sijui 3 women balanced on one bicep like Garcon in Beauty and the Beast, the original version) is cameras. He has a website and everything. That's how you know it's real.

Jomo is big but in a horizontal direction. It still serves its purpose - he can roll over your foes and roll out the jokes at the same time. He's pretty much always laughing and has slight OCD about dirty dishes and crazy women. He used to be a rugby captain - I know, I laughed too - but he's like super focused and like super getting back on track with the whole lean mean machine thing. As you will read in the story above, size does matter. #sizeOfBoat #motionOfOcean #baseballBats

3. That's another thing! Living with people around you provides endless fodder for soap operas in other people's lives, whether yours or theirs. You know gossip is always sweeter when you know WHO you're talking about, and WHICH apartment that chick is coming from, etc. #lesMujerDeSosVidas

4. Advice. On things. People who have context in your life are much better at helping you with your life's problems than Dr Phil or generic sites ie Twitter lol. Of course, that works two ways and you have to listen to their shit. Lol jk. GET TO listen. GET to. #noNewFriends

5. Vodka Sundays and people to changia with for Naked Pizza because they deliver in the hood now, whoop! Because every Sunday or day before a depressing day like the day in the new year where you have to go back to work (not that I know what that is anymore, but, like, if I did) deserves alcohol and alcohol is great with pizza that you don't have to pay for all the slices for. Yes?

Are we going to live together forever? Should we get promise rings?
The plot thickens (much like Jomo's waistline - or not, anymore) and continues.
Stay tuned for another episode of...

Here's to neighbours.
Please don't move.


Sunday, December 28, 2014

Volume 2

He took me to Java
We had cake.
I wondered if the fact that neither of us could finish our slices was indicative of a relationship
that we now had to take away.
She took the pieces of my cake
And I wondered
If they were my soul
In a little white box
With a horny, irritable pallbearer.


Thursday, December 25, 2014


Something happened to me in September, and I think that something broke something else inside me.

And it wasn't the breakup.
I mean, the breakup was difficult. As they all are. And it was heart wrenching. And in all honesty, I'm probably not dealing with it very well - the full passive aggressive ostrich head in sand because pea brain shebang - but that is what is happening. Especially considering how weird everything else this year is doing to make it even harder to deal. And the fallout from it is an ever rippling effect that makes me hate butterflies.

It wasn't that.
It wasn't a new job either, though that contributed a great deal to it. That job exhausted me. I had pretty much no personal time and little sleep. The money was worth it, but 3 months later, I don't think I have fully recovered.

Am I just tired? Of...everything that life entails? And that everything life entails to keep going?

I may have lost my mojo and I don't know where to find it. I don't even remember what it is to have it - did I ever? Or am I too lazy to notice?
I feel like I am auto-piloting through a lot of things but at the same time feeling a lot. Feeling too much, really.

Well. There's a lot of good poetry coming out, at least.


Sunday, December 21, 2014


You don’t need another human being to make your life complete, but let’s be honest. Having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn’t see them as disasters in your soul but cracks to put their love into is the most calming thing in this world.

Emery Allen

This quote is currently my profile picture. And how deep is it?

Because we are all flawed. And we all need to be reminded of our imperfections and our deluded independence.
We shouldn't need other people to make us complete...but we do. We are not islands. We are people, the most unpredictable, irritating, beautiful, best and worst things about the planet.
We all have disasters in our souls. Mini calamities sitting and watching life go by, or actively participating in making it go wrong.

We all need soothing. Salves.
And what is this soothing?

Sometimes, you want someone to watch a stupid movie with, and point out all the actors or the shit script. You know you're going to get irritated at how much they talk at the same time as the characters, but it's nice to not be alone.

Sometimes, you want someone to tell you you're beautiful first thing in the morning when your breath can knock a species into extinction and the crust around your eyes rivals a Dominos pizza.

Sometimes, you want to be reminded of your mistakes but also of the things you do right. Your compassion. Your loyalty. Your fantastic shower voice.

And sometimes you want to be that for someone else. You want to love the soul pain away, and thus make yours less. You want to be everything for someone to erase the everyones who weren't, before you. Even if you probably can't, you want to be the saviour. The friend. The lover. The person to kiss away the nightmares, even if you are the cause of them, and they are the cause of yours, the knot in your stomach, the pounding in your heart, the sigh in your desire.

We all need love. We all forget.
Kiss someone's heart today.


Picking fights

I'm not the most confrontational person in the world, but I am very stubborn. This doesn't work well for me in life, because as much as I do not want to fight, I'm not going to let stupidity continue (unless, you're , like, family...or I can lose my job. Though I don't have a job. So I don't care anymore. Hehe). It's like that clip of - can't remember which comedian, I think it is Sommore - where she is like when you take weed and drink, they are drugs that are opposite of themselves - drinking makes you want to fight everyone and weed wants to chill (or sleep. Or laugh). But then the weed is making you say things that could start a fight...I think I am getting this stand up wrong - the more I think about it, the more it sounds like Kevin Hart. THE POINT IS, stubbornness and passive aggression are difficult for me to live with. At the same damn time.

Thus, I am terrible at picking which battles to fight. Everything feels like a fight to me, mostly because I am hyper aware of my passive aggression. I don't want to be a doormat, so I tend to overreact to make sure my passive aggression isn't making me underreact. You know - he grabbed my arse! Break a bottle over his head! - but he genuinely didn't mean to - in fact, he's your cousin - lol. Type of situation.

(I feel like I'm rambling. Let me get to the point)

There are some battles that I thought I was done with. I spoke about it - and have spoken about it - exhaustively.

The Hair Battle.

It just keeps coming up. I don't know why.








(whether on pubes or hair hair)

The other day, my best friend's sister started on me about how I need to go to the salon. Her folks have done this before - her mother has offered me a pair of scissors repeatedly - but they're ancient. It's understandable.
She launched into a diatribe of how unacceptable I look. And then she said I look like a street child.
With a straight face. As I sat at their dining table. In all my street child hair glory.

I gotta admit, my feelings were a little hurt.
Not a little, I'm blogging about it. So not a little.

A street child?
Is this offensive because it is untrue and she clearly knows no street children?
Or is it that...nope. It's that.

I asked her why it bugged her so much...she said because I looked unpresentable and no one would hire me.
Ironic, seeing as I haven't lived with my parents for 3 years. So clearly people ARE hiring me. WHY is it that people still haven't come up with newer excuses for saying the tomfoolery they say? These are arguments I've been hearing for far too long.
So I told her that clearly the only reason she wanted me to do my hair was because it bothered her. And maybe I would, if she came up with a better reason. Like, not rewaxing your dreads gives you cancer or constipation.

Guys. Leave the natural haired people alone. Leave their choices alone. Leave your patronization at the door. These choices were made by an adult for an adult. Why is this so hard to understand?
To be fair, humans are really bad at leaving people who don't agree with them be.

I shouldn't be surprised.
But I may have to punch a bitch.
OR, shave shit off in her sleep.
*goes to an electronics store*


Wednesday, December 17, 2014

I need to stop!

When did life and people become so complicated?

I just watched a movie that made me rethink everything I ever do with my phone.

I'm on my phone ALL the time. More or less, unless I am making a physical effort to engage with the people I am with. I'm shit at multitasking, and yet I have managed to deceive myself that I can talk and whatsapp at the same time. I really can't. (I also shouldn't drive and whatsapp at the same time...and yet, I do it on a daily. I really need to stop)

Anyhue. I've even made a career out of being on my phone the whole time. But I think I'm going to relax on that phone story a little bit. I've been trying to actually - Wolverine used to complain constantly about it, and I didn't realize what a shit person (slash robot who is always on their phone) I was being until it was being done to me.

I hate it when people are talking to me and looking at their phones. What happened to looking at my boobs? They're RL, you know. (Real Life) But I do it all the time. And I need to stop.

Also, did we see that? I have BOOBS. Look at those, for Pete's sake. Or my face. Or my mother's eyes. Anything but my phone.
It really is antisocial networking. OMG I'VE SPENT HALF OF MY LIFE ON MY PHONE BUILDING ONLINE RELATIONSHIPS AND IGNORING THE ONES IN FRONT OF ME. I'm sorry mom lol jk but seriously. Gaaaaah.

Maybe it just becomes more complicated when there are feelings attached. I have always said true friendship is when you two can sit in a room and just be on your phones without talking because you don't have to - which is basically saying, a, you don't have to work at a relationship anymore because it is already pretty much built, and b, comfortable silences have been replaced with the sound of tapping keys - but is it really?

Look at my face. I'll look at yours because it's beautiful and life is beautiful and we shouldn't be looking down all the time.

It's rude.


Thursday, December 4, 2014

Plain Jane

Maybe I'm not female.

I mean, I look there and I see all the parts are right (more or less, and of course, if we are talking about sex as opposed to gender, but that is a whole different story) (also I just wrote words in that sentence without looking at the keyboard, which is a dream of mine that I will one day fulfill at a respectable number of words per minute, just like my father's secretary when I was 9) (and that WHOLE LAST SENTENCE! Slowly. :D :D :D ). All the parts are right, yes, but there are some things that I see that feel, not right.

For example. I like boys. Most of the time. Men, even, more nowadays than before. But will I make an effort to get them to like me? Sometimes. More often than not, though, nowadays, I resort to the guy way - ie manipulation instead of seduction.

You see, I am the type of chick who if it is cold and I am going to the rave, I will be in a sweater and probably order tea. This isn't sexy (unless you're British or 60 years old). I'm the type of chick to just confess confess ovyo ovyo to emotions instead of playing hard to get because it takes too much energy and why play games when you could be doing valuable, fun stuff like making out? Which kills the chase. Or something. So I'm told.

Why is this manipulation? Why do you think people (most people) agonize over telling someone whether they like them or not - or even worse, someone telling them that they like them when they do not feel the same? Because then you have to think of what to say back. Human beings are programmed to reciprocate, even when they don't feel the same. Our automatic answer to 'thank you' is 'you're welcome' not 'don't ever borrow my shit again you two-faced bitch' (which, to be fair, sometimes, it should be). Our automatic response - or rather, the response we want to get when we say those three words - is 'I love you too.'

Not silence.
Or staring.
Or two ticks.

Because no one wants to really make people feel bad (except for sociopaths and an 8th grade math teacher - Mr. W, or he who shall not be named). And you generally want people to feel good about themselves, and feel good around you, and/or not stop loving you.
So you say it back.
So when I say 'I really like you. We should make out.'
Usually, the response is 'Yes!' if they want to, or 'uh...sure' if they don't. Win for me.
Woo! Tangent. So where was I?
This post is going to go on a while. I can see it coming.

I was saying I am not the type to put in effort. There are exceptions to the rule, of course (unless you've seen me naked, in which case it's downhill from here. Which, again, win for me. :D) What do I define as effort?

Oh Lord. Anything that has to be done in a salon, involves heat and/or tanning beds, really short shorts, barsexuality, wax or pretense in the face of a complete lack of humour (unless I'm being a wingwoman, in which case there is social capital being obtained, mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha).
Which brings me to today's point.
I can't stand spas.

Honestly, I've tried.
I've gone to a couple to rid myself of this unfeminine trait, but quite frankly, I can't. They aren't havens of rest and relaxation. They are places to throw money to have someone feel you up without feeling guilty about it. Ok maybe not, but still, I hate massages. It's just painful. Can't we X-ray wellness into me or something? Bikram yoga? Which is still quite the workout but you see it is different when it is self-inflicted and I'm sure the heat does something for you to reduce the pain, no? When someone's little hands are trying to tear you apart tendon by tendon, how is that even remotely relaxing?
The answer is, it is not. Humans just like pain. When people feel pain, they think their remedies are working. No one trusts a sweet-tasting cough syrup or a cheap good looking watch. THAT'S WHY EVERYONE BOUGHT THE CREAMY ICKY-A-F SCOTT'S EMULSION INSTEAD OF THE ORANGE ONE. (*shivers* that thing was AWFUL)
And then, waxing. I...I just can't. For why? For what? For who?
And then, last but not least...manis and pedis.

I mean, come on. You let someone near these delicate parts of your body with tiny little metal appliances that look like something from a dentist's office, and it's supposed to be a pleasant experience?
Unfortunately (until today) I forgot that I don't like manis (OR HER LITTU FRIEEEENDS). I was talking Mi Madre on a date and decided, because Rupu told me so, that this Gel Manicure and Pedicure would be a deal. Spend a little money, spend some quality time with the one who gave me life funded by another one she gave life. Once more - winning.

We walked in and it was a bad idea from the get. The sulky staff at Maya's Spa barely acknowledged our existence (or the appointment I had made for 11 am). It wasn't until 11:20 that anything got going as we sat and twiddled our thumbs. Mi Madre was getting angry in like the first five minutes (I can't wait till I am too old to care about stupid people's emotions). She was (but in nicer language) After we had been sitting staring at them, asking who was doing our nails, wondering out loud what the hell everyone in the store was doing sitting down, was when one of the nail guys lackadaisically walks into work late and then the other ladies start to, oh, go find the nail polishes (Colours They Use to distract you from their true, fiendish aims), oh, the gel sijui what. When you know the torture that is coming your way and then your torturers look like they don't care about whether to use a blunt or sharp instrument, man, it does NOT inspire faith. Especially when they start joking about the weekend and using the nail file on their own hands (Big Scary Thing they use to BREAK YOU DOWN TO THEIR WILL).

It was ridiculously slow ridiculously bad service. I tweeted them as well on @mayaskenya
At the time of going to press, they have not tweeted back (and this manicure is already starting to irritate me). A couple of things irritated me, aside from them trying to feebly mend bridges with barely veiled attempts to get us to come back -
1. The guy ordered lunch and put it on the towel next to my nails. I know I have no standards, burram...
2. I was with my MOTHER, for Pete's sake. No respect for older people? Or, you know, people? know...customers? Damn.
3. It's a gel MANI and pedi. Not a gel MANI AND PEDI. Ha.
3. I'm supposed to go BACK to have this gel shit removed, ati, because, ati pulling it off will ruin my nail. I don't think I'm going back. And some of it is on my skin. As in? They bowl me over with their enthusiasm then trap me for more with their gel baby?

Guys, this gel is coming off by itself or not at all. Jesus will return and he'll pick me out from the crowd coz my nails will be a-twinkiling. Like his chariot, nininini.
Females, why? Camaaaaaan.

*checks parts*
*still female*
*not loyal to spas*


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

On women, on life

I went swimming today.

It was sunny. The Archangel and I had been waiting for a sunny day.

So we went to the pool - I won't tell you where - and changed into our swimming costumes - we had already changed in the house, so it was a simple matter of removing layers.

I swam two laps.

We're supposed to be trying to be fit - but I've been unfit for too long to start all gung-ho with 50 laps. But 30 beckons, and my muffin top has to go (or so it was described the other day, much to my secret mortification).

I looked at all the men at the swimming pool. When we walked in, there were more men than ladies.

I looked at the cute one who looked like he'd just walked in from work, left his laptop bag in the car and carried this version of a gym one.

I looked at the happy, chubby one who struck up a conversation - maybe for motivation and company, you know those people who talk to everyone everywhere - with the Archangel after she did a beautiful lap of butterfly. Would it be him?

I tried to be as aloof yet not rude as possible to the lifeguard who asked me if I's already swum. Aloof because don't encourage them...not rude because you might need them soon. Like touts. Or not.

The thin one who came late and I thought I could take on easy if anything went down - he was thinner than my unfit thigh - and his friend who looked like he would be the one pulling him off from ripping at my clothes.

The anxious one who seemed to be being brow beaten into this pursuit of a six pack. Would the beaten become the beater?

The fully dressed man sitting next to the lifeguard who addressed me, talking in vernacular. I wondered what he was saying. Was he talking about me? Or what he wanted to do to me? Then I thought, maybe segregated swimming wasn't such a bad idea. The Romans? May have gotten it right.

I looked at them all and weighed them. Watched if they came too close to me or her. Don't underestimate. And run. Carve out a path of their blood and yours if you must - get away.
Because I am not safe. And you, you with the vagina over there? You're not safe either.
Public places aren't safe. Private places aren't safe. Your private places are not safe. Not private.
I am always weighing.

I thought about what to do if they attacked me. To run? To scream? To wait to be overpowered and hope that your cooperation will make it go faster? (as if in a robbery. And they are taking something that is not theirs, true.)
Would I fight back? Could I? Would I be scared to? Because aggravating the situation would leave me dead instead of 'just' molested, and that's better, in foresight/hindsight?

Am I to lay low every day? When I am walking in town, should I stare at my feet walking - and only my feet - scared to face this world that loves anything with a slit between its legs - loves far too much? Crosses the line to hate? To ugliness?

Should I carry a blunt knife in my bag ready to castrate someone knowing that there is a risk that they may castrate me instead? Follow me home to do so when I am coming from a pool I do not list on my blog because of fear? Will what he castrates bleed onto an Embassava stage sidewalk and the people filming and the Matatu Owners Association will do nothing?

Am I to carry pepper spray, maybe, which is illegal - but anyone would rather be at a police station facing charges for possession of illegal substances (because pepper spray is illegal, and women have no choices anymore) than reporting an assault. My sexual assault.

Sexual assault - our culture. When you're in primary school and boys can touch you and when you tell the teacher, he touches you too and laughs.

Sexual assault - when your ex can come to your house, barge in and refuse to leave even after you ask him to; because he knows that you cannot physically throw him out. Someone else - someone male - has to do it. Because a woman saying no is nothing.

Sexual assault - when your neighbour asks to come into your house to wait for a ride, then asks for a ride in your bed, and when you say no, he asks why not - as if YOU owe HIM an explanation about why YOU do not want to share YOUR body.

Sexual assault - when you are in a matatu and a drunk man is sleeping on your shoulder. When you move in protest and he wakes up, eyeballing and eyebanging you, threatening you because you moved, telling you he would have taught you a lesson, if not for the fact that you are properly dressed.

Are you nodding? Are you nodding? Are you screaming inside?

Sexual assault - when the church who is supposed to be on the side of right - when the politicians who you elected, 47 or so of whom are women - when the men who it would appear are the only form of protection we have because women do not own their bodies or a voice and some men will only listen to another man, continue to allow the attacks online and in the streets, watching, filming, pointing, laughing, cheering, quiet, and thus perpetuate our culture of stripping and rape and molestation and dehumanization of an ENTIRE SPECIES - keep silent.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

TV lessons

I had my first TV interview yesterday night and let me tell you something: they never tell you anything before you go on air.

Dude, first, my phone died and I was late and there was traffic so I couldn't find parking so I panicked and parked way too far from the studio and then I panicked even more because no one was watching my car so I was freaking out because someone's laptop was stolen from my car the week before...

So I was a little late (ie 10 minutes as opposed to Kenya late, ie an hour) and I was immediately mic'd and put on air. I was NOT ready. They had not ati told me what to wear, or...what they were going to ask...I didn't have like a dressing room where I could throw a Mariah Carey level bitch fit...nothing, guys!

Anyway so I went on air and I thought it went well. I also thought I looked a smidge nervous but I thought I answered the questions ok and stuff...

Then when I came out...

I was informed that my sweat patches were also very present and answering questions during the interview.
Cue absolute and total mortification and a rabid rewatching of the clip over and over again to figure out how to photoshop that ish AWAY??
That's one thing they don't tell you. That the studio thinks it is a beach and must therefore provide beach-like temperatures (Kenya beach as opposed to everywhere else beach, ie SUPER BEACH) which will then cause you to sweat all over your grey tee and onto screens worldwide.

Whoop! Mummy, my armpits are famous!


Wednesday, October 22, 2014

News and New Things

There's a weird kind of getting used to people part of new relationships with anyone when they start. Like, when you came screaming out of your mother's vagina, that was you acclimatizing to the fact that life will not always be a warm, cushy, jacuzzi-like setting (oh, how life lessons start early) and your momma ain't always going to have your umbilical cord - uh, back. Not because she doesn't want to, but I mean, you did just rip her apart. No?

Even with friends, it is weird. You don't know how much you should care. Whether to ask about their bipolar sister. To inquire if they are fat or pregnant. How their really hot cousin is. Their truthful opinion on Michael Jackson (look, for me, a friendship can end right there. Please say anything to my face about MJ that I don't like to watch our amity dissolve and bloooow in the wiiiiind). You don't know what to say. How to react when they're mad. What to get them for their 2 and a half month relationship anniversary, or indeed whether you should get them anything at all, and should it be something related to the theme of the party that they just invited you to.

Even with relationships, there is a formula that needs to be, in the words of my dear cousin on Dear Doris, calibrated. Two people have to calibrate themselves to each other. And this is probably the most uncomfortable, no? Like...those delicate questions that really show what a horrible person you are and have people screaming for the hills. Questions you pee in the shower? What's your honest opinion on anal? (the sex questions are ALL awkward. Especially any that involve bleeding from a snatch)/ Are you a cuddler? A tickler? A moaner? A screamer? (or infinitely more frightening - a silent, serial killer type of lover) If we go to a restaurant, can you eat nuts or will you swell up and die, thus taking the crown for Worst. Date. Ever.? Do you like to kick kittens like I do? Are you into that whole let's share toothbrushes thing? And do you identify with that deep, deep satisfaction that comes from mining out a booger deep, deep in the crevices of your nasal cavity? Wait, where are you going? Hey! Heeey! You didn't pay your bill!

New things are uncomfortable. Some snarky adaptable guy once said that change is the only constant and unfortunately, that is true. I have gone through a lot of changes lately (funny, my last post was about change too) (or not funny. Maybe tunnel vision.) (Tunnel buddies. Raaaaawrrrr.) (No?). I moved house...I've been burgled twice...changed jobs...the list is not long, but it does have a few heavy hitters that got me writing this post (guys, when someone steals your laptop and you write for a living, sometimes, it kills you inside.)

I have found the answer to dealing with change. Silver Linings (PLAYBOOK!). When your laptop is stolen, look at it as an opportunity to shop for that shiny upgrade you always wanted. No money for that? Show a little support for Koinange Street. Hustle. Find a way. Power through. When your heart is broken, tell yourself that all that unprotected sex was a bad idea anyway (lol, JK. Mostly. I mean...your genits are yours to herpify with. Do you.). When your boss is being an idiot...quit. The only person responsible for your happiness is yourself, and life is far too short and full of potential misery to not grab it when you can (now, THAT's what they should teach in high school). Unless you have kids. Then you can't quit. Because you're responsible for their happiness. Sorry. LOL.

I felt to share a few of the new things that happened to me this month:

For one thing, they have increased the cost of transaction on the Buy Goods function at petrol stations from 2 to 3 bob. WHAT SORCERY?
Also, nowadays, in town, you can Lipa na Mpesa on a bodaboda. Whose idea was this anyway? Mpesa is the past present and future. Bow down, b*s.

THE 3 Rs
Rest, Rejuvenate and RECYCLE. Or something. I'm going to go back to the old school and buy glass bottles of soda from now on. When I buy plastic bottles, that I am going to throw away anyway because you can't use them again because sijui cancer sijui sunlight reactions, I don't feel like I am helping the world. SO. Glass/sand thaaangs from now on.

And if I am sijui at a fast food place where we have to rush out, I'll just sip everyone else's soda if they don't have botis hehe. Make THEM the bad guy. Or carry my own water. Basically, NOT contribute to leaving a legacy of myself behind that will be waaaaayyy more detrimental (and last waaaaahaaaahaahaaaayyyy longer than, like, my bones) to the future. You know, the one with robots. Who they should make eat plastic. I like this plan.

has added new things to their menu and it is making me excited. Even though it shouldn't be. Like the guy who's been loooooking at you the entire party who is cute but is making absolutely NO moves and then waits until you're leaving to be like, 'Hey.' You brush him n* you SAW me here the WHOLE time...psssshhh...but you're still excited as you stalk past him in a cloud of indignation and assurance that you're still attractive, and he's just slow, thank Jesus.
Java and I have a love-hate thing going on where I cheat often and tell them that I'm cheating...but always end up coming back. Sigh. Someday I'll wean myself of you, Lithium, with your overpriced burgers and inconsistent food quality. Someday. But for today? (ok, this week...) That strawberry chicken salad thing they've got going on? I'm. So. Ready.


P.S. Ndiransh, my love, I miss you. Come back to me. Warm my heart with the warmth of your witty words and wily whisperings.

P. P. S. While we're on that new tip, Samsung gave bloggers TVs and the one who wins gives away the TV to someone and I want that someone to be me. So go check out this ka-blogger and share and like and facebook...because I want a new TV, obviously. It's the #Samsung Blogger Challenge. Tweet with it. And stuff. And. Yeah. So. TV. Get on it.
I'll, like, do something too. Flash a boob, maybe. Who knows?

Friday, August 15, 2014


it's funny how money changes situations
miscommunication leads to complications

It's funny how life changes too.
My life is so different from what it was when I finished university. I thought it hadn't changed much. In some cases (like in Wolverine's case) I am glad it hasn't changed too much. In others, I am extremely glad that I am smarter than I thought I was.

I have ditched jobs I hated, or jobs I thought were ok, for jobs I loved. I have worked just for the money - things I never thought I would do (because, duh. All the movies say that is a terrible idea), which I am, surprisingly, still doing in some aspects of my career (job trajectory? Shit I do for rent? I don't know). I have also ditched bosses I loved for the ability to sleep as much as my seemingly 40 year old body needs to. One is curious about what I will actually be doing at 40.

I have ditched belief systems I thought I had for ones I thought I was already living. I was reminded of this today, when after a (very important) meeting (that made me shower and get out of the house), I met a friend of mine.

Well, he is not a friend. We go to the same church. He used to be the bad boy that all the church mamas keep their innocent (not so innocent) children away from. He always hugged to close. Had the look in his eye. Had the thing in his walk like he was carrying something heavy that he wanted to share.

Now, he is the one trying to convince me of salvation.

I wonder if I was like that during my saved phase? I don't remember. His life makes a good testimony towards what he so clearly believes in so much now - from what I can see, anyway.
I wonder when I changed so much?


Saturday, July 26, 2014

Crushing Season

He's young.

I don't think it never has in the past. Others have been young. And they were still good kissers.

We talk almost every day. I tell Wolverine that I am talking to him. He knows. I don't know if I am validating that I am or trying to be as open as I can about the fact that we talk every day. Not almost every day.

He looks cute in the picture. And he likes my legs (but wants 5 kids so we know that isn't going anywhere). Doesn't make him less cute in the picture, though.

I wonder what he wants. I think I know what he wants.
I wonder if he's going to say it.
I'm pretty sure I know what I want.


Friday, July 18, 2014


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

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

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

But I CANNOT with this song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to the bush. Have a pleasant flight.

If you, like, deserve it.

lyrics courtesy of

Thursday, July 17, 2014

The Lion King

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

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

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

So anyway...
new crush new crush falalalalala

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

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

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


Wednesday, July 9, 2014

On Crazy Women, 2

I'm still aliiiiiiive!

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


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

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

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

Have you clicked?

Did you read it?


Just go.

It's not long.

I'm lying, it is.

A little.

Just go, AH!

Good boy.

So, anyway, the chick in that blog?

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

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

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



Thursday, July 3, 2014

On Crazy Women

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings me to the point of my post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Am I a literary hoax?

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

This is the blog from the Storymoja blog this week.

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

I can’t seem to get past page 3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...originally posted here.


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

Monday, June 2, 2014

On the word FUCK

Guess what?

This post has cussing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So at this point...FUCK IT.


Thursday, May 22, 2014

Film: Endless Love

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

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

But those are just details. Aaaanyhue...

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

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

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


Wednesday, May 14, 2014


I sometimes buy things - ok, I like to pretend I buy things a lot based on advertisements. The things in my house are there because I have been buying them for years, not because of their adverts. But, if I WAS buying things based on their adverts, then I would be...buying things based on NICE adverts.

Just an example: Nice adverts are anything that was made before CD-ROMS (haha) like the MILO Champion advert, the Tusker Baada ya Kazi advert (oohlalala oohlalala oohlalala oohlalalaOOH) and the Knorr soup advert (which I actually don't remember ever watching. knows?)

BAD adverts are the one like the Indomie advert (um...seriously??), the Safaricom watching sijui football on your phone in the middle of nowhere advert (because seriously. WHO does that? LIKE THAT? Aki and they have money) and that ATROCIOOUS Soko Ugali Malaika mash up.

Now that that's out of the way.

I busted the conspiracy. The only reason why Doom (probably) sells more is because yes, it is a trusted brand that has been there for years, but also because its ads are (kinda) funny. Louis the Pest is practically a historical character and should be written down in Kenyan chronicles next to Tusker and Nyamabite.

Also, when agencies are advertising, even if they are the monopoly (#EABL), they still have to consistently remind you that they exist so that you keep buying them - whether you are going to buy them anyway or not (a la Safaricom's super emotional commercials. To be fair...I get super emotional about my network services. And whatsapp. And bundles. Basically, if I had a lighter...).

But Doom is NOT a monopoly. There are a lot of other pesticides to kill insects with. Like Bolt - terrible advertisement with that chick of Tahidi High, ei, sema downgrade, Baygon (which everyone forgot exists. Do they even still make it??) and...other ones. But the one I found the other day (YES, I KNOW IT'S ALWAYS BEEN THERE) is RAID.

Now. Raid, I believe, is to Doom what the Daily Nation was to the Standard when they started out. Doom was the first one, the shiny one, the new kid on the block. Then it became the old not-hip-with-it man on the block. Then Nation popped up and haemorrhaged money until they were at the top. TA-DA! (Don't go to school kids, grab the nearest millionaire)

Raid is at the stage where people (i.e. ME) are slowly starting to discover that DOOM IS A LIE and RAID IS THE TRUTH. Sure, they don't advertise much. BUT IT WORKS.
It's time for Raid to rise from the ashes. I'll be here spreading the gospel.

Don't worry, Raid. I gotchu.

Friday, May 2, 2014

The D

It would seem that budgeting stays being a problem for my unemployed (yet perfectly happy soul).

Why, just yesterday was a holiday, and I spent it doing exactly what I would do most days anyway.
Every day is a holiday in my life, and I love it.
I can do pretty much what I want (except for those things that I have to do to pay the rent. But really, everything is a choice, right? If you don't want to pay the rent, you don't have to. Like I always say, the only things you have to do are stay black and die, unless you're Michael Jackson or Jesus), which, I might add, involves a LOT of sleep, because, guys, like 50% of the reason I quit is because of my deeply focused need to sleep.

I get cranky if I don't get at least 8 hours, and even then, it depends on, like, the weather, to see if I will actually make it through. 10 hours is optimum.

So back to budgeting. What happened was, I had this phone that I bought in Dec '12 (that feels like it was like 3 years ago. Or something. Why is time moving so fast? How are we already in MAY, guise?). From day ONE it was giving me drama, but I was so excited about my transition into the symbian world (yes, that is when I was transitioning. I'm an emotional hoarder. Sue me.) that I didn't care. I was all 'Oh GLORY! I'm on WHATSAPP! I MATTER!'. Much like everyone at the start of a semi-abusive pseudo-fulfilling relationship.

On we went until the phone just decided, by the way, zi. It was a Nokia, right? And in my head, they still make Nokias like they used to. So no matter how many times I dropped it, wherever I dropped it (that's a story for another day), it would still come back alive. Kicking, maybe not so much. I mean, sure, sometimes it would hang. Ok, most times. And sure, he needed about 5 minutes to get up and running. (:D) But I was fine with that. I was a patient lover, and if my lover was getting senile, all it meant was that I could officially change his will and get all his loot, amirite?

Then, suddenly, letters stopped working. Many letters. Like, the backspace button, the enter button, the w, the p, the s, the x, the shift button for capitalizing...lemme tell you, my messages started looking like coder language (is that what it's called? my major WASN'T IT, can you tell?). My Ws became double vs (vv), my Ss became $, all in the interest of trying to get creative enough to get the message across. I mean, imagine writing this sentence without all those letters.:

imagine vvriting thi$ $entence vvithout all tho$e letters (and you can't make a mistake, because every time you do, you have to start over. DUDE.)

I knew it was over. Especially when I couldn't do one of my favourite smileys:

Because I couldn't shift (capitalize) my d.
And that D is very important to me.

It was time for a breakup.
The upgrade was a sleek Sony that I just couldn't get my hands around - no, really. This smart phone tomfoolery is irritating. I don't like the little buzz it makes when you press the screen. I don't like the silence, either. I wan't the CLICK, damnit. A KEYPAD. I don't like auto correct. I have big fingers so I stay pressing 4 letters. WHERE ARE THE FUNCTIONAL SMART PHONES WITH A TOUCH SCREEN AND A QWERTY KEYPAD?...and an 8 MP camera, and your answer is, for 6 million dollars, nowhere. The Sony had its own dramas (like a tiny, slow memory...I stay picking the senile ones. But that may have been as a result of what I think was a virus in the mem card), so that was eventually ditched for a Tecno, and now, I can smile again. My wallet isn't smiling too hard though, because there go all my Art Caffe dates (this, apparently, was the point of this post. Go figure.) Let's see how long this will last...

:D :D :D


Tuesday, April 15, 2014


During the absence, I have been busy writing bad prose, not selling it, writing okay prose, selling that, ignoring the caretaker at my building (and the sounds from my car) and generally trying to be superwoman.

Apparently, being a freelancer does NOT mean sitting around the house all day, laid out languidly on your couch, laughing at sitcoms and longing for an inheritance. #allTheAlliteration

More on that later...

Wednesday, February 26, 2014


There is a whole lot to write about this week, it would seem.

I think it is because I have mad deadlines - I have SO MUCH WORK, so I am suffering through the I-want-to-do-everything-BUT-work syndrome.
It's terrible.

And my internet is slow. So even psyching up to do whatever I wanna do... *sigh* AND I'm leaving so I have stopped caring. Stupid internet.

Anyhue, so this short post is about the freaky god of karma.

So I was at the club, right? (say in Valley Girl accent) And then we were walking to the bar to buy, like, tequilas, and then, like, I saw this note on the ground and I was like, zomg, MONEY! So I pick it up and try to hand it to the guy who it was next to - but then my girl SMACKS my hand down with a whisper of death and says 'wtf you think you doing, boo?' And I was all, whaaaat? And she was like, 'keep it moving, booboo. He wouldn't have noticed anyway...' so, I like, totally kept it moving.

So the (drunk) guy noticed that we were trying to give him money, and then he was like, no, that's my money, I'll buy you a drink, and my friend was all, huh? What are you talking about? Then his (drunk) friend was like, whatever, let them have it.

3 shots, one cab ride and a weekend later...

I went to the atm, right? And it gave me money which I didn't bother to check, right? So then the next day on a Monday when I AM checking it...




Tuesday, February 25, 2014

The L Word

So, what's happening is, I am learning how to drive.

I mean, I have a license and everything; I have had one for years. I am not sure why they gave it to me, because I knew and they knew that I couldn't drive, for a number of reasons:
1. I was taught to drive in vernacular, as soon as my instructor found out we came from the same village. My vernacular isn't bad. Just not Driving School Worthy.
2. I couldn't actually start the car during my driving test. The cop started to side eye me. Then he threatened me and the fear of failure made the car start and move - for about 2 metres, which, as you know from how much I can't drive, is a measure of just how NOT a driving test that was.

That aside...there's the slight issue that roundabouts make me a lil' nervous, and stationary objects feel the need to jump onto my path (#Clueless). AND MATATUS. As in?

I am practising, currently, increasing the alacrity of my middle finger - i.e. how fast I can flip someone off, putting my lights on full at idiots (SO many idiots) and, you know, NOT driving onto sidewalks (I seem to have a tendency to shy away from other cars...onto the pavement).
I am also debating whether or not to get an L sign. Because I feel like people treat Ls badly. But they'll be nicer. Right?
Either way, I have my finger.

What was awesome, though, was seeing my mom's car and chasing after her to say hi. She's never seen me drive (without fearing for her life in the seat next to me). #proudMoments (until she said she wants to trade cars. She has a manual. I was taught in vernacular on a manual. We all know how this story ends.)

Also...I didn't use my license for so long, it gathered mold.
I can get a new one, right?

Monday, February 24, 2014

Why are men so...

The scenario:

Getting into a lift with 2 older men, 1 who is trying to not be distracted by youthful cleavage and so is making SUPER unnecessary conversation.

A: You mean you are still alive?
B: What do you mean?
A: You haven't died?
B: You can clearly see that I have not died.
A: Your day has not yet come?
B: will come when it comes.
A: Yes, it will. So, when are we coming to bring cows? We will bring them all, just pay for the girl at once!


*door opens*
*tSN flees*

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Couples Therapy

OMG guys. Sooooo bored at work.
May fall asleep mid post.


So Wolverine and I got a spa thingy thing that entailed a massage for an hour.
First of all, I don't like massages. I don't get them. I think they are painful and slightly unnecessary, and if you do not have an injury, then they will cause one. No?

So we get into the spa, and get into the disposable underwear that they give you when they want to let you keep your sensibilities hidden. W couldn't believe that they didn't have disposable boxers. He was like...'you know, chicks are used to this. This feels weird for me. Maybe they gave me the wrong ones? Maybe they gave me the chick ones.'

His robe also seemed to belong in the female department. It was, like short, and didn't wrap around his entire body.
I think it was a conspiracy. They saw his muscles and wanted more.

We get onto the bed things with the calming music playing et al and they push down our robes to RIGHT WHERE THE BUTT CRACK HAS ALREADY BEGUN. I'm like...what was the point of the underwear? And are they looking at his butt crack too?

Then the massage begins and it's I expected...and then all of a sudden...I get this intense desire to fart.

I can't fart now, right? I mean, the smell will intermingle with the ginger sijui eucalyptus in the air and then people will definitely notice the new addition.
So like a good girl, I hold it in.

Then, the girl who's giving me the massage? Her tummy growls, and I start inventing a life for her, like, oh, poor thing, giving a massage at lunch time, she must be so hungry...

Then I lose focus and I know. The Kraken.

It was a tiny one to be fair. Didn't even stink. But I was MORTIFIED. I mean, the room was silent, and she must have noticed.
What was I supposed to do? Apologize? Ignore it? Burst out laughing? Stalk out?

I tried to tell myself that people must do it all the time, right? Coz they get so relaxed, apparently, that everything - literally - just lets go, right? It's probably a sign that they did good, right?


She kept asking if I was comfortable. I was wondering if it was code for YOU FLATULENT HEIFER!

When we were leaving, she asked me how it was. I said 'OMG SO GREAT! I TOTES FELL ASLEEP!'
In my head, she would construe that as I farted in my sleep, not on purpose.


Thursday, February 6, 2014

Film: Wolf of Wall Street

starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Margot Robbie and Jonah Hill

In a truly surprising turn of events, The Wolf of Wall Street was banned last week from cinemas. The hypocrisy is amusing, seeing as Kama Sutra and other ilk have been shown at cinemas before, and we are the nation who allowed the ‘6 movies 1 ticket’ phenomenon to continue for years.

What is the ultimate surprise for me, is that WWS is not actually that filthy. Sure, there’s a lot of sex, but I don’t find it above and beyond a movie that is about the excesses of humanity. In fact, it’s almost comedic; what Quentin Tarantino does with violence, Martin Scorsese does with sex.

Granted, it is not for the religious or the faint hearted, but banning it? I thought it was a bit much. Especially considering that it has already been in the cinemas for at least 2 weeks.

WWS is the tale of Jordan Belfort, who is a young and na├»ve stockbroker seeing to make it in the world until Wall Street takes him in and spits him out. A quick and amusing scene with Matthew McConaughey introduces him to the lifestyle, and he becomes a complete degenerate who somehow, in a drug induced haze, still manages to become a millionaire from stealing poor people’s money (an aspect that they did not show nearly enough - dude stole millions upon millions from po' folk)). Jonah Hill manages to be serious and hilarious at the same time.

I was underwhelmed by the ending, and even more so when I found out that the real like Belfort still has not paid back all the money he stole, regardless of the fact that he made a cool million from selling the film rights. He even had a cameo in the movie. Hm.

Was it a good movie? I thought it was ok. Interesting? Yes. Long? Yes. Oscar-worthy?
You tell me. my opinion, Leo should have gotten an Oscar for Django, if at all.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014


'Will you hate me forever if I leave?'


'Forever, ever, or just till next week?'


'Ok, you know no one is capable of hating someone forever.'

'Wanna find out?'

I think my boss is taking my resignation personally.

Monday, January 13, 2014

Unwise decisions

I've been making a lot of these lately.

Or rather, I've been making more within a shorter period of time than usual, which leads to less recovery time from general stupidity, which leads to a lot more pain from consequences that could have just been stretched out slowly.

Let me explain.

It seemed like a good idea at the time to go to the rave on a night before a day I had work...but I figured...I'd leave early or something. (how does that never ever happen? I need to stop lying to myself that I, who does not have a car, can leave when I want to leave. Never happens. Never will. Until my car. Which is a story for another day. Anyway...) Which I didn't.

The second unwise decision was deciding that I didn't need money at the club, because my bazonkas should do the trick, right? WRONG. I went out with my cousins, who are not in the least interested in my bazonkas, or hydrating said bazonkas, or the body attached. Ok, well, lemme rephrase that. Usually, famrave means famdrinking but sijui ilikuwa mid-month. So I ended up spending money I shouldn't have spent...sigh. This needs to stop being the story of my life.

Anyhue...because of these 2 unwise decisions, I ended up at work, sleepy out of my MIND, having to put in a 7 hour shift which included sounding coherent for multiple interviews. Hot. DAMN.

Now, small unwise decisions bring my eyes to huuuuge unwise decisions that I feel like I am making every day...and whining about consistently (no, really. Literally, consistently.). The major one at the mo is that I FUCKING HATE MY JOB. Ok, I don't FUCKING HATE IT, I probably, like, fucking hate it.

Ok, maybe I don't hate it.
But it is DEFINITELY not something I want to do for the rest of this year.
Or month.
Or week.
Maybe hour. I can probably do this hour (praise Jesus, my shift is about to end)

It is making me question many things about myself (unfortunately, I feel a lot like Lena Dunham in Girls, when she is having a quarter life crisis about not having done anything particularly meaningful in her life except being groped by her boss. I haven't been groped by my boss. He is cute though, so I would only mind on a principle based - read Wolverine - level), such as:
1. Am I really a genius?
2. If I am, why am I here? Doing these distinctly UNgenius-like activities?
3. Am I such a slave to my rent that I have to keep doing this thing that I hate so very much? (ok, not so very much. It's just tedious and annoying...not ati hard. Just draining. I sit at computers all day and feel my brain seeping out and leaking all over my damn keyboard.)
4. Am I weak? Can't I hold down a damn job for the sake know...whatever that thing it is that adults need to do with their money? (I mean rent. I think I mean rent. Also, angst and passive aggression sure make me cuss a lot. I feel like there's and angry little Irish man in my head. LOL. Heeeey, Seamus.)
5. Am I an adult now? Is this what they do? I DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS.
6. Or am I just being idealistic? (AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Guess what song just came on? WORK BITCH. Everything is a sign. I am so tired.) Ati you can love your job...ati you don't have to go through hardship...ati it's easier when you're doing something you love. (aaaah, they're blocking out all the bitches. THAT'S HALF THE FREAKIN TITLE. CAMAAAAAAAAN.)
*sad face*

I need to get lucky. *cue Pharrell, either the song Get Lucky, or him suddenly being fascinated with Kenyan pseudo-artists and deciding to fund my life because I am tooooo cooooool*


Thursday, January 9, 2014

On idiots, movies, and idiots who should NOT be in charge of movies

Dear Century Cinemax,

Your Tuesday offer is stupid.

You know, the one where you tell me that if I buy a ticket, I also get popcorn and a hotdog and a soda free.

Whoop de do.

Because I know you are stupid, I will outline exactly why you are stupid. Because I am sure you don't know.

1. I am Kenyan. No way in hell am I going to come to Junction to pay for an offer that is THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY BOB at Sarit for the exact same thing. 250 without the snacks. Yes, on Tuesday. Who you think I is, Paris Hilton? Timely movies? Whatevs (think DVD guy, and it'll get to Sarit eventually. Like, a day after. Seriously.). More convenient? Um, no. I don't live in Karen so Junction is NOT convenient. Better screen? Ha. Same size, worse popcorn. Ok, I think popcorn sucks anyway. Which brings me to number 2.

2. Popcorn sucks. Unless it's caramel corn. Which, by the way, is NOT in the offer. WHICH, BY THE WAY, IS NOT AN OFFER. Which, by the way is 400 bob at IMAX. Did you know that? Caramel corn is 400 bob at IMAX.

400 bob.

That's two beers.

Or, how much I use on bus fare in 4 days.

But I digress.

3. I can't buy a ticket without the special? So, ALL tickets that are sold have to be special tickets? So I have absolutely no choice in the matter? You guys...that's stupid.

4. You feel like it makes sense for this to be the special? Soda (chock full of sugar) - yes, I am going Badventist on you - badly made popcorn that gets stuck in your teeth and an uninventive snack stuck between a split roll of stale bread - all of which you aren't handing out a free gym subscription with to work off?

Basically, guys, you are encouraging unhealthy eating, my high blood pressure, diabetes, hypertension, litter and obesity.

That feel smart to you?