There's never really a right time or a right way to say...
I've moved to a website.
So...posts here are going to be super sporadic and probably copy pasted.
So what I am saying is move your views, lol, so that riches and fame follow me.
I'm good with just riches. Hehe.
I have been thinking of how to say it.
For some reason - probably because this was my second home but felt more homey than my first one, on Wordpress - it's been hard for me to write this post. I've been distracted and lacking words to say how deeply attached I am to this tiny bit of a universe that exists only in a space dominated by binary digits and things I don't understand because I never cared for programming...but the part I understood is that this meant something important to me.
I feel hesitant to leave it behind. This place, and the new one, means growth, I suppose, and progress, as movement is supposed to - but I've never been good with change and moving on. You know that phrase that says everything I have ever let go of has claw marks on it? This post...my claw marks.
Change scares me. And is me at the same time. Survival scares me more. Because the 'fittest' is so very relative and I always feel like I fall short - I am too lazy to be fit and exercise is almost never fun. Adulthood is a lie perpetuated by people who enjoy the company i.e. misery - much like the myth of a biological clock and parts of religion, but unfortunately, an unfortunate reality. Progress. Growth. Change. Survival. I keep telling it to myself to see if my mind will accept it - my heart may never.
I'm anxious for this to work out. I'm anxious to hold on to this and wondering if I can let go - pained, because I've let go of so much already.
Let's see how this works out.
Till next time,
tSN
akello.co.ke
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Monday, April 13, 2015
Want.
She said:
When you want something badly enough, you forget its flaws. In fact, the deceit of desire lies in its ability to make you think that nothing else matters and nothing else exists. By the time you open up your legs to be its whore, you're not using protection.
By the time he got to me, neither was I.
I wanted him. I wanted him bad. I wanted him to complete the holes I thought I couldn't fill inside my soul, so there were no barricades whatsoever when he knocked on the door of my heart, laughing, and entered with no resistance. No guards to stop him. No alarm to warn me. No 911 that I felt the need to call.
I thought he was breathtaking blue sky and the flight of an eagle's wing on a thermal rolled into one. I thought his kisses tasted like a soury-sweet lemon flavoured gummy bear, because when he would kiss me, he would bite my lip; then pull, gently first then harder, the line just before it crossed into pain, and I would dance with him on that edge when my pulse was racing and he held me teetering over the abyss of him.
But that was an abyss I did not know or see or understand - an abyss I romanticized for the sake of my preconceived notions and motions of relationships and what I thought heartspeak should be but wasn't. A darkness I chose without knowing its blackness and its all-consuming need.
I did not know. And because I didn't bother to fully examine the whys and hows of what I craved with abandon, desire desired me - and had me.
tSN
When you want something badly enough, you forget its flaws. In fact, the deceit of desire lies in its ability to make you think that nothing else matters and nothing else exists. By the time you open up your legs to be its whore, you're not using protection.
By the time he got to me, neither was I.
I wanted him. I wanted him bad. I wanted him to complete the holes I thought I couldn't fill inside my soul, so there were no barricades whatsoever when he knocked on the door of my heart, laughing, and entered with no resistance. No guards to stop him. No alarm to warn me. No 911 that I felt the need to call.
I thought he was breathtaking blue sky and the flight of an eagle's wing on a thermal rolled into one. I thought his kisses tasted like a soury-sweet lemon flavoured gummy bear, because when he would kiss me, he would bite my lip; then pull, gently first then harder, the line just before it crossed into pain, and I would dance with him on that edge when my pulse was racing and he held me teetering over the abyss of him.
But that was an abyss I did not know or see or understand - an abyss I romanticized for the sake of my preconceived notions and motions of relationships and what I thought heartspeak should be but wasn't. A darkness I chose without knowing its blackness and its all-consuming need.
I did not know. And because I didn't bother to fully examine the whys and hows of what I craved with abandon, desire desired me - and had me.
tSN
Monday, April 6, 2015
I hate work emails.
How much do I hate work emails? Let me count the ways.
I hate that little notification
That tells me it's time to man the work station
and all that that little beep entails.
I hate that I have to keep looking at it and refreshing it all day
Sitting in fear and consternation
Side by side with my impostor syndrome situation
That whispers to me 'What's your boss gonna say
When he finds out the truth - that you're a fake?
That you have no idea what you're doing most of the time?
Do you have any idea what's at stake??'
You try and quiet these voices, all the while
Trying to figure out rent, follow your dream and take
a fancy pants vacation to a far away isle...
Man that sounds sublime.
Man I hate that chime.
tSN
adapted loosely from this poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
I hate that little notification
That tells me it's time to man the work station
and all that that little beep entails.
I hate that I have to keep looking at it and refreshing it all day
Sitting in fear and consternation
Side by side with my impostor syndrome situation
That whispers to me 'What's your boss gonna say
When he finds out the truth - that you're a fake?
That you have no idea what you're doing most of the time?
Do you have any idea what's at stake??'
You try and quiet these voices, all the while
Trying to figure out rent, follow your dream and take
a fancy pants vacation to a far away isle...
Man that sounds sublime.
Man I hate that chime.
tSN
adapted loosely from this poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Truth
When I people watch, I'm usually trying to decide if people are happy. No making up elaborate stories about their inheritances or sex lives, unless they have a super obvious pointer to either, but whether they have contentment. Whether the chubby mother running after her chubby baby really wanted said baby, or if in the still of the night, sometimes, quietly, in words she never speaks and thoughts she never finishes - whether she wishes she could let him run out into the street and be a coroner's problem. But only because she's so.
Very.
Tired.
It wouldn't even be her f- but she won't complete that sentence to the ending of the story in her mind. Because she loves her child. Of course. All mothers do. Her mother told her, not showed her, but what her mother SAYS must be true.
My mother told me otherwise.
Now I'm watching the girl in braids with a shifty look who looks like she's trying to look excited about being at Junction with her prettier friend. Where are they going? To watch a movie with boys from school who tried to touch them last week. Tell the teacher for what? So that he tries to too? Not that it mattered. Because they don't try to touch her nearly as much as they try with CC. CC is popular and pretty. Pretty means has boobs and will let the guys do stuff. At the movies, they're going to do stuff. She's going to sit - uncomfortable. Waiting for the inevitable inching of his hand to her arse. She'll pretend to like it. She won't.
She's not happy either.
The smell of his Fanta Passion is making me slightly nauseous and nostalgic at the same time. Remember Fanta Pineapple? I used to love that soda. It was too sweet and too tangy. It used to cut my tongue and I would willingly let it. The sugar would seep into summer days and colour them with what I think now is perfection. Perfection and simplicity. Not like now. Though I guess the past is like Fanta Passion. It makes you want to gag and wish you were there at the same time.
If I were there, I wouldn't be...here. Where I am now. Watching other people's faces to try and understand my own...to try and understand whether I'm the post-partum partially depressed mom or the desperately unhappy teenager craving real affection - trying to see what we have in common other than our sadnesses and the children growing within us who we don't want - which is what we were, when sugar seeped into our summer days and then turned into the dry dust of the lonely summer nights.
tSN
Very.
Tired.
It wouldn't even be her f- but she won't complete that sentence to the ending of the story in her mind. Because she loves her child. Of course. All mothers do. Her mother told her, not showed her, but what her mother SAYS must be true.
My mother told me otherwise.
Now I'm watching the girl in braids with a shifty look who looks like she's trying to look excited about being at Junction with her prettier friend. Where are they going? To watch a movie with boys from school who tried to touch them last week. Tell the teacher for what? So that he tries to too? Not that it mattered. Because they don't try to touch her nearly as much as they try with CC. CC is popular and pretty. Pretty means has boobs and will let the guys do stuff. At the movies, they're going to do stuff. She's going to sit - uncomfortable. Waiting for the inevitable inching of his hand to her arse. She'll pretend to like it. She won't.
She's not happy either.
The smell of his Fanta Passion is making me slightly nauseous and nostalgic at the same time. Remember Fanta Pineapple? I used to love that soda. It was too sweet and too tangy. It used to cut my tongue and I would willingly let it. The sugar would seep into summer days and colour them with what I think now is perfection. Perfection and simplicity. Not like now. Though I guess the past is like Fanta Passion. It makes you want to gag and wish you were there at the same time.
If I were there, I wouldn't be...here. Where I am now. Watching other people's faces to try and understand my own...to try and understand whether I'm the post-partum partially depressed mom or the desperately unhappy teenager craving real affection - trying to see what we have in common other than our sadnesses and the children growing within us who we don't want - which is what we were, when sugar seeped into our summer days and then turned into the dry dust of the lonely summer nights.
tSN
Sunday, March 22, 2015
The first time
You never want to admit to a spark. Sometimes because it's always scary to admit to feeling to anything that makes you vulnerable. But also because sometimes you shouldn't be admitting it.
You shouldn't feel the way you feel...even if you haven't fully described it. Or maybe that's what everyone says.
And everyone knows sparks turn into flames and flames burn.
There's a flame between your thighs when he pushes you up against the wall and the more he kisses you, the less you're trying to douse it. The night sky is watching and no one else. No one else exists except for the beast of satiation, and gratification, and just the sheer disbelief that it is finally, finally, happening, happening hungrily and fast and you are devouring each other like it is the last time.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
You shouldn't feel the way you feel...even if you haven't fully described it. Or maybe that's what everyone says.
And everyone knows sparks turn into flames and flames burn.
There's a flame between your thighs when he pushes you up against the wall and the more he kisses you, the less you're trying to douse it. The night sky is watching and no one else. No one else exists except for the beast of satiation, and gratification, and just the sheer disbelief that it is finally, finally, happening, happening hungrily and fast and you are devouring each other like it is the last time.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Variant
She said:
Is it not agony, knowing that you will never, ever be the perfect child your mother had hoped; hoped that after carrying you for 9 months you would be the angel she'd always wanted?
You will never make her choices, even though she desperately wishes you would. You'll never love her God, her ways. You'll parody a pseudo-virginal lifestyle because by Jove the slut shaming you would have to endure otherwise isn't worth all the money in the world. And you've had a taste. It was quite enough. You'll never have the birds and the bees talk because good girls don't have sex. And you'll have to brush her off every time something is too short or too tight or too prostitute; sometimes it'll blow up in your face but like all of your flaws, you'll pretend the (internal and external) explosions never happened.
You'll never have babies, because you don't want to do to them what your mother did to you; a damage so deeply worn that you think it's a part of you, like a fat bloody artery that pumps life away from your blackened heart. And the man who is supposed to be in the picture is looking shaky as well; someone to slave over and fawn over and a whole ego of a grown adult to mollycoddle and read books about how better to deal with the child - sorry, husband - and what you're doing wrong and how to get him and when to get him and what to do when you do and how to keep him and what you did wrong when he leaves your suffocation that isn't even really you but what you thought you ought to be.
You'll never have a straight, neat looking white girl perm where your hair flips at the end, trying to be natural. You'll never burn your hair at the salon and waste endless scorching hours in rollers again, or sit at a stall as a woman pulls your hair and five other women braid it and two other women roll it on their thighs that have imprints of braid from doing this for so long which by now have been mixed in with dirt and their skin cells and the last girl's skin cells and they're braiding it into your hair like a memento of your experience that you didn't know you bought. Not because you're an artist. But because you don't care enough and have stopped wanting to. In fact, you'll dye it red.
You'll never get a job they want. Art doesn't count. Art is a hobby until you're discovered by someone or something your parents want you to be. Something more respectable to tell their friends about their daughter with dreads. Therefore, the look of disappointment in their eyes when they look at you is pretty much permanent. May as well get used to it.
You will start to wonder if your version of ok is ever going to be ok for anyone other than you.
Your life is a lie so smooth it chokes you with its fluidity every time you see her.
Is it not agony, knowing that you will never, ever be the perfect child your mother had hoped; hoped that after carrying you for 9 months you would be the angel she'd always wanted?
You will never make her choices, even though she desperately wishes you would. You'll never love her God, her ways. You'll parody a pseudo-virginal lifestyle because by Jove the slut shaming you would have to endure otherwise isn't worth all the money in the world. And you've had a taste. It was quite enough. You'll never have the birds and the bees talk because good girls don't have sex. And you'll have to brush her off every time something is too short or too tight or too prostitute; sometimes it'll blow up in your face but like all of your flaws, you'll pretend the (internal and external) explosions never happened.
You'll never have babies, because you don't want to do to them what your mother did to you; a damage so deeply worn that you think it's a part of you, like a fat bloody artery that pumps life away from your blackened heart. And the man who is supposed to be in the picture is looking shaky as well; someone to slave over and fawn over and a whole ego of a grown adult to mollycoddle and read books about how better to deal with the child - sorry, husband - and what you're doing wrong and how to get him and when to get him and what to do when you do and how to keep him and what you did wrong when he leaves your suffocation that isn't even really you but what you thought you ought to be.
You'll never have a straight, neat looking white girl perm where your hair flips at the end, trying to be natural. You'll never burn your hair at the salon and waste endless scorching hours in rollers again, or sit at a stall as a woman pulls your hair and five other women braid it and two other women roll it on their thighs that have imprints of braid from doing this for so long which by now have been mixed in with dirt and their skin cells and the last girl's skin cells and they're braiding it into your hair like a memento of your experience that you didn't know you bought. Not because you're an artist. But because you don't care enough and have stopped wanting to. In fact, you'll dye it red.
You'll never get a job they want. Art doesn't count. Art is a hobby until you're discovered by someone or something your parents want you to be. Something more respectable to tell their friends about their daughter with dreads. Therefore, the look of disappointment in their eyes when they look at you is pretty much permanent. May as well get used to it.
You will start to wonder if your version of ok is ever going to be ok for anyone other than you.
Your life is a lie so smooth it chokes you with its fluidity every time you see her.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
When people are always super nice to you before they like wax your vagina hoping their words will be the balm for your roaring coin purse and they're SO not - but worse.
*sigh*
I mean, I haven't really felt like doing much today. Much in the way of constructive, adult stuff, anyway. Like, I totally want to go meet John at Sierra and talk about all the wonderfully useless shit in each other's lives that we've missed, for some reason, because, life, or whatever. And at Sierra we'll see the Queen, who's meeting up with Inferno (who I only recognize at the very end, who doesn't recognize me either because it's been years and he hadn't seen the dreads). And I'll remember that years ago, when Twitter was Twitter, I was SUPER crushing on her (skinny) (ex?) boyfriend, and the steamy DMs gave me life for a quick minute, that ended rapidly when I met the Queen. Fortunately she seems to be a benevolent ruler.
I didn't feel like working either. I mean, not that I am ever ati suuuuper enthusiastic about it, but, today was a big day for us at jobo, and the episode was coming out, so that was exciting...but something was just like...meh. I ignored it...it's been like that for a while...so I didn't pay it much attention. As usual. And as usual, I had to give myself a pep talk to even get out of bed to do said work.
It isn't that I've been fighting with Slevin either. I mean, people fight, right? It happens. It's bloody fucking awful, but...it happens. And the point of two people being together is that they try...right? I mean, in spite of the ugliness. You push past it. That's what you're supposed to do. Regardless of the fact that you want to murder someone. And not the nice Seyi Shay 'Murda'. The one for weaponry and praying to Jesus for your soul and the strength in your hands.
So I got home and called SecondPresident - I was supposed to go over to his and watch the episode - but he isn't home, which fucks up my dinner plans. I open up my email -
And there it is.
The email.
The one I've been waiting for from December.
Planning my entire life around it, too. Like if I go, what happens to me? And SB? And Slevin? My apartment? My racism, you know? What happens to my large amount of debt?
The email said:
Dear ***,
This email is to inform you that a decision has been made regarding your application to ***, which is now available to you on your activity page. Please log in using your account credentials. Please note that *** will never email you your decision directly.
My heart started beating faster than Jason Statham when he knows he has to act next to James Franco in Homefront, because, oh shit, he actually has to act.
Like oh shit, the letter is here (at least I've paid my rent...)
I go to the portal.
Dear ***,
(so many dears. Are they setting me up for something?)
I regret to inform you that *** program did not approve your application for admission to *** for Fall 2015.
(Oh.
Well then.
I guess they were.)
Admission decisions are made on a comparative basis and are the result of a careful evaluation of each candidate's application, taking into account academic achievement (Oh Lord. Guys. KCSE DOESN'T COUNT FOR SHIT! CAMAAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!!), preparation for advanced study (oh God. I've never been prepared a day in my life. They knew. They could see it in my personal statement.), and other supporting materials. (like what? Nudes?)
The majority of those who apply to the Graduate School have strong qualifications and demonstrate an ability to do advanced academic work (ayayayayayayayayayayaya. WHO HAVE THEY BEEN TALKING TO? *sigh*). We regret that we have to disappoint many bright and talented students. (YOU regret it? *wails* Am I bright and talented, mommy?)
Thank you for your interest in ***. I wish you the best in your academic endeavors.
Sincerely,
***
*sighs again*
I got to the end of the letter and then had to immediately go back to work and kind of try to ignore the adrenalin that was coursing through my fingers and making them shake. Then I read the letter about 14 more times. Then I started thinking about this blog post. Then I started thinking about who I should tell first. Fuck, I shouldn't have told people I'm applying. I should have just not. And said 'I have no future plans whatsoever' anytime anyone asked me. Now I have to tak about it. Because I dreamed about it. Now my dad will be like...get a real job...and Drumsticks will be like...well there goes 75 dollars...ok she won't...but...as in.
So now?
So now I have to act like the email never happened and go back to the life I had plan for if the answer was no (because you always plan for both answers, right?)...
Or something like that.
Or just sleep.
Meh. I feel so meh. I suck at rejection drafted on fancy letterheads.
tSN
I mean, I haven't really felt like doing much today. Much in the way of constructive, adult stuff, anyway. Like, I totally want to go meet John at Sierra and talk about all the wonderfully useless shit in each other's lives that we've missed, for some reason, because, life, or whatever. And at Sierra we'll see the Queen, who's meeting up with Inferno (who I only recognize at the very end, who doesn't recognize me either because it's been years and he hadn't seen the dreads). And I'll remember that years ago, when Twitter was Twitter, I was SUPER crushing on her (skinny) (ex?) boyfriend, and the steamy DMs gave me life for a quick minute, that ended rapidly when I met the Queen. Fortunately she seems to be a benevolent ruler.
I didn't feel like working either. I mean, not that I am ever ati suuuuper enthusiastic about it, but, today was a big day for us at jobo, and the episode was coming out, so that was exciting...but something was just like...meh. I ignored it...it's been like that for a while...so I didn't pay it much attention. As usual. And as usual, I had to give myself a pep talk to even get out of bed to do said work.
It isn't that I've been fighting with Slevin either. I mean, people fight, right? It happens. It's bloody fucking awful, but...it happens. And the point of two people being together is that they try...right? I mean, in spite of the ugliness. You push past it. That's what you're supposed to do. Regardless of the fact that you want to murder someone. And not the nice Seyi Shay 'Murda'. The one for weaponry and praying to Jesus for your soul and the strength in your hands.
So I got home and called SecondPresident - I was supposed to go over to his and watch the episode - but he isn't home, which fucks up my dinner plans. I open up my email -
And there it is.
The email.
The one I've been waiting for from December.
Planning my entire life around it, too. Like if I go, what happens to me? And SB? And Slevin? My apartment? My racism, you know? What happens to my large amount of debt?
The email said:
Dear ***,
This email is to inform you that a decision has been made regarding your application to ***, which is now available to you on your activity page. Please log in using your account credentials. Please note that *** will never email you your decision directly.
My heart started beating faster than Jason Statham when he knows he has to act next to James Franco in Homefront, because, oh shit, he actually has to act.
Like oh shit, the letter is here (at least I've paid my rent...)
I go to the portal.
Dear ***,
(so many dears. Are they setting me up for something?)
I regret to inform you that *** program did not approve your application for admission to *** for Fall 2015.
(Oh.
Well then.
I guess they were.)
Admission decisions are made on a comparative basis and are the result of a careful evaluation of each candidate's application, taking into account academic achievement (Oh Lord. Guys. KCSE DOESN'T COUNT FOR SHIT! CAMAAAAAAAAAAANNNN!!!), preparation for advanced study (oh God. I've never been prepared a day in my life. They knew. They could see it in my personal statement.), and other supporting materials. (like what? Nudes?)
The majority of those who apply to the Graduate School have strong qualifications and demonstrate an ability to do advanced academic work (ayayayayayayayayayayaya. WHO HAVE THEY BEEN TALKING TO? *sigh*). We regret that we have to disappoint many bright and talented students. (YOU regret it? *wails* Am I bright and talented, mommy?)
Thank you for your interest in ***. I wish you the best in your academic endeavors.
Sincerely,
***
*sighs again*
I got to the end of the letter and then had to immediately go back to work and kind of try to ignore the adrenalin that was coursing through my fingers and making them shake. Then I read the letter about 14 more times. Then I started thinking about this blog post. Then I started thinking about who I should tell first. Fuck, I shouldn't have told people I'm applying. I should have just not. And said 'I have no future plans whatsoever' anytime anyone asked me. Now I have to tak about it. Because I dreamed about it. Now my dad will be like...get a real job...and Drumsticks will be like...well there goes 75 dollars...ok she won't...but...as in.
So now?
So now I have to act like the email never happened and go back to the life I had plan for if the answer was no (because you always plan for both answers, right?)...
Or something like that.
Or just sleep.
Meh. I feel so meh. I suck at rejection drafted on fancy letterheads.
tSN
Monday, March 9, 2015
The Breakup: Goodbye, RHOA
Sometimes, a TV show is like a drug, and you don't realize how bad you look when you are wiping off your little white friend from the side of your whatever until you watch Scarface and realize that that is probably you.
You see this is the thing - I LOVE reality TV. I always have, and I have always wanted there to be more. I want to see how everyone is living! What they're buying! I want to intrude on my favourite superstars' lives! Yes, I would never do the BBA thing with the shower hour (I did audition though. I think they could sense that off of me. And it didn't help that when I told my mother about it, she was like, oh, the show with the lesbians? So...no. That would never have worked, amirite?)
But I have reached the End of the Road with RHOA. I just watched Season 7 Episode 10 and I am officially unable to can.
I have been trying to quit the drug for a good long time now. When Nene had that sex party and deliberately created drama and there was a demon, as Portia said, in the room, and the fight was ridiculous, and then all that drama happened?
Look, I used to like drama. But that one was too much. But I couldn't resist the pull! So a couple of months later I broke my fast and got back into the season 6 again, watched Portia act a damn fool, and then launched into Season 7.
And now here we are. I can't.
So in Episode 10 Nene gets into it with Claudia at some point and tells her that her clitoris has left her body.
Guys, I don't know if this bothered me so much because I *have* a clitoris - I'm not sure. But I was just like...what??
Huh?
What now?
Naaaawl.
I mean...what???
I started to question all of my life's decisions. What is my life? What are my choices? Why are we here?
Nene is clearly a crazy person (as is Kenya, as The Apprentice showed later as well). And even though she was clearly on the wrong, she STILL felt the need to call out Claudia's lady parts - and try to SLUT SHAME her? Forget the ridiculousness of the fact that Nene was once a stripper - it is entirely possible that she could have been a stripper who didn't sleep with clients - but to get to the point where you are so far gone in your arrogance that you feel the need to call on vajayjays? For NO REASON?
Chiiiile.
Nene is crazy.
Kenya is crazy.
Portia is deluded af.
Kandi is really the only one I am willing to fux wit, but she doesn't have her own show, so. It's just like how they shouldn't have put all of the other Braxtons in Braxton Family Values (couldn't get past Season 1, and even that, with the lovely vampire Toni, was a struggle. How people watch Tamar and Vince is beyond my comprehension).
Phaedra, with all her casual shade throwing ways that used to be oh-so-amusing, seems to just be becoming malicious and vindictive, and I'm not here for it.
Claudia seems cool, but I am sure that is going to change any minute now, because all these woman are not who they really are. They change every single episode! Like 2 episodes ago, Kenya and Nene were hugging and now she is side-eyeing her the end. Unless we have them on camera 24/7, you can never really know what these women are choosing to portray, or why, because it isn't a novel, so, what's the point? Because that bipolar-like character change just has my high blood pressure like whattttt is going on here (and the scriptwriter in me is like that trajectory of character development is just too implausible...)?? And why? And these can't be real people?? And why am I watching these CRAZY PEOPLE?? And...whattt?
These are a bunch of influential black women who can do more than just entertain with ratchetry (#Kandi). But what they choose to do instead is tear each other down and talk about clitorises leaving the building. Even me I am leaving. The more I take in, the crazier I have potential to become. I barely even remember why I started watching it in the first place.
I mean...
What?
It's not me. It's DEFINITELY you.
tSN
Sunday, March 1, 2015
On my mind in the dark.
During the day, it's fine. I can forget. I can push it to the back of my head, willingly or unwillingly. But at night...there's something so beautiful about the night. It's dark and melancholy and begs you to ask what you did with its sister. I sometimes have a good answer. I can go to sleep happy. I can be ok.
But when I don't...when it's been one of those days when all you've done is avoid what you know you should have done...then the darkness turns. It shifts form and becomes something that swallows you whole.
Maybe all this unwillingness to do stuff that I don't want to do is a sign of something bigger than just my inner darkness and failed (failing?) projects. Do crazy people know they're crazy? Do depressed people know they're depressed?
For some reason I think it should be accompanied by tears and deep introspection - neither of which I bother with (avidly). When I voice it I feel like I sound ridiculous or selfish - what do you mean, you don't feel like coming to/taking me to/dancing with? When I tell him, he shows concern and then nods off to sleep...listening to someone talking about the same thing again and again can't be fun when you're sleepy. And then because he is snoring beside me and I feel overwhelmed by the ocean of thoughts within me, I sleep. Not because I am resolved and a new creature, but because I am too tired to keep fighting today.
tSN
But when I don't...when it's been one of those days when all you've done is avoid what you know you should have done...then the darkness turns. It shifts form and becomes something that swallows you whole.
Maybe all this unwillingness to do stuff that I don't want to do is a sign of something bigger than just my inner darkness and failed (failing?) projects. Do crazy people know they're crazy? Do depressed people know they're depressed?
For some reason I think it should be accompanied by tears and deep introspection - neither of which I bother with (avidly). When I voice it I feel like I sound ridiculous or selfish - what do you mean, you don't feel like coming to/taking me to/dancing with? When I tell him, he shows concern and then nods off to sleep...listening to someone talking about the same thing again and again can't be fun when you're sleepy. And then because he is snoring beside me and I feel overwhelmed by the ocean of thoughts within me, I sleep. Not because I am resolved and a new creature, but because I am too tired to keep fighting today.
tSN
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Tea Break
She said:
Sometimes I give myself orgasms as presents. And afterwards, I give myself another present for having such excellent gift giving skills. Then, while my legs are shaking as I pull down my skirt in the stall of the bathroom at work, I say a little prayer of gratitude to my absolutely wonderful clitoris and the god who gave her to me. He has excellent gift giving skills too.
Skirts are best. For me, anyway. Skirts with no panties. Skirts with no panties and stockings that rub slowly against me as my boss is telling me something infinitely more boring than what I'm thinking about.
The great thing about orgasms, though, is their minimum fuss for maximum gain. You don't need a man. You don't need money. You don't need small talk, or instructions, sloppy drunk kisses or motivational books...you just need persistence. If you do have a man then even better (but don't they always get it just a little wrong?). He can contribute. Or he can watch. But a woman...a woman is best. For me, anyway.
I am walking out of the stall and another lady comes in. She is not in a skirt. She looks flushed. In a hurry, almost. Her hands are hovering around suggestive regions and she stops short when she sees me. Her mouth, previously slightly open in an urgent pant, snaps shut. Her eyes widen. What does she think I've caught her in? I smile a lazy smile, not particularly caring, because after, I don't particularly care about anything until the world butts in again. I close the door behind me, but not before I hear a zip being tugged down. And nothing after that.
Sometimes I give myself orgasms as presents. And afterwards, I give myself another present for having such excellent gift giving skills. Then, while my legs are shaking as I pull down my skirt in the stall of the bathroom at work, I say a little prayer of gratitude to my absolutely wonderful clitoris and the god who gave her to me. He has excellent gift giving skills too.
Skirts are best. For me, anyway. Skirts with no panties. Skirts with no panties and stockings that rub slowly against me as my boss is telling me something infinitely more boring than what I'm thinking about.
The great thing about orgasms, though, is their minimum fuss for maximum gain. You don't need a man. You don't need money. You don't need small talk, or instructions, sloppy drunk kisses or motivational books...you just need persistence. If you do have a man then even better (but don't they always get it just a little wrong?). He can contribute. Or he can watch. But a woman...a woman is best. For me, anyway.
I am walking out of the stall and another lady comes in. She is not in a skirt. She looks flushed. In a hurry, almost. Her hands are hovering around suggestive regions and she stops short when she sees me. Her mouth, previously slightly open in an urgent pant, snaps shut. Her eyes widen. What does she think I've caught her in? I smile a lazy smile, not particularly caring, because after, I don't particularly care about anything until the world butts in again. I close the door behind me, but not before I hear a zip being tugged down. And nothing after that.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Here's what I don't like about porn.
I got my first porno DVD way after high school. Which isn't completely surprising, because I am female. I think (ok I know there are a few girls who start earlier. In a random jav that decided it was after hours enough to give the customers a little more than what they paid for. In the shady pubs in town or little makeshift illicit kibandas, perhaps, if they slipped in without notice. Though I doubt it. Cameo Cinema. Late night Bold and the Beautiful which whetted their appetite for more nakedness and more action. My story isn't like that. The Bold's soundtrack is still one of my favourite of all time though).
The cover art of the DVD had Britney Spears on it, when she was still in her heyday. I remember thinking that it was a bit archaic - I mean, who even remembers when Britney was still in her heyday? But I am sure porno cover artisans don't really care who is on the cover, do they? In any case, it is a stroke of genius - no mother will pick up a Britney DVD belonging to her child (not knowing that yes, it is unusual, because...who even remembers when Britney was still in her heyday?). Fathers, obviously not - but more often than not they know the game, if it is their son. If it is a girl, no one thinks she is watching porn, and there is a female with pigtails on the cover, so it must be one of those new artist she likes, right?
The DVD had 6 movies in it. I never watched them all the way in. There was the sadomasochist one (as there always is) with nuns whipping their nuns/ladies-in-waiting and/or making them give them head, and then out of nowhere men would appear, to stand guard, I suppose - like I said, never watched the whole thing, but that one in particular, because I find church porn disturbing. I barely got through that episode of Californication that starts in the church, and the nun...(what happened to that show? I actually quite liked it).
There was a Thai one - 2 maybe, even - where the people on the screen were clearly getting it on, but the background sounded like a movie about a couple of teenagers having fun at the beach. Very clever. Then there was my favourite one, about girls. I don't know what was going on there, but they got straight to it - started out on the lawn, busted by another girl, taken to another house with a married woman and her two sex slaves - it all got a bit convoluted. It was called something corny, as they always are, like Girls Night In or something.
I still have that DVD. Once in a while, I pop it out for old times sake. Recently I discovered PornHub (I only just watched Kim K's sex tape. I know. I know.) which is a veritable plethora of all things (kuku) porno. I mean...so many categories! So many choices! It can get a bit overwhelming, like when you go to Cold Stone Creamery for the first time and your senses are basically assaulted, then they start singing, which doesn't help to focus your thoughts.
A couple of years ago, I was introduced to Lingerie - the soft core porn series, which I prefer to PornHub. (funny story - my ex and his present were at the DVD store and the guy looks at them, decide they need a little spice in their lives and hands them Season 1, saying, hii, hii mtapenda. After the 4th sex scene in 10 minutes, they were like...um. LOL.) But it is still super cheesy.
And that's my problem with porn.
I mean, other than the fact that it goes on for waaaaay too long - if you think about it, it's not going to take you the entire duration of a 26 minute porno to come. Is it? Or are you watching it for its sterling production value and excellent directing? - why oh why are the scripts so cheesy? Many say this is an invalid complaint, because porn doesn't exist for the script. But then why are the talking parts/introductions/back story so long? Si you just get to it already? And if you're not going to get to it, then why not make the part we have to listen to good? Look, I like a little context. But not shitty context. Which is why soft porn exists. But even soft core (a la Lingerie) scripting suuuuuucks baaaaaaaalls. It's like...guys. No. Stop. Stop talking. Please.
And the moans are really fake.
I'm sorry! Is it because I am a scriptwriter that I expect effort and better directing? But surely even you if you are with a person and they are moaning from when you hold hands. Ai.
I don't mind porn. I just like a specific type. Like in Blue is the warmest colour. Where the moaning and speech is natural. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it isn't a porno, but there was a lot of sex. But it was nice sex. Like a Sidney Sheldon. Or an Amanda Quick. Classy, y'know? (ha!) Or Sliver. Or that old Mel Gibson movie. Or...or maybe I just natural looking sex that isn't a sex tape and isn't trying to hide all the good bits. At this rate I may have to move to France.
There's the argument again that I am not the target audience for porn. I laugh in the face of such accusations. As if women don't consume sexual content. As if we don't have needs. Come on, Porn Producing People. Do better.
tSN
The cover art of the DVD had Britney Spears on it, when she was still in her heyday. I remember thinking that it was a bit archaic - I mean, who even remembers when Britney was still in her heyday? But I am sure porno cover artisans don't really care who is on the cover, do they? In any case, it is a stroke of genius - no mother will pick up a Britney DVD belonging to her child (not knowing that yes, it is unusual, because...who even remembers when Britney was still in her heyday?). Fathers, obviously not - but more often than not they know the game, if it is their son. If it is a girl, no one thinks she is watching porn, and there is a female with pigtails on the cover, so it must be one of those new artist she likes, right?
The DVD had 6 movies in it. I never watched them all the way in. There was the sadomasochist one (as there always is) with nuns whipping their nuns/ladies-in-waiting and/or making them give them head, and then out of nowhere men would appear, to stand guard, I suppose - like I said, never watched the whole thing, but that one in particular, because I find church porn disturbing. I barely got through that episode of Californication that starts in the church, and the nun...(what happened to that show? I actually quite liked it).
There was a Thai one - 2 maybe, even - where the people on the screen were clearly getting it on, but the background sounded like a movie about a couple of teenagers having fun at the beach. Very clever. Then there was my favourite one, about girls. I don't know what was going on there, but they got straight to it - started out on the lawn, busted by another girl, taken to another house with a married woman and her two sex slaves - it all got a bit convoluted. It was called something corny, as they always are, like Girls Night In or something.
I still have that DVD. Once in a while, I pop it out for old times sake. Recently I discovered PornHub (I only just watched Kim K's sex tape. I know. I know.) which is a veritable plethora of all things (kuku) porno. I mean...so many categories! So many choices! It can get a bit overwhelming, like when you go to Cold Stone Creamery for the first time and your senses are basically assaulted, then they start singing, which doesn't help to focus your thoughts.
A couple of years ago, I was introduced to Lingerie - the soft core porn series, which I prefer to PornHub. (funny story - my ex and his present were at the DVD store and the guy looks at them, decide they need a little spice in their lives and hands them Season 1, saying, hii, hii mtapenda. After the 4th sex scene in 10 minutes, they were like...um. LOL.) But it is still super cheesy.
And that's my problem with porn.
I mean, other than the fact that it goes on for waaaaay too long - if you think about it, it's not going to take you the entire duration of a 26 minute porno to come. Is it? Or are you watching it for its sterling production value and excellent directing? - why oh why are the scripts so cheesy? Many say this is an invalid complaint, because porn doesn't exist for the script. But then why are the talking parts/introductions/back story so long? Si you just get to it already? And if you're not going to get to it, then why not make the part we have to listen to good? Look, I like a little context. But not shitty context. Which is why soft porn exists. But even soft core (a la Lingerie) scripting suuuuuucks baaaaaaaalls. It's like...guys. No. Stop. Stop talking. Please.
And the moans are really fake.
I'm sorry! Is it because I am a scriptwriter that I expect effort and better directing? But surely even you if you are with a person and they are moaning from when you hold hands. Ai.
I don't mind porn. I just like a specific type. Like in Blue is the warmest colour. Where the moaning and speech is natural. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it isn't a porno, but there was a lot of sex. But it was nice sex. Like a Sidney Sheldon. Or an Amanda Quick. Classy, y'know? (ha!) Or Sliver. Or that old Mel Gibson movie. Or...or maybe I just natural looking sex that isn't a sex tape and isn't trying to hide all the good bits. At this rate I may have to move to France.
There's the argument again that I am not the target audience for porn. I laugh in the face of such accusations. As if women don't consume sexual content. As if we don't have needs. Come on, Porn Producing People. Do better.
tSN
Monday, February 23, 2015
Series: Empire (Season 1 Episode 6)
I was feeling a little hot after this episode aired! What! I need chips (as a cure for everything in life, of course. Fuck a diet, a dollar and a dream - Derek Luke is on Empire! *squeals*)
So I know I'm late (HA!) but g2g was having issues and I only just saw the episode literally 10 minutes ago. I think this is my favourite episode, after the first one, for so. Many. Reasons.
1. The music is improving! Yaaaaas, Timbaland! The music in the last 4 episodes hasn't been anything to write home about. I mean, What is Love, that heartwrenching piece from the bald girl in Ep 1 just topped everything; Jamal and Hakeem make an absolutely killer team, and it was beginning to look like they couldn't do anything good without each other, and Tiana is basically eye candy. Drip Drop was ok, you know? Body like a weapon bang bang bang etc was catchy. It definitely was NOT What is Love. Jamal...nothing he has done has moved me to look past his whining. BUT! Hakeem, snivelly spoilt brat that he is, has produced a gem in this episode (his diss track to Tiana), Jamal's love song I wanna love you was just inspired - by maybe a little Neyo when Neyo was really good? A little John Legend? MM. SO TASTY. And I like the rock thing with Elle Dallas (Courtney Love). I'm waiting to see where this is going. It's a yes from me.
2. I have understood that I need to stop judging Empire. Yes, it is an over the top series. But it is MEANT to be over the top. That's how they've played it, and unlike Power, they are doing it well. The casting, guys - everyone really fits their roles (except the extras - that football player was some bullshit) and Taraji shines in a sea of diamonds. Like a diamond. Napenda Taraji. (see what I did there?) Napenda Taraji especially akivaa hizo maNINI. (I gotta say, I don't know why Miss T keeps Portia around. That obvious plothole is going over my head)
3. New faces. I AM HERE FOR IT. I am here for Miss Colourless Raven Symone (my comp doesn't have the apostrophe. Or rather, I don't care enough to look for it) playing desperate baby mama. I am HERE for DEREK LUKE who can SECURE ME ANYTIME HE WANTS. LAWDY. Someone was made in THE PERFECT image of the Lord. Last time I saw that tasty man was in The Americans and I was just as distracted as I am now. I. AM. HERE. FOR. HIM.
Excuse me while I go wipe - uh, download another episode.
SLURP.
tSN
Monday, February 16, 2015
Film: The Rewrite
Hugh Grant is in a movie and I watched it and I liked it.
:)
That is basically the summary of this review but just in case you are not grasping the true significance of the statement - Hugh Grant is in a movie. :)
I think I have watched pretty much everything Mr Grant has ever done (I'm lying - just the huge commercial successes, drolling as I did so). I have tracked his illustrious career from the age of five, when I watched The Lady and the Highwayman - also the name of one of my favourite poems ever - and apparently in no way related - right down to this movie, and my conclusion is that he is getting old, but beautifully. (Hugh Grant is in a movie!) I feel like it has been a while since I've seen him on the silver screen.
This movie is about a scriptwriter who wrote a fantastic movie that won lots of awards and then his creative well ran dry. He s almost washed up, pitching really stupid ideas to studio heads who worshiped him before but won't touch him with a ten foot pole now. And so he is getting broker and broker. So his loud agent finds him a job at a university as a visiting lecturer. He has absilutely no intention to actually teach, but finds himself pulled into discovering what he started writing for, mending his relationship, his writing and himself.
*sigh*
It's a slightly cliche story but he executes the whole Brit professor thing beautifully. His script is snappy and amusing, and quirky, and (Hugh Grant is in a movie!) Marisa Tomei adds a mature performance to the movie that is unlike what I have seen of her as well lately (what HAS she done lately?) I like it. Go watch it for feel good funny things. I give it a 6 and a half.
tSN
Monday, February 9, 2015
The thing about love is
I've featured in that dream before. The one where I walk into your sleep like The Sandman and crush, slowly, reassuringly, everything you ever knew to be true about how strong your heart is - it's not. It's fragile, and fickle, and illogical.
Someone thinks I'm a reckless perpetrator of soul abuse; that I play them like violins, symphony, make all the fortified armour around it paper thin.
I've been that before, in another's subconsciousness, wielding powers I knew I had but never wanted to use - riding a black horse of certain death. Always a black horse.
I'm scared that you are my spectre, and me giving you me will result in a dead zone where normal things happen very often - normal being white lies and black lies on black horses and no sweet serenity. No happy ending. Just my heart. Throbbing the way it is now, raw, the last of its veins spurting out the last of my blood on the very last frontier of what I know to be real.
And yet I give you me. I know no other way to prove myself. The fear of you chokes me but the fear of myself finishes the job. They link hands and walk into the sunset, smiling, my demons serenading their romance. I don't know why you want this. I don't know what this is and if Dreamland is my future. But I'm going to trust you and go to sleep anyway.
tSN
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Film: The Best Man Holiday
If you haven't already watched it.
The Best Man Holiday is a sequel (surprise!) to the movie The Best Man, which came out in 1999. Still featuring the same old (gorgeous) cast, this movie takes us forward 15 years (literally) to when Harper's next book needs to come out, pasts of stripper wives are revealed and even deeper secrets are yet to be unveiled.
The movie was shiny. When I say shiny I mean they did a good job of pulling off the desired affluence of typical middle-aged Black Americans. It took some time to get going. I suppose putting in the context for everyone who was a baby when the movie was being made was essential for the first hour, but it did finally get going...and when it did, it was the usual black movie brouhaha. Not in a bad way, but black movies do have a tendency to read from the same script.
So, first things first (I'm the realest) – again, people need to just let old movies lie. Like, come on. The Jurassic World trailer looks good, but...come ON, Hollywood. Is this it? Are we in the era of no new stories?
Second, some essential character flaws shouldn't have been so glaring. One wonders how the second movie happened considering what happened in the first one. I can't say much more here without spoiling the movie for you, so on to point number 3...
The black movie brouhaha. At least they didn't go the typical Tyler Perry route (HOW is he making SO MUCH MONEY?) but they didn't stray too far from his script. And has anyone noticed how untruthful these movies are? Can we have at least one unattractive person in the cast, for Pete's sake? They even got Cody from Sunset Beach (who is CLEARLY a vampire who never ages, and must be rolling with Pharrell if not for whatever youth elixir they are obviously imbibing copiously. With Nia Long.) to get in on the mouthwatering men madness. I suppose one could argue that Harold Perrineau isn't Taye Diggs, but he isn't Flavour Flav either. You know?
I give this movie a 3/5. It's a sequel, which chacks points especially when it isn't better than the original (otherwise why make it? Actually, don't answer that), it was a little too shiny and perfectly packaged *coughcommercialcough* , a little too repetitive, but at least the eye candy kind of (and by kind of I mean not really) distracts you from the standard plot line of love and togetherness at Christmas. *rolls eyes* Just call me the Grinch.
tSN
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Left Behind
She said:
I was standing outside the door, hoping whoever was taking so long in the bathroom wasn't busily leaving skid marks for my viewing pleasure on the sides of the pristine toilet bowl. She came in, all lipstick and leg, French braid done up tight enough to make you think about what you could loosen. She looked at me, then the mirror. Then me again.
She was chewing her gum, slowly.
'Is he your boyfriend?'
Her and her date were sitting two tables away, across from me and Jack. She had a clear view of his shoulders and face, and me texting all through dinner.
I looked down, uncomfortable. Intrigued. Torn by childhood upbringing that said that if an adult asks you a question you should always answer it. But why did she want to know?
I shrugged.
'I could tell.'
Could she?
'You are fighting?'
She could.
Her words had the lilt of a distracted yet prolific storyteller. She didn't really care to ask because she knew she was right; the conversation had a point clear to her. She had the audience and the tale. This was about the affirmation.
So I gave it to her. She nodded.
'Maybe if you stop facebooking, you won't fight.'
I shook my head. 'Why do you care?'
Her turn to shrug. 'I don't. But he does. And facebooking your friends won't save you and him.'
She leaned in. It would have been perfect if she had a cigarette dangling lazily from her ruby red lips, but my imagination was going to have to do the trick.
'Men aren't as stupid as they look. I know it's hard to believe' - the toilet flushed - 'but it's true.'
She straightened her skirt and herself as the door opened into the loo - lobby? 'If you're going to go to dinner, go to dinner. Commit. Or don't bother.' Commitment has always been a problem for me. This woman was psychic. She started to fix her hair as the other one left the building. I was already forgotten. I went into the bathroom.
Damnit.
Skid marks.
tSN
I was standing outside the door, hoping whoever was taking so long in the bathroom wasn't busily leaving skid marks for my viewing pleasure on the sides of the pristine toilet bowl. She came in, all lipstick and leg, French braid done up tight enough to make you think about what you could loosen. She looked at me, then the mirror. Then me again.
She was chewing her gum, slowly.
'Is he your boyfriend?'
Her and her date were sitting two tables away, across from me and Jack. She had a clear view of his shoulders and face, and me texting all through dinner.
I looked down, uncomfortable. Intrigued. Torn by childhood upbringing that said that if an adult asks you a question you should always answer it. But why did she want to know?
I shrugged.
'I could tell.'
Could she?
'You are fighting?'
She could.
Her words had the lilt of a distracted yet prolific storyteller. She didn't really care to ask because she knew she was right; the conversation had a point clear to her. She had the audience and the tale. This was about the affirmation.
So I gave it to her. She nodded.
'Maybe if you stop facebooking, you won't fight.'
I shook my head. 'Why do you care?'
Her turn to shrug. 'I don't. But he does. And facebooking your friends won't save you and him.'
She leaned in. It would have been perfect if she had a cigarette dangling lazily from her ruby red lips, but my imagination was going to have to do the trick.
'Men aren't as stupid as they look. I know it's hard to believe' - the toilet flushed - 'but it's true.'
She straightened her skirt and herself as the door opened into the loo - lobby? 'If you're going to go to dinner, go to dinner. Commit. Or don't bother.' Commitment has always been a problem for me. This woman was psychic. She started to fix her hair as the other one left the building. I was already forgotten. I went into the bathroom.
Damnit.
Skid marks.
tSN
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Message Truncated
She said:
When he said this weekend after church, my heart sunk.
I'm not the type of girl who will wear a thong to please anyone else looking at my butt other than me. I though Peter was that type of guy too - only brushes teeth when absolutely necessary (meeting in the boardroom level type, as opposed to staying in the house all day and not coming across human contact), down for random adventures, a great believer in avoidance of pain at most costs. Intelligent. Free radical. Untamed, with no desire to be so.
I should have noticed when he started going to the church on the corner. It was a quiet little church. Nondescript. Out of the way. Harmless, even. Deceptively so.
I didn't mind the tracts he'd carry home. Hey, everyone needs a little spirituality in their lives, right? I mean, apparently, our brains are wired in that direction. We have to worship something - if not God, or ourselves, or money - it has to be something. Sometimes, I thought that for me, it was Peter.
Because to me, Peter was perfect. He was smart, and funny, and OCD about things in the cutest ways, like his sock drawer and closing all the doors at night before we went to sleep because he couldn't sleep otherwise. It was cute. And because he was so smart, I didn't think anything like this could actually happen to a thinking, logical human being. And because he was my perfection, I let it happen.
At some point he started asking me to go to church with him. I took a deep breath. He saw the look on my face. He explained it to me - why it was a good idea. I shook my head.
'Maybe for you, babe. You know I'm not the church type.'
But he wore me down. I don't know if they teach you that at church - how to flood the people in your life with so much evangelism that eventually they come to hear The Message - that's what they called it - just to shut them up.
The final push - shove, really - was when he said that it was important to him. It is quite possible that nothing could have swayed me at the point of exhaustion I was. But he reminded me. He said he sat through all my phases of painting, then sculpting, then mosaics and collages - and a little tai bo training and origami too - all the classes I made him take me to, all the lectures, all the fees he paid, because it was important to me. He knew it was unfair of him to bring it up. He knew I would come anyway because of the fact that he did.
It became a cycle. We would go to church every week, sit at the very front like a perfect couple. Before we left the house, I'd have a shot of espresso to keep me awake through the sermon. I'd have to hide it so he didn't know how much I wanted to shoot myself - or everyone else - every time the sermon started just so it would stop. I'd smile. Play nice every time someone said for the umpteenth time, 'Oh, you're Peter's wife? Peter's so nice,'...then look at me, puzzled, like, why wasn't I as nice? Where was my fervour, my divine enthusiasm? I'd lost it somewhere between the scripture reading and trying to count the tassels on the curtains to the side of the pulpit.
I knew I was reaching breaking point, though. We talked about nothing else. Not news. Not my art. Not his job (which he had taken an indefinite sabbatical from, without telling me, until I called him at work to pick up grapes for salad on the way home and his ex-secretary informed me, embarrassed, that he wasn't in and hadn't been in for a while, and apologized, like she was the liar and sudden spectator in my marriage). Not his parents. Nothing else, but the church. I was, again, exhausted. It seemed to be a cycle, from when it began - him begging me to come. Him begging me to stay. Him begging me to join the prayer cells. Me being exhausted at every turn.
The stick was lit when he had a cold from hell. He was coughing every day and all through the night - deep, racking coughs that made neighbours think someone was dying slowly, and scared the dog. The wheezing gasps of cracked, blackened lungs, like a chain smoker's. The type of cough that makes people hold their shawls and jackets tighter as you walk by in case whatever you have is airborne and their layers are superhero disease-averse immediate-vaccination capes.
He didn't want to take any medicine. He said The Message would heal him. That the prayer cell were praying hard for him, on their top priority prayer lists. That nothing physical could overwhelm the supernatural.
He refused to listen to me. He ignored my tears, my rages, my blackmail. He shut his ear to my logic about how inconsiderate he was being - what if I caught his suspicious TB-like disease? What if my Perfect Peter left me alone in the world? Just because death was supposed to be the only thing doing us part, didn't mean he had to invite it to dinner.
He said that The Evil One would not get him, and there were other apostles who would rise in his place if it was his time to go. And he invited those apostles to our house, that weekend, after church.
My birthday.
I thought he would remember.
He didn't.
And I, as usual, was too tired to fight it. They trooped in, eyes glazed, hands raised. Their fat, tithe-filled bellies hovered over the dining room table - both almost equally laden - to pick, with their pudgy hands, what I - and the Creator - had made. I loathed them, but I knew it wasn't their fault.
'You look lovely today.'
I smiled weakly.
'Tell me...have you ever thought of leading the session we have for young girls? I'm sure you know about it, Peter must have mentioned we wanted to put your name forward. Such a fine young man...'
I walked away. And was cornered again, this time by the Leader of The Message.
'Where to in such a hurry?'
'Napkins.'
I had no energy to smile.
'You should smile a little bit more. It is a special day today, that we are visiting your house.'
'Yes. On my birthday.'
'Oh!'Surprise, but not real concern. As long as he had his spring roll in hand. 'Peter, why didn't you tell us?'
'Tell you what?'
'It's your wife's birthday today.'
'Oh!' Surprise. Not real concern. Or guilt. Or anyone I used to know. He coughed and a little bit of spittle landed on the Leader's spring roll. The Leader didn't notice. He just smiled, a little too intently at me, and in what seemed like slow motion, opened his gaping mouth to pop the rest of the roll in. A wave of nausea and realization hit me like a slap from Andre the Giant at the smell of his beady-eyed opportunism and cheap aftershave.
'Happy birthday.'
I threw up on his glossy shoes.
'Angela!'
'Your sermon was shit,' I said, wiping my mouth. So that's why I'd been so tired all the time.
'Please excuse my wife-'
'No. Please don't.'
And so I was done. All I needed was a little reason, I guess. Another slice of perfection to move on to.
tSN
When he said this weekend after church, my heart sunk.
I'm not the type of girl who will wear a thong to please anyone else looking at my butt other than me. I though Peter was that type of guy too - only brushes teeth when absolutely necessary (meeting in the boardroom level type, as opposed to staying in the house all day and not coming across human contact), down for random adventures, a great believer in avoidance of pain at most costs. Intelligent. Free radical. Untamed, with no desire to be so.
I should have noticed when he started going to the church on the corner. It was a quiet little church. Nondescript. Out of the way. Harmless, even. Deceptively so.
I didn't mind the tracts he'd carry home. Hey, everyone needs a little spirituality in their lives, right? I mean, apparently, our brains are wired in that direction. We have to worship something - if not God, or ourselves, or money - it has to be something. Sometimes, I thought that for me, it was Peter.
Because to me, Peter was perfect. He was smart, and funny, and OCD about things in the cutest ways, like his sock drawer and closing all the doors at night before we went to sleep because he couldn't sleep otherwise. It was cute. And because he was so smart, I didn't think anything like this could actually happen to a thinking, logical human being. And because he was my perfection, I let it happen.
At some point he started asking me to go to church with him. I took a deep breath. He saw the look on my face. He explained it to me - why it was a good idea. I shook my head.
'Maybe for you, babe. You know I'm not the church type.'
But he wore me down. I don't know if they teach you that at church - how to flood the people in your life with so much evangelism that eventually they come to hear The Message - that's what they called it - just to shut them up.
The final push - shove, really - was when he said that it was important to him. It is quite possible that nothing could have swayed me at the point of exhaustion I was. But he reminded me. He said he sat through all my phases of painting, then sculpting, then mosaics and collages - and a little tai bo training and origami too - all the classes I made him take me to, all the lectures, all the fees he paid, because it was important to me. He knew it was unfair of him to bring it up. He knew I would come anyway because of the fact that he did.
It became a cycle. We would go to church every week, sit at the very front like a perfect couple. Before we left the house, I'd have a shot of espresso to keep me awake through the sermon. I'd have to hide it so he didn't know how much I wanted to shoot myself - or everyone else - every time the sermon started just so it would stop. I'd smile. Play nice every time someone said for the umpteenth time, 'Oh, you're Peter's wife? Peter's so nice,'...then look at me, puzzled, like, why wasn't I as nice? Where was my fervour, my divine enthusiasm? I'd lost it somewhere between the scripture reading and trying to count the tassels on the curtains to the side of the pulpit.
I knew I was reaching breaking point, though. We talked about nothing else. Not news. Not my art. Not his job (which he had taken an indefinite sabbatical from, without telling me, until I called him at work to pick up grapes for salad on the way home and his ex-secretary informed me, embarrassed, that he wasn't in and hadn't been in for a while, and apologized, like she was the liar and sudden spectator in my marriage). Not his parents. Nothing else, but the church. I was, again, exhausted. It seemed to be a cycle, from when it began - him begging me to come. Him begging me to stay. Him begging me to join the prayer cells. Me being exhausted at every turn.
The stick was lit when he had a cold from hell. He was coughing every day and all through the night - deep, racking coughs that made neighbours think someone was dying slowly, and scared the dog. The wheezing gasps of cracked, blackened lungs, like a chain smoker's. The type of cough that makes people hold their shawls and jackets tighter as you walk by in case whatever you have is airborne and their layers are superhero disease-averse immediate-vaccination capes.
He didn't want to take any medicine. He said The Message would heal him. That the prayer cell were praying hard for him, on their top priority prayer lists. That nothing physical could overwhelm the supernatural.
He refused to listen to me. He ignored my tears, my rages, my blackmail. He shut his ear to my logic about how inconsiderate he was being - what if I caught his suspicious TB-like disease? What if my Perfect Peter left me alone in the world? Just because death was supposed to be the only thing doing us part, didn't mean he had to invite it to dinner.
He said that The Evil One would not get him, and there were other apostles who would rise in his place if it was his time to go. And he invited those apostles to our house, that weekend, after church.
My birthday.
I thought he would remember.
He didn't.
And I, as usual, was too tired to fight it. They trooped in, eyes glazed, hands raised. Their fat, tithe-filled bellies hovered over the dining room table - both almost equally laden - to pick, with their pudgy hands, what I - and the Creator - had made. I loathed them, but I knew it wasn't their fault.
'You look lovely today.'
I smiled weakly.
'Tell me...have you ever thought of leading the session we have for young girls? I'm sure you know about it, Peter must have mentioned we wanted to put your name forward. Such a fine young man...'
I walked away. And was cornered again, this time by the Leader of The Message.
'Where to in such a hurry?'
'Napkins.'
I had no energy to smile.
'You should smile a little bit more. It is a special day today, that we are visiting your house.'
'Yes. On my birthday.'
'Oh!'Surprise, but not real concern. As long as he had his spring roll in hand. 'Peter, why didn't you tell us?'
'Tell you what?'
'It's your wife's birthday today.'
'Oh!' Surprise. Not real concern. Or guilt. Or anyone I used to know. He coughed and a little bit of spittle landed on the Leader's spring roll. The Leader didn't notice. He just smiled, a little too intently at me, and in what seemed like slow motion, opened his gaping mouth to pop the rest of the roll in. A wave of nausea and realization hit me like a slap from Andre the Giant at the smell of his beady-eyed opportunism and cheap aftershave.
'Happy birthday.'
I threw up on his glossy shoes.
'Angela!'
'Your sermon was shit,' I said, wiping my mouth. So that's why I'd been so tired all the time.
'Please excuse my wife-'
'No. Please don't.'
And so I was done. All I needed was a little reason, I guess. Another slice of perfection to move on to.
tSN
Monday, February 2, 2015
Book: Brainstorm
A blog called Brainstorm was nominated for, and won, Best Political Blog at BAKE last year (or was it the year before? They should win every year). With good reason. In addition to their prolific commentary on Kenya's consistently charged sociopolitical scene, they publish and distribute - for FREE! - every quarter (that's three months, to you guys who don't do lessons).
This year's is called 127.0.0.01: Thoughts on Home. It's about...well, thoughts on home. What we think Home is. What the word means to us. What it means to others. Michael Onsando, one of the editors, introduces it thus:
Home is complicated.
It is one of those things that runs deep with everyone - and it shows. The
work in this book moves and breathes in different ways. In ways that can
only be reached looking inward. In ways that ask to be listened to - and to
be heard.
Home - where the heart is.
Listen, it beats.
This edition is shorter than the other editions have been, spanning only 36 pages, 5 stories. But these 5 stories are compelling enough in themselves. It's intelligence in a bite-sized (FREE!) piece. My favourites are the one by Cornell Ngare, called Mom's New Place, which begins:
I am an IDP. If you've lived in Kenya for any reasonable length of time, you don't need me to define that acronym.
It is the longest in the collection - maybe not the best written - but it certainly captures and holds your attention to the end. Because who doesn't want to know what happens after that sentence?
My other favourite is Michael Onsando's Going Home. He writes solemnly, reflectively, interspersed with bits of poetry that are enthralling as they are succinct - two qualities I love in poetry.
i.
You have been told to become smaller.
That the things you expect,
no one can give.
That happiness is
two steps
a broken tricycle
6 missed birthdays
4 unwritten poems
and a lonely tear.
That desire is a cat
tame on the outside
but ferocious on the inside.
You must keep your pussy
in check.
Smaller still,
they insist.
You have folded yourself
to conceal,
cover,
hide
(not your fault,
this is not your fault
they are not your fault)
You have followed the
rules, and now,
you sit;
steadily racking days into
the past
waiting
to die.
Go get it on the site. It's free and it is much more value than that. Then again, the best things in life are free, right?
tSN
This year's is called 127.0.0.01: Thoughts on Home. It's about...well, thoughts on home. What we think Home is. What the word means to us. What it means to others. Michael Onsando, one of the editors, introduces it thus:
Home is complicated.
It is one of those things that runs deep with everyone - and it shows. The
work in this book moves and breathes in different ways. In ways that can
only be reached looking inward. In ways that ask to be listened to - and to
be heard.
Home - where the heart is.
Listen, it beats.
This edition is shorter than the other editions have been, spanning only 36 pages, 5 stories. But these 5 stories are compelling enough in themselves. It's intelligence in a bite-sized (FREE!) piece. My favourites are the one by Cornell Ngare, called Mom's New Place, which begins:
I am an IDP. If you've lived in Kenya for any reasonable length of time, you don't need me to define that acronym.
It is the longest in the collection - maybe not the best written - but it certainly captures and holds your attention to the end. Because who doesn't want to know what happens after that sentence?
My other favourite is Michael Onsando's Going Home. He writes solemnly, reflectively, interspersed with bits of poetry that are enthralling as they are succinct - two qualities I love in poetry.
i.
You have been told to become smaller.
That the things you expect,
no one can give.
That happiness is
two steps
a broken tricycle
6 missed birthdays
4 unwritten poems
and a lonely tear.
That desire is a cat
tame on the outside
but ferocious on the inside.
You must keep your pussy
in check.
Smaller still,
they insist.
You have folded yourself
to conceal,
cover,
hide
(not your fault,
this is not your fault
they are not your fault)
You have followed the
rules, and now,
you sit;
steadily racking days into
the past
waiting
to die.
Go get it on the site. It's free and it is much more value than that. Then again, the best things in life are free, right?
tSN
On weird come ons
I had just delivered a book to a pretty lady and I was driving out of the parking lot. The guard came to swipe his card to let me out and decided to make conversation.
'So you are leaving now...thank you for visiting us.'
'Uh...welcome.'
'Will you come back?'
'Uh...if you give a reason, I guess.' (in bad swa)
Now, maybe the whole give me a reason thing sounded seductive? Or insinuatory? Because he said
'If you give me your number will it be bad?'
I was like awwwww but also...um. But will it be bad? Like an evil to end all evils?
I nodded.
He said, 'Ok,' and let me through as I tried to temper my rejection with a 'Have a nice day!'
tSN
'So you are leaving now...thank you for visiting us.'
'Uh...welcome.'
'Will you come back?'
'Uh...if you give a reason, I guess.' (in bad swa)
Now, maybe the whole give me a reason thing sounded seductive? Or insinuatory? Because he said
'If you give me your number will it be bad?'
I was like awwwww but also...um. But will it be bad? Like an evil to end all evils?
I nodded.
He said, 'Ok,' and let me through as I tried to temper my rejection with a 'Have a nice day!'
tSN
Friday, January 30, 2015
Hitting people
You shouldn't hit people. It's a general rule. You are supposed to play nice and not stab them when you want to, because, thank God, the law states that assault is a crime and where you can potentially go (in Kenya, anyway) is a lot worse than the place you were in when you were hitting them.
Even when they deserve it.
I can't remember the last time I hit someone. I can, however remember the last time I wanted to.
I can remember the last time someone hit me.
So it's a chill sleepy Friday, and cooking is not feeling like being done, so I decide to head on over to the nearest Pizza Inn and get a pizza pie - because honestly, that's like the only thing they do right - and so I'm driving, and I indicate, and some motherfucker on a bike takes the opportunity to hit the side of my car.
Right after I've been thinking happy thoughts about what I'm going to eat, how nice it will be, how much I love SB, how sad I was when he was on his crutches, and how weird the lady at the tyre place was about whether me and Slevin are brother and sister (??!???), too.
So we stop in the middle of the highway. It was one of those ones with a thin-ass feeder lane which is why the manoeuvering was a smidge complicated. I say a tentative 'Sorry!'- facepalm, I know - and he launches into a driving lesson.
I shouldn't have said sorry, Miss Admitting Liability All Over The Damn Place. It's just that...I mean, he hit my side mirror and it moved, and that looked like it hurt a little. So I was like, woiye. Not, sorry I hit you. Duh.
Also I'm beginning to think there is something about that side of SB that likes to take out bike guys. This is the second one in under a year. The last one left a dent so huge, I still haven't replaced it.
I realize that is unrelated but it wanted to be said.
So anyway, he goes why didn't you indicate? And I'm like...um...I did...kwani you think aaaaall the other cars behind me didn't see? And for once my Kiswahili did not falter (despite my A in KCSE, it has a tendency to just potea when needed. Yes, that is a standard I'm going to use. Yes, me. Yes, it was an A minus. But still an A). How do you not indicate on a highway? I'm not an idiot. I mean, there are times I choose to drive badly, granted. Like when I go way over the speed limit on my way to the airport. Or when it is midnight - because who drives at 50 km/h at midnight unless you desire robbery and sorrow? But this was not one of those times. I'm not a bad driver!
Honest.
It turns into a thiiiiing (well not a thiiiiing. More like a thiiing). He keeps talking about how bikes don't have emergency brakes (like it's my problem) and how we should wait for the cops. At this point I'm getting annoyed like...motherfucker. You're holding up traffic, AND I indicated. IF YOU WANNA START SOMETHING LET'S START SOMETHING! He's all oooooh, sasa mtasema watu wa pikipiki ni wabaya (which, oh look, I am on this blog) and I'm like - nimesema nyinyi ni wabaya? Nimesema hivyo? And he's all, sasa ka ungeniumiza vibaya, and I'm all, nimekuumiza? Kwani unadhani naendesha gari ili nikuumize? and people driving by are all, throwing out unhelpful advice because Kenyans just feel the need to commentate on bloody EVERYTHING (#KOT) and be like, si ni kitu kidogo tu? Si msonge mjadiliane? (they didn't say mjadiliane. I was blocking them out. Because...yeah. And if I songa, how will the cops know HE was the shit endesharer?) Eventually, dude is like sawa lakini umefanya vibaya sana, and I'm like, um, I INDICATED, BYE FELICIA.
*breathe*
*drives into Pizza Inn*
*they don't have mushrooms*
*flips table*
Guys after all that they didn't have the pizza pie I wanted!...but at least they had pizza pies, which is progress, because I've gone to Pizza Inns where they're like, oh, we're out of dough.
But they're selling pizza.
So it's like...ok.
Ati it's a different dough.
O____________________o
So after I get my pie and force a girl I used to go to school with to buy my book out of guilt because I am those authors now who are like 'Omg I haven't seen you in so long! You know I have a book now? No? You don't? Where have you been? Under a rock? Ah, that explains it. It's a good thing you met me today! Here, it's 600 bob kthnxnbye', I get in my car and think of the repercussions of that slight battery SB went through...what if this pikipiki guy has connections in high places? Or places that are further along from where I am, ie the roundabout, ie the coppers...what if one of them is his cousin once removed and he drives down to this guy and is like waaaaah, waiiiil, this chick in a K** just hit me, she's such a bitch, going to Pizza Inn after hitting me, let's take down the bourgeois man - or woman, waah waaaah waaaaaah, and they guy is like, oh my gosh cousin, I will support your cause and be on your side because Mafia-like family attachments, then they high five their super secret handshake though not so secret because they're on the highway so I mean really they should like get a special like nod or something because which secret society even does handshakes anymore, and then they sit there waiting for me to drive by in all my innocent hungry glory and stop me and it COI'AINS for me...
And a cop came out at the roundabout, by the way. Thank God my imagination is just that, because I could have sworn he looked at me funny and not just my insurance sticker.
Oh gosh maybe they're putting me and my tender kneecaps on surveillance!
ARGH.
You know what guys, if this is goodbye...thanks for reading.
Also, buy my book and keep my legacy alive, yes?
tSN
p.s. The chicken and mushroom pizza pie, IMHO, is the only one really worth it, to be honest.
Even when they deserve it.
I can't remember the last time I hit someone. I can, however remember the last time I wanted to.
I can remember the last time someone hit me.
So it's a chill sleepy Friday, and cooking is not feeling like being done, so I decide to head on over to the nearest Pizza Inn and get a pizza pie - because honestly, that's like the only thing they do right - and so I'm driving, and I indicate, and some motherfucker on a bike takes the opportunity to hit the side of my car.
Right after I've been thinking happy thoughts about what I'm going to eat, how nice it will be, how much I love SB, how sad I was when he was on his crutches, and how weird the lady at the tyre place was about whether me and Slevin are brother and sister (??!???), too.
So we stop in the middle of the highway. It was one of those ones with a thin-ass feeder lane which is why the manoeuvering was a smidge complicated. I say a tentative 'Sorry!'- facepalm, I know - and he launches into a driving lesson.
I shouldn't have said sorry, Miss Admitting Liability All Over The Damn Place. It's just that...I mean, he hit my side mirror and it moved, and that looked like it hurt a little. So I was like, woiye. Not, sorry I hit you. Duh.
Also I'm beginning to think there is something about that side of SB that likes to take out bike guys. This is the second one in under a year. The last one left a dent so huge, I still haven't replaced it.
I realize that is unrelated but it wanted to be said.
So anyway, he goes why didn't you indicate? And I'm like...um...I did...kwani you think aaaaall the other cars behind me didn't see? And for once my Kiswahili did not falter (despite my A in KCSE, it has a tendency to just potea when needed. Yes, that is a standard I'm going to use. Yes, me. Yes, it was an A minus. But still an A). How do you not indicate on a highway? I'm not an idiot. I mean, there are times I choose to drive badly, granted. Like when I go way over the speed limit on my way to the airport. Or when it is midnight - because who drives at 50 km/h at midnight unless you desire robbery and sorrow? But this was not one of those times. I'm not a bad driver!
Honest.
It turns into a thiiiiing (well not a thiiiiing. More like a thiiing). He keeps talking about how bikes don't have emergency brakes (like it's my problem) and how we should wait for the cops. At this point I'm getting annoyed like...motherfucker. You're holding up traffic, AND I indicated. IF YOU WANNA START SOMETHING LET'S START SOMETHING! He's all oooooh, sasa mtasema watu wa pikipiki ni wabaya (which, oh look, I am on this blog) and I'm like - nimesema nyinyi ni wabaya? Nimesema hivyo? And he's all, sasa ka ungeniumiza vibaya, and I'm all, nimekuumiza? Kwani unadhani naendesha gari ili nikuumize? and people driving by are all, throwing out unhelpful advice because Kenyans just feel the need to commentate on bloody EVERYTHING (#KOT) and be like, si ni kitu kidogo tu? Si msonge mjadiliane? (they didn't say mjadiliane. I was blocking them out. Because...yeah. And if I songa, how will the cops know HE was the shit endesharer?) Eventually, dude is like sawa lakini umefanya vibaya sana, and I'm like, um, I INDICATED, BYE FELICIA.
*breathe*
*drives into Pizza Inn*
*they don't have mushrooms*
*flips table*
Guys after all that they didn't have the pizza pie I wanted!...but at least they had pizza pies, which is progress, because I've gone to Pizza Inns where they're like, oh, we're out of dough.
But they're selling pizza.
So it's like...ok.
Ati it's a different dough.
O____________________o
So after I get my pie and force a girl I used to go to school with to buy my book out of guilt because I am those authors now who are like 'Omg I haven't seen you in so long! You know I have a book now? No? You don't? Where have you been? Under a rock? Ah, that explains it. It's a good thing you met me today! Here, it's 600 bob kthnxnbye', I get in my car and think of the repercussions of that slight battery SB went through...what if this pikipiki guy has connections in high places? Or places that are further along from where I am, ie the roundabout, ie the coppers...what if one of them is his cousin once removed and he drives down to this guy and is like waaaaah, waiiiil, this chick in a K** just hit me, she's such a bitch, going to Pizza Inn after hitting me, let's take down the bourgeois man - or woman, waah waaaah waaaaaah, and they guy is like, oh my gosh cousin, I will support your cause and be on your side because Mafia-like family attachments, then they high five their super secret handshake though not so secret because they're on the highway so I mean really they should like get a special like nod or something because which secret society even does handshakes anymore, and then they sit there waiting for me to drive by in all my innocent hungry glory and stop me and it COI'AINS for me...
And a cop came out at the roundabout, by the way. Thank God my imagination is just that, because I could have sworn he looked at me funny and not just my insurance sticker.
Oh gosh maybe they're putting me and my tender kneecaps on surveillance!
ARGH.
You know what guys, if this is goodbye...thanks for reading.
Also, buy my book and keep my legacy alive, yes?
tSN
p.s. The chicken and mushroom pizza pie, IMHO, is the only one really worth it, to be honest.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
The weatherman
She said:
You're not supposed to break up with people on a sunny day. There's a cardinal law about it, you know. If you must break up with someone, it should be raining, or at least look like it's going to. You know the type of sky – cloudy. Slate-grey, like you can sketch a chalk drawing across it. Ponderous clouds lugging their weight about, lording it over the earth like HA! I win again...
It was brilliantly sunny. A brilliant summery day. It was close to perfect. All we needed was to win the lottery and life could have ended there and then, complete, fulfilled.
We were having a picnic. It was the type of picnic with no indication that something was going to happen during it – you know how everyone says there is supposed – again, that word, supposed – to be, like, a feeling...some sort of intuition that screams at you that SOMETHING is coming. Something was coming. And it may have been something wicked, depending on what side of the coming you were seeing.
No signs, no omens (because, no clouds). He handed me a slice of cheese. I'm those people who eat cheese for fun, you know? The flat, sliced, melts on everything type with the cow drawn on the cover, smiling, as if you're not about to eat something that came from its insides? And maybe the cow won the lottery itself, the lottery of being picked from its cheese? I mean, what is wrong with advertisers? Drain a cow and then make it your poster child for your product. Kill a berry and its entire family, then resurrect it, smiling, on a billboard, larger than life.
I was eating the cheese, and I looked at him, and he smiled, and that was when I knew that it was over.
So I blocked out the sun.
tSN
You're not supposed to break up with people on a sunny day. There's a cardinal law about it, you know. If you must break up with someone, it should be raining, or at least look like it's going to. You know the type of sky – cloudy. Slate-grey, like you can sketch a chalk drawing across it. Ponderous clouds lugging their weight about, lording it over the earth like HA! I win again...
It was brilliantly sunny. A brilliant summery day. It was close to perfect. All we needed was to win the lottery and life could have ended there and then, complete, fulfilled.
We were having a picnic. It was the type of picnic with no indication that something was going to happen during it – you know how everyone says there is supposed – again, that word, supposed – to be, like, a feeling...some sort of intuition that screams at you that SOMETHING is coming. Something was coming. And it may have been something wicked, depending on what side of the coming you were seeing.
No signs, no omens (because, no clouds). He handed me a slice of cheese. I'm those people who eat cheese for fun, you know? The flat, sliced, melts on everything type with the cow drawn on the cover, smiling, as if you're not about to eat something that came from its insides? And maybe the cow won the lottery itself, the lottery of being picked from its cheese? I mean, what is wrong with advertisers? Drain a cow and then make it your poster child for your product. Kill a berry and its entire family, then resurrect it, smiling, on a billboard, larger than life.
I was eating the cheese, and I looked at him, and he smiled, and that was when I knew that it was over.
So I blocked out the sun.
tSN
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Doughy delights
Window shopping should be classified under a form of lust. Because that is what it is, no? It's just walking by glass windows, coveting mightily, all the things your salary won't let you afford.
I am bad at cooking flat things. This includes chapatis (whose disastrous encounters you can read here), pancakes, omelettes...I just can't get the hang of the flip. Preparation I have down. Just not the execution to the end.
To make said yummy omelette, I went to Tuskys. The reason the Tuskys at T Mall wins is because it has no costs for parking, as well as a variety of restaurants and a nice club (with fantastic fries. Is there anything better than Psys fries at the rave? Or after it?).
But what really wins is Tuskys bread.
The good Lord above deemed it fit to declare that in the midst of the blackness that is this world, in the quagmire of confusion that is (driving) in Nairobi...across the vast desert of singlehood and mid-20s poverty, a blessing, a shining light, a DANIEL! in the blistering heat, is Tuskys loaf.
Nothing compares to this doughy delight. Always fresh. Like the perfect boyfriend - never lets you down, doesn't talk back, warm and tender, pliant...holds you when you want to be held, stuffs you when you want to be stuffed...hehe.
ANYhue. The point is. The omelette was forgotten. Every loaf at Tuskys is a chunk of heaven. Don't even get me started on their vanilla muffins. O_______O #foodComa
#theTruthIsInTheTuskys
#IhasTuskysBreads
#1breadGoodTuskysBreadBetter
#BettyBoughtButterButBitchForgotTuskysBread
May I one day be worthy to create something so perfect with these two hands, and may I be able to handle the honour.
tSN
I am bad at cooking flat things. This includes chapatis (whose disastrous encounters you can read here), pancakes, omelettes...I just can't get the hang of the flip. Preparation I have down. Just not the execution to the end.
To make said yummy omelette, I went to Tuskys. The reason the Tuskys at T Mall wins is because it has no costs for parking, as well as a variety of restaurants and a nice club (with fantastic fries. Is there anything better than Psys fries at the rave? Or after it?).
But what really wins is Tuskys bread.
The good Lord above deemed it fit to declare that in the midst of the blackness that is this world, in the quagmire of confusion that is (driving) in Nairobi...across the vast desert of singlehood and mid-20s poverty, a blessing, a shining light, a DANIEL! in the blistering heat, is Tuskys loaf.
Nothing compares to this doughy delight. Always fresh. Like the perfect boyfriend - never lets you down, doesn't talk back, warm and tender, pliant...holds you when you want to be held, stuffs you when you want to be stuffed...hehe.
ANYhue. The point is. The omelette was forgotten. Every loaf at Tuskys is a chunk of heaven. Don't even get me started on their vanilla muffins. O_______O #foodComa
#theTruthIsInTheTuskys
#IhasTuskysBreads
#1breadGoodTuskysBreadBetter
#BettyBoughtButterButBitchForgotTuskysBread
May I one day be worthy to create something so perfect with these two hands, and may I be able to handle the honour.
tSN
Friday, January 16, 2015
Series: Man Seeking Woman
With Jay Baruchel, Eric André, Britt Lower, Vanessa Bayer.
Don't like this series.
It is showing on FFX or something. I don't even...
Anyway. I don't usually like stuff that Jay Baruchel is in (This is the End was one of the worst movies I watched last year. Ugh. The beginning and the end - ha - were good but eeeeeeeverything in the middle was just unnecessary. Rihanna, what kind of horrific career choice was that???) (you too, Kevin Hart) (you too, EVERYONE in that movie) so I should have known that this would be no exception. Based on a book, the series is about a guy who gets dumped by his girlfriend and then can't move on but has to, the usual.
In sickly slapstick fashion, the acting is ok, but the stunts and theatrics go over the top, venturing into the fantastical (there's a troll in the first episode. Trust me, that's not a spoiler.) and inane.
Ok I'm clearly biased, but if you like that kind of stuff (you and Rotten Tomatoes, apparently), go right ahead. I'm bored. Might watch the second one to give it a chance, seeing as I hated Silicon Valley when it started but it improved significantly by the 8th episode. Where IS Silicon Valley, actually?
tSN
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Film: The Imitation Game
(there's a GOT S4 spoiler at the end of this, so if you haven't watched it, stop after the first 7)
starring the man wit the biggest voice for the smallest frame, Benedict Cumberbatch and Keira Knightley, who, it would seem, is finally growing up. And putting on weight. All win!
Now, just a quick ode to Mr Benedict. He's so cute in an I'm a child way and then his I'm a white Morgan Freeman voice - to die for! It makes you wonder about your paedophilic tendencies if you think he's cute (no, seriously. The guy looks 12) But Star Trek Into Darkness changed my life and he was simply beautiful in it and I approve of ALL his acting choices (in the hope that he won't pull a last few Denzel movies, man. I did like The Equalizer, though) and interviews on the Graham Norton show (please, please, please look for the one he did where he does the Beyonce walk, and his celebrity impressions, tagged in a previous review post. Such good acting. Such a cool guy. I luuuuuuuuuuu you papi! Ati one of the names for his army is Cumberbitches. pwaahahahahahahahahahahahhahahaha *rolls over dead*)
(Another quick ode to Martin Freeman. Loved him in The Hobbit. And thus JUST started watching Sherlock because of him and Bennie)
And Keira! Good job! Hated you in Pirates and now here you are with an Oscar nomination. Such growth. Such weight. So proud.
So The Imitation Game is based on the true story of math genius Professor Alan Turing, who is credited for having come up with the basic layout of modern day computers and all that sciencey stuff. He was hired by the English Government to interpret a code called Enigma that the Germans were using to pass on all their information on who they were bombing etc in the Second World War with a team of cryptographers.
This is their story.
(that line was purely for dramatic effect. Can you tell? hehehe)
...the story of how they cracked the code, Turing's life, how the War ended (though we all know how it ended, but why it ended, and how marvelous his contribution to it was).
This is a good movie. It has an Oscar nod, even, for many things (still shocked at Keira, honestly. ANYhue). Benedict is in prime form. And you know who else is in this? Chap from Downton Abbey whose name I don't know in real life...the guy who was the Scottish (?) last born's hubby. He was good too. AND Tywin Lannister! Who may be destined to play the very same scary character till someone else kills him, haha)
Up next, Man Seeking Woman.
tSN
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Book: Do you remember the first time? by Jenny Colgan
I saw this book in the street and I simply could not resist buying it for a highly competitive pricing of 50 shillings. I used to read Jenny Colgan in my childhood, and it was like a blast from a romanticized hormone filled past.
I don't know if Miz Colgan writes anymore, but this is one of her older contributions to the chick lit world. IMHO, everyone needs a little dose of chicklit every so often, but it doesn't mean you have to pick bad chicklit. For those hot and heavy imaginations, old school Amanda Quick or new school Johanna Lindsey will do (because everyone knows the plot after like the 3rd Judith McNaught. Not to knock her or anything - her career has definitely not been for...naught. :D) For light hearted Bridget Jones variety time, Colgan does just fine.
Do you remember the first time? is about Flora Scurrison, who has a life she thought she wanted - a nice boyfriend (well, nice enough), a good though harrowing job, enough money for expensive face creams and dinners - she has it all. More or less. This is how she and her best friend Tashy kind of planned to be living at the ripe old age of 32. Then at Tashy's wedding (which she suspects Tashy didn't want to get into in the first place), she makes a wish and this wish literally changes her entire life, giving her a chance to make decisions to leave her complacency and live the life she's always wanted to...or not. What does she decide? The plot ever thickens.
There's a good dose of humour - just how I like it. A lot of what Colgan says is exactly what I think about a lot of things, and what happens after the wish makes you reflect quite a bit on whether or not you should be making the decisions you make. I mean if you only have one life to live, and you don't know when you're going to die...then why not live the life you want, amirite?
An amusing read that I did not mind going back in time for.
Which was fine, of course. Lots of people did it. In fact, at the moment, it seemed a hundred percent of everyone was doing it. I glanced at Olly. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach that he might be thinking it was about time that he, too, just did it. Just little things. Like he took over my bill paying because it would make it more convenient. (It did, too; for an accountant I'm shocking with my money, like all those dipso doctors telling you to cut down on the booze. I always leave it till somebody's threatening to come round and total my kneecaps.) Or, maybe we should get a kitten? (If I wanted a small malevolent creature crawling round my kitchen demanding food I'd have a baby, thank you.)
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Film: Whiplash
So clearly this is review month.
Maybe there's nothing going on in my life. Or maybe I just have a lot of time on my hands now that SB doesn't have a tyre and for that reason, I can't seem to feel inspired to leave the house.
Whiplash, the movie I was watching at midnight, is about a guy who goes to a prestigious music school and finds a slightly psychotic teacher who he is dying to be validated by. Drums are his tool, and that chap is his poison.
This movie was pretty good. It's gotten a couple of Oscar nods and awards already, and made quite a lot more than what it cost to make. I mean...it IS a good movie. Great? I don't know. The shooting is interesting - the cinematography reminds me of a cross between Locke and Black Swan. It has a weird yellow kind of thriller movie-hued shooting - or maybe I was watching a camera copy? There are also a lot of artistically fulfilling shots - cuts for intensity's effect, I suppose - between characters and drums, characters and other characters, etc. It's visually satisfying, in a more 'What-shot-did-he-choose' way as opposed to a 'That's-such-a-pretty landscape' way. And the music - my weakness - is good! Jazz! And all that...jazz. :D
The whole movie is very Black Swan-esque - a student who wants it all and wants to be it all and thinks of nothing else all the time, and a teacher whose madness only serves to fuel his own. The student is played by Miles Teller, who is making better and better choices in his career (you know him from the bad guy in Divergent and in The Spectacular Now, which I don't know him from because I haven't seen it, but give me time). He puts on a great and mostly believable performance. I didn't understand the brief depiction of his teenage angst because he hadn't come across as angsty the entire movie, but family does bring out the worst in you, lol, so I guess that's valid.
J. K. Simmons plays the mad teacher well, which was interesting for me (he's the one getting the Oscar nods) because the last two things I saw him in were Men Women and Children (very good, but playing a normal dad character) and Growing Up Fisher, one of my favourite shows from last year, in which he plays a dad character with a twist - the fact that he is blind. Very candy flossy warm fuzzy feelings inside but also very funny. So this was interesting for me. He did it well.
Critics are saying that the movie is dependent on these two stellar performances, and it is worth it because of them. It is. Go see it.
tSN
Monday, January 12, 2015
Series: Empire
Empire is the brand new very shiny series to come out of Black America with a powerful mostly black cast. It's so new there's only one episode out. Lol.
Empire is about a drug dealer turned music mogul, a rich man after his first album helped him break free of poverty. A few problems come up for him, however, because he has three sons and he has to hand over his empire to one of them - and they're not the only ones who want a piece, including but not limited to his ex-wife Cookie who just got out of jail 13 years early (cut short from a 30 year jail sentence) and was the one who gave him the 400k to start off in the first place.
I don't even know where to begin singing its accolades. I love the soundtrack! It has a lot of good music, probably because the guy in charge of the music is Wonder - man - Timbaland (you'll see why this is important a little later on). The music is good in both the background whatevers and the music the characters sing. I thought it was a black Glee with great original music the first time I watched it. (It's not)
I love the actors. Terrence Howard is a wife beater but a great actor (isn't it unfortunate that these celebrities have...um...what are they called...flaws? Boring). I have great faith in Taraji's skills, always have - she was awesome in No Good Deed with Idris Elba, and actually enabled us to look away from him, which is no mean feat. Aaaaaaaand, si Henson and Howard were in Hustle and Flow pamoja? They've got that history down pat. Malik Yoba appears as the most sneer-filled baddie, and does so well (you'll remember him from Cool Runnings, if you're, like, old, and Why Did I Get Married, if you're new).The story might get a little corny - flashy shows always do - but I hope all of the other great factors won't let it descend into something awful.
I said shiny before: I love the shiny - and believable (who buys Single Ladies??) -successful black people-ness, much like what the Cosby Show did in its time. Though this is something 50 Cent tried to do in his (badly written with meh music because he is in charge of the music) show Power, Empire does what 50 does not - they do it right. I mean you know what good music for ANYthing - like distracting you from the fact that Rio 2 was not actually a good movie...
Already there's been some controversy concerning the shows: 50 was saying they stole his idea and his marketing strategy (because those can be patented, of course. Pssssh. Baby.). Taraji replied on Twitter saying 'I care about $, not cents.'
SNAP!
I pick Empire over Power any day, and I actually sat through more than 1 episode of Power, really hoping it would get better. It didn't. Thematically, even, 50 doesn't have a case - the only commonalities the shows share are too basic to be accused of copying, e.g., a mostly black cast, ex-drug dealer turned businessman...and that's about it. So let's see if Empire can maintain this high of good storytelling, acting and music - and making black folk look good - with all the success of Cosby sans molestation accusations, yes?
tSN
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Book: The Fault In Our Stars
The copy I had of The Fault In Our Stars had a fault on the cover. I got it from the Archangel who bought it in India, where - get this - they literally photocopied every single page of the original, slapped a new cover onto it and sold it in all its '#1 Ner York Times Bestseller' glory. No seriously, that's what it said on the cover. And she didn't notice. And neither did I. Lol.
The Fault In Our Stars by John Green is a novel about a girl, Hazel, who has cancer, and a boy she meets through a cancer support group that she has to go to. Augustus Waters. You have to say it like that because that is how it is said throughout the entire book.
This girl is supposed to be 16 but she does not sound 16 at all. Which is one thing I was impressed by. Another thing I was impressed by was how exactly John Green manages to capture the exact nuances of a teenage love affair - from a girl's point of view! How did he do this? Is there a teenage girl locked in his head? Or in his house, who he starves to bleed true emotion and description from her? Because he was very, very on it. But if this teenage girl is anything like Hazel, then she must have escaped by now. Because Hazel is smart.
Sure, there are some things that she - and Augustus Waters - are slightly improbably smart about. But I suppose cancer gives and takes some things. Like...you think about stuff differently. So I guess it make sense. And the gallows humour in this is my exact cup of tea.
My favourite bits of the book are when the guy starts describing stuff about the characters and things that actually really matter. Made me think - or rather, reminded me to remember. I think this book is the type that should be read a couple of times in a lifetime, just to remember the important shit.
Aki I hope that I just read the real text and not an Indian aspiring writer person's one. And my niece has already told me that the movie is meh. So. And apparently, his other books aren't actually very good? If I find one, I'll let you know.
Young Adult books my foot. This one is for old ones.
'But that wasn't what I was thinking. I was just trying to notice everything: the light on the ruined Ruins, this little kid who could barely walk discovering a stick at the corner of the playground, my indefatigable mother zigzagging mustard across her turkey sandwich, my dad patting his handheld in his pocket and resisting the urge to check it, a guy throwing a Frisbee that his dog kept running under and catching and returning to him.
...All I know of heaven and all I know of death is in this park: an elegant universe in ceaseless motion, teeming with ruined ruins and screaming children.'
tSN
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Film: Locke
starring Tom Hardy, only, preeeetty much
rated R - lots of cussing
So clearly this is going to be a week for oh LOOK. I have something to say and I need to say it immediately. Apparently.
So I just finished watching Locke, which is about a chap, Ivan Locke (Hardy) who gets a phone call at the beginning of the movie that completely changes his life as he knows it. He proceeds to make a few important decisions after that call, which kinda sorta f*s up (in the spirit of the rating, of course) the rest of his life, and he spends the rest of the movie dealing with that.
This was an ok movie. I'm a hopeless romantic so of the movies I've watched today, ha, I liked What If better. But, Tom Hardy carries it off very well, in true I Am Legend fashion - he is the only person in THE WHOLE MOVIE. Be prepared for that. It's a Tom Hardy groupie's wet dream. You know you're a star though when you can carry off an entire movie by yourself, with no supporting cast. I mean, can you imagine him just memorizing a script that he is going to say for an hour and a half? No prompts...no scene breaks (they filmed the whole thing at once, no pauses except to switch the memory card...like...production crews, I guess). He's already won some award for it, which is telling, and the movie has also already made double and a half of what it cost to produce it.
So you won't fall asleep. It is quite a good movie. I don't know about all that nail biting sijui thriller stuff in the poster above, but it is worth a watch. And I've always liked Master Hardy. He is, genuinely, a good actor, in spite of that terrible, terrible blemish on his otherwise sterling career. I'm talking about what they did to Batman (not Warrior which he was one of the only good things about or This Means War. *rolls eyes*). Yup. I'm never going to forget.
He brings out the crazy in his interestingly conflicted and ever-so-slightly mad man well. Bane, is that you?
tSN
p.s. For your viewing pleasure - I can't wait to watch this. I love Benedict Cumberbatch and he is everything I want in a personal I-do-impressive-impressions toy.
Film: What If
starring Daniel Radcliffe and Zoe Kazan...and Adam Driver.
rated PG-13 for like minimum nudity
Ok so What If came out in 2013 but I am just catching up on all the torrents I missed. Plus I saw a clip of it and I wasn't impressed but decided to give it a second chance after seeing it on Buzzfeed because Buzzfeed is always right. (it's not. On that list was also Starred Up which I hated, and I keep talking about it because Buzzfeed being wrong about their Best Movies of 2014 broke my heart. Especially because I forced everyone I was with to watch it with me. So really, my reputation is ruined.
Anyway.)
Wallace (Radcliffe) and Chantry (Kazan) meet at a party thrown by Chantry's cousin Adam (Adam Driver). They immediately connect, but she already has a boyfriend (which she forgets to mention until she is giving him her number. How wonderful). Of course he falls in love with her. What happens next?
I really liked this movie for a few reasons which I will now detail:
All the characters are pretty likeable, even Chantry's boyfriend, which is usually the easiest way to justify a breakup so that the main character can get the girl, and very lazy. Harry Potter - erm, Radcliffe, has been showing that he can act as more than an adolescent, which is great to watch, especially when he keeps the accent. I liked Chantry. She wasn't weak and waiting for a hero (hashtag Ms Penn in The Princess Bride, which they feature, TWELVE FREAKIN STARS FOR THAT. I hear she's better in House of Cards?). Adam Driver, who I hated in Girls, I am now getting more and more into. I really didn't like him in Girls. But now, particularly after This is where I leave you with Jason Bateman and Tina Fey (so funny. So good. Bateman in something other than his usual confused Arresed Development guy role. Nicely done.), he is growing on me. I have a sneaking suspicion he plays an Adam in everything. Is it just me? And I have a sneaking suspicion that he's actually like that in real life (much like Adam Brody. Hey. He'S CALLED ADAM TOO!! IS IT A THING???). I liked his girlfriend whose name I can't remember too.
Important relationshipy questions are asked all through the movie, which is great for me because I am a little obsessed with relationshipy things at the moment. Like, no, SERIOUSLY, if you're offered a promotion in a whole new country, will you go? And should your significant other follow? And what happens? And, of course, the age old question of can guys and gals just be friends. (yes.)
I loved the script. Straightforward bantery Gilmore Girlsy. Which I love. Which That Awkward Moment (with Zac Efron - slurp) tried to do and failed dismally. That awkward moment. Elan Mastai wrote and produced it. It was so funny in so many places and now I secretly want to date a Wallace. Good old fashioned banter but also a few good old fashioned flat out stunts (slipping on banana peel humour). Still funny.
Watch it maybe not on a night when you don't have someone to cuddle with.
tSN
p.s. Adam Driver's name in this is Allan. Close enough, methinks.
Book: The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives
Yay! First book review of 2015!
I enjoyed The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives a lot more than the Secret Lives of Bees, lemme tell you. (I still haven't finished the latter. There's something about books that everyone enjoys that I just can't seem to get. Maybe I'll do the unthinkable and watch the movie.)
Secret Lives is by Lola Shoneyin, who I have never read before and neither have you because this is her first novel. Or maybe you have read her collections of poetry. Either way, I found her first novel very appealing in spite of other reviews I had gotten of it from family members who will remain unnamed.
Baba Segi is rich, and fat, and has 3 wives, and wants to take on a fourth one. Unbeknownst to him, all his wives, even his fourth one, have secrets that will shatter his entire existence as he knows it. The timing towards the big reveal is excellent, and the things that the other wives do to prevent the fourth one from infringing on their territory (and their sex schedule) are both funny and sad. Shoneyin manages to tell the story of all the main characters in the book from various perspectives without it being crowded or biased. I loved this book. So relatable to anyone who is African lol. Some passages struck me in particular because they sounded so like Kenya:
Sound familiar?
tSN
I enjoyed The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives a lot more than the Secret Lives of Bees, lemme tell you. (I still haven't finished the latter. There's something about books that everyone enjoys that I just can't seem to get. Maybe I'll do the unthinkable and watch the movie.)
Secret Lives is by Lola Shoneyin, who I have never read before and neither have you because this is her first novel. Or maybe you have read her collections of poetry. Either way, I found her first novel very appealing in spite of other reviews I had gotten of it from family members who will remain unnamed.
Baba Segi is rich, and fat, and has 3 wives, and wants to take on a fourth one. Unbeknownst to him, all his wives, even his fourth one, have secrets that will shatter his entire existence as he knows it. The timing towards the big reveal is excellent, and the things that the other wives do to prevent the fourth one from infringing on their territory (and their sex schedule) are both funny and sad. Shoneyin manages to tell the story of all the main characters in the book from various perspectives without it being crowded or biased. I loved this book. So relatable to anyone who is African lol. Some passages struck me in particular because they sounded so like Kenya:
Taju had only ever been late once, about a year before, when he'd arrived with his shirt slung over his left shoulder and nail marks across his forehead. Ejecting a toothpick from between his teeth and pushing it into his Afro, he claimed that he'd beaten his wife senseless for letting their only son suck on a coin. This happened about a week after a male senator slapped a female colleague. The slap had resonated through all the quiet meeting rooms of the senate buildings and into the heart of every man on the street. It seemed to awaken a loosely fettered beast. Of course, the male senator blamed the devil for his actions and the two senators were soon seen embracing on national television. The same could not be said for the man on the street. Men were slapping their womenfolk as if it had become a national sport. At every street corner, disgruntled wives swung suitcases onto their heads, hoping to be persuaded to return home. At the market place, the Igbo fabric merchants tugged women roughly by the sleeve. Peeved taxi drivers prodded the heads of mothers who bargained with them; young girls were assaulted and stripped naked in the streets. Even in the labour wards baby girls were frowned upon by their fathers. Taju too was inspired to throw his best punch.
Sound familiar?
tSN
Monday, January 5, 2015
The Water Conspiracy
Someone has it in for me.
You know how I know?
Because someone doesn't want me to shower.
And if I don't shower, I won't gets ma bitches.
*giggity*
But seriously. Last year (because that's a thing now) every time I had no water, it wasn't because of me not paying my water bill (which you can do on Mpesa, by the way. Just don't do it ati 2 seconds before it is due or you won't shower either.)
It was because of Someone.
I don't know who this someone is, but this hydrophobic mofo keeps SWITCHING OFF MY WATER METER.
Now, it could be a number of someone's.
1. A disgruntled neighbour who hasn't gotten over The Great Fight Of November and feels the need to exact revenge upon my (unscrubbed) soul.
2. The multiple children who play next to my car and proceeded to scratch a picture of - you guessed it - a car, onto my windows. Clearly these destructive (and blatantly unsupervised - honestly. Get a leash. Like my cousin. I was horrified when I saw it first, but it is super handy. They try and be PC about it like noooo! It's not a leash! It's a bag with a little rope! But it is. This wouldn't happen if people beat their children. Beat your children. Beat them so they know that the world is not a joke and they can't throw tantrums in supermarket aisles. Ok, don't beat them. Buy them leashes.) children have NO conscience. They would do something so abominable, no? The INHUMANity.
3. And this is where I think the criminal lies. He has everything - motive, opportunity, mens rea (I know what that means. I was told. I just don't remember. But it sounded appropriate. Or something. I's smart, ya?).
THE WATER BOY.
So, you know, when there is no water, you have to call the Water Boy (no, Adam Sandler. No. Stop making movies. No.) (ok, Men Women and Children was really good. Otherwise,...no.) to bring you maji.
WHO stands to benefit from no water?
HIM.
Because he makes the moneys. Because people call him. When they have no water.
WHICH HE SWITCHES OFF.
Or, the watchman does. They're probably in cahoots and in the afte when no one is really around he goes round closing the little winding metres (I recently discovered that those are outside. WITHIN EASY REACH. THE PERFECT CRIME.). Then he ati OH SO CONVENIENTLY has a number for a Water Boy.
Uh huh.
But I'm onto him now, the unhygienic bugger. If I ever catch him, or them, they may find themselves in a...
...wait for it...
...wait for it...
...watery grave.
tSN
You know how I know?
Because someone doesn't want me to shower.
And if I don't shower, I won't gets ma bitches.
*giggity*
But seriously. Last year (because that's a thing now) every time I had no water, it wasn't because of me not paying my water bill (which you can do on Mpesa, by the way. Just don't do it ati 2 seconds before it is due or you won't shower either.)
It was because of Someone.
I don't know who this someone is, but this hydrophobic mofo keeps SWITCHING OFF MY WATER METER.
Now, it could be a number of someone's.
1. A disgruntled neighbour who hasn't gotten over The Great Fight Of November and feels the need to exact revenge upon my (unscrubbed) soul.
2. The multiple children who play next to my car and proceeded to scratch a picture of - you guessed it - a car, onto my windows. Clearly these destructive (and blatantly unsupervised - honestly. Get a leash. Like my cousin. I was horrified when I saw it first, but it is super handy. They try and be PC about it like noooo! It's not a leash! It's a bag with a little rope! But it is. This wouldn't happen if people beat their children. Beat your children. Beat them so they know that the world is not a joke and they can't throw tantrums in supermarket aisles. Ok, don't beat them. Buy them leashes.) children have NO conscience. They would do something so abominable, no? The INHUMANity.
3. And this is where I think the criminal lies. He has everything - motive, opportunity, mens rea (I know what that means. I was told. I just don't remember. But it sounded appropriate. Or something. I's smart, ya?).
THE WATER BOY.
So, you know, when there is no water, you have to call the Water Boy (no, Adam Sandler. No. Stop making movies. No.) (ok, Men Women and Children was really good. Otherwise,...no.) to bring you maji.
WHO stands to benefit from no water?
HIM.
Because he makes the moneys. Because people call him. When they have no water.
WHICH HE SWITCHES OFF.
Or, the watchman does. They're probably in cahoots and in the afte when no one is really around he goes round closing the little winding metres (I recently discovered that those are outside. WITHIN EASY REACH. THE PERFECT CRIME.). Then he ati OH SO CONVENIENTLY has a number for a Water Boy.
Uh huh.
But I'm onto him now, the unhygienic bugger. If I ever catch him, or them, they may find themselves in a...
...wait for it...
...wait for it...
...watery grave.
tSN
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Hello, 2015
The New Year has begun, and already it feels like it is moving too fast. I mean...we're on DAY FOUR already. What is that?
My year has begun in a way that is making me miss my sweet old paycheck. Maybe it is time to be serious and/or take on another job. BECAUSE I need more money. BECAUSE today morning I woke up and I had a FLAT TYRE.
Now, I am those ones who have no idea what to do with such interruptions to a morning. So Otis, Jomo and Slevin were summoned.
We took the tyre to the petrol station where they said that it had too many punctures and I would have to buy a new one. For 15k.
Ain't nobody got 15k in Jan. Ok, *I* don't have 15k in Jan. And it is never a good idea to get only one new tyre. So that bill is about 30k (if one buys Pirelli. I'm sure the cheaper ones aren't ati faaaar. Maybe 20k. Which I still don't have. Lol.) Then the guy says they can put in a (tube?) but they don't have the ones for my size of tyres. So I am thinking of getting used tyres. Costs less. Options are slim. Hence the new job need.
Moral of the story: I have been entering all these sweepstakes so I win something. The Cadburys Cadbury World one. The Nakumatt Win a Car one. The ones on the street in the little yellow kiosks (KE-nya Charity Sweepstakes. KE-nya Charity Sweeeeepstakes). And more recently, Bonyeza Ushinde. Anything I win I can sell for rubbers.
:D
tSN
My year has begun in a way that is making me miss my sweet old paycheck. Maybe it is time to be serious and/or take on another job. BECAUSE I need more money. BECAUSE today morning I woke up and I had a FLAT TYRE.
Now, I am those ones who have no idea what to do with such interruptions to a morning. So Otis, Jomo and Slevin were summoned.
We took the tyre to the petrol station where they said that it had too many punctures and I would have to buy a new one. For 15k.
Ain't nobody got 15k in Jan. Ok, *I* don't have 15k in Jan. And it is never a good idea to get only one new tyre. So that bill is about 30k (if one buys Pirelli. I'm sure the cheaper ones aren't ati faaaar. Maybe 20k. Which I still don't have. Lol.) Then the guy says they can put in a (tube?) but they don't have the ones for my size of tyres. So I am thinking of getting used tyres. Costs less. Options are slim. Hence the new job need.
Moral of the story: I have been entering all these sweepstakes so I win something. The Cadburys Cadbury World one. The Nakumatt Win a Car one. The ones on the street in the little yellow kiosks (KE-nya Charity Sweepstakes. KE-nya Charity Sweeeeepstakes). And more recently, Bonyeza Ushinde. Anything I win I can sell for rubbers.
:D
tSN
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