Egypt is not my home, neither

I am beginning to see the value of a husband.

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

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

It was a cute little frog. I rapidly scurried away. Upon entering the estate, I met its mother. Not so little. Not so cute. I let out an embarrassing shriek (and thus met 2 of the neighbours, not counting the frogs) and ran past it trying to keep a healthy one metre between us (like it was a boy) and leapt (nine lords a'leaping, was it? Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten maids a'milking, nine lords a'leaping,...no. Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a'leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a'milking, seven swans a'swimming, six geese a'laying fiiiiive golden riiiiings! Fourcallingbirdsthreefrenchhenstwoooturtledoves AND A PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE! I barely like Christmas, but am apparently quite fond of digressing) into the digz. After which I proceeded to plug what now seems a gaping hole under the door (poor thing was probs just for ventilation).

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

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

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

tSN

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

A prayer

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

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

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

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

3. It is a FREAKIN KICK IN THE FACE WHEN THERE IS NO WATER RUNNING THROUGH THE TAPS IN THE HOUSE AND THERE'S BLOODY ZAMBEZI RIVER OUTSIDE. Pardon my French, Lord, but. For real, doe???!!!

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

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

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

tSN

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

Grown folk bidness, part 3

THIS LIFE!

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

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

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

O.o

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

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

O.o

tSN

Grown folk bidness, part 2

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

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

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

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

tSN

Grown folk bidness, part 1

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

Basically, I'm moving out.

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

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

tSN

#Thingsthatareoverrated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tSN

Because my life is a movie.

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

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

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

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

How to Write About Africa

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

You might want to read this as well.

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

On to the point of this post.

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

O_______________________________________________________________O

tSN