Church: Because I am Broken

Are you broken too?

Courtesy of Klear

Picture me in church. The guy wearing a checked shirt with Khaki pants. Of course they’re matching or are they? Let’s settle on I think they are matching. And I have loafers on. Let’s talk about loafers kidogo. I have come to adore loafers recently. See with loafers you can simply slide them on without socks and it is still a kickass, probably outdated, fashion statement. And besides if you wear socks with loafers it looks weird unless you have Larry Madowo’s happy socks. Donning loafers with socks is how people in ‘Nyairofi’ tell you grew up in ‘Karima Mutiume’. And this is so because people in shagz dress in the look-at-me-I-don't-live-in-the-city way and I know this because I was brought up in ushago and I am different because the ways of the city accepted me. I became one of the city people. I changed my ways. I was turned. Does that sound like a script in an alien movie? Anywho, when I go back to ushago greet mzee and maitu heads turn my friend. Women murmur low-key about me – the kamwana who went to the big city all slim and naive and now has chubby cheeks and confidence from here to Timbuktu. I don’t know how they feel about that. Girls stare at me too. To them I am an icon of fashion and  progressive lifestyle. They tell their boyfriends to be like me. Should I vie for a political seat? Yes?

Hyperbole aside, on a normal weekday in karima mutiume you can easily get away with wearing boxers over your pants, Spiderman style. Nobody really cares. And in karima mutiume once they get wind of a ‘new’ fashion – which probably will be a year later – everyone rocks the same attire. There’s this Y person I was reminding of the karima mutiume guy starter pack; a red cap probably written ‘Chicago bulls’ (replace that with the De Matthew cowboy hat for the case of village elites), a SAVCO or equally branded jeans trouser, a pair of fake brown timberland boots, a big belt with Chuck Norris embedded on the buckle, jacket ya pumzi (what are those called in English?) and a shirt. The shirt part is hard to describe but there are usually those shirts that come in batches of a million and so every other guy has one. Yes those ones. That’s the starter pack.

Of course there are alternatives. You can choose to wear a suit. But village suits are different. They are shiny and baggy. Everyone seems to have a suit two sizes larger. Its how it has been from ancestral times. A well kept tradition. Only city-coined 'renagades' run away from it. The trousers are especially very large - the kind that can be used to make two pairs for Nairobi people. "Filthy children!", a church elder would say, "Wearing pants that barely fit them". Which is true to some extent. Now because there are not that many people over there, when Kimotho, the tailor buys a huge piece of sewing material, it means that at least 10 people will end up with the same kind of suit, with only the size being different. But they won’t care. Matching suits somehow tickle their happiness.

Ok, I am diverging too much. Back to loafers.

So on those mornings – which happen to be very frequent – when I’m late and don’t have time to get the wardrobe together I just slip them on and off I go. Just like that. Loafers are life man. PS: Putting my wardrobe together means finding a clean pair of socks.

Now back to the church story

I am standing there – sixth seat from the right and the fourth row from the front. One hand is up in the air – upper than usual. This is after I have lifted both for some time and I have to take one down to avoid severe exhaustion. And also to conserve energy just in case Pastor Ken wants us to lift them up again. He does that a lot. One hand up takes half the energy. You also need to know that I did not eat a full breakfast and so I am a little famished and drained too. Why? Because it’s Sunday. What happens on Sunday you ask? Hold that thought right there, we’ll come back to that.

So I am there, closing my eyes, its dark, and tears are edging at the corner of my eyes. I am not the teary type. Okay hold on, I know I am adding too much stuff in between but I have to let you know the only other time I tear is when cutting damn onions! But I am getting me a helmet for that which I’ll dispose off as soon as I get a bae to cut onions for me. So I am not tearing over damn onions or lost Sportpesa bets or a cold heartless dimwit that walked out of my life. No, I am soaking in worship. It’s that segment in church for kutendereza - I like the word tendereza by the way - sounds solemn and all. I am praying. Deep stuff. I even say ‘shabalabala canter njeru’ somewhere inside that prayer. It feels good. I am alilo in the spirit if you know wharamean. 

Courtesy or Relevant Church

Today I am seated next to Pastor Sang – he’s a prayerful guy. A really loud prayerful guy. And he is very straight with God. He says stuff to Him aggressively and punches his palm to make points. So when I sit next to Sang, I also get tempted to be loud. I say amen to some of his points so that God will answer to both of us. Let’s call that prayer diversification. I am not sure if Sang listens to what I pray about. I sure hope he doesn’t because I do pray about girls and last I checked Sang has a wife. Well we don’t want him polygamous do we? Not with all these prayers at stake!

Maybe God likes his zeal. Maybe He looks forward to listening to Sang’s prayers on Sunday mornings. I can imagine the conversations that take place on Sunday mornings in heaven.

Gabriel: (to God) Sang is here. He’s really praying.

God: Sang my guy! I like him. What does he want?

Gabriel: (gets a list) He is praying for peace in Kenya. They fear that Alshabab will do something crazy again. For a car, for rent money, for the CJ, for Duale, for Moses Kuria, for Duale again and rent again.

God: Not the lame Alshabab guys again. Ebu confuse them. Alafu give Sang rent money too and sober up Duale and Moses Kuria! Jeez those two need to get their acts together! Everyone is praying about them!

Gabriel: And Wesh is here too.

God: Oh, I like Wesh. Is he wearing those cool khaki pants again? Of course he is. He’s slaying much nowadays. So what does Wesh want?

Gabriel: (After listening to me for 10 minutes). He’s praying over girls again! He says he wants a bae.

God: But we gave him a bae last week and the week before that. What happened?

Gabriel: (Rolls eyes) I know. He has been curving them. The one for last week he says she talks too much.

God: Smh. Does he even need a bae now? (Checks my heart for the truth). Lol….see here Gabriel (pointing at my open heart), Wesh just wants someone to help him cut onions!

Gabriel: (Indignant look) Do we give him a bae?

God: No. Give him money for a helmet.

Gabriel: No bae? He’s your son!

God: Duh! I know he is and I know him better than anyone. No bae for now. Just a helmet.

Lets back up to why I am doing this.

“Na usisahau kuomba”. That’s how regular conversations with my mum over the phone end. She’s sweet. Never shouts over the phone. Never grumbles too. So it’s hard to ignore her request. When she asks me to pray I really have to. She says it’s for my sake and I believe her. God knows I am the chief of sinners. I am broken. Under heavenly receivership. That’s why I show up to church on Sundays. Why I care to pray every other day. Why I read the bible even when its talking about cubits length and more cubits in width. Even when it talks of people who begot other people who begot other people.

Wait, there’s the part where I don’t eat breakfast on Sunday. That is mostly because I trade it for 30 more minutes of sleep. You can never sleep enough man. So I am always on a rush on Sunday mornings to get up, shower in like zero time, slide in those cool khaki pants that God likes and loafers and to get to church. So I show up to church to talk to God and hear from Him and get unbroken, become His masterpiece and not be under receivership here (read Chase bank manenos) and there in heaven. It’s also sorta cool that God likes me and you know we have had this thing going on for some time and I cannot like let Him down. And I love being in church on Sundays. It just feels right.

Why do you go to church?

Valentine's Shebangs

Now that Valentine's Day Matters

I don’t remember Valentine’s Day mattering as much as a library at the start of a semester. Well, now it has become a pretty big ‘comb-to-a-Daniella-weave’ deal; because, just like Daniella weaves, Valentine’s Day stresses people and makes many women look bad.

Looking good is all that matters to a woman though, after her social media accounts and what people think and say about her *I however would like to be exempted from this generalized statement*… the better part of which is true.

I remember the first time I was taken out on a valentine’s date, which was also my very first date *proper date*. I was very broke! 

I would like to point out though, Guys need to stop complaining how ladies get late for dates, ama sijui want Kempinsky food and Jimmy cab rides to and fro, then Cold Stone rainbow ice-cream cakes with 6 Oreos and a FroYo.

That’s basically a chini ya maji refund after the financial implications of getting acrylic nails done, all to please you, her man. The 6 Oreos are for the nail art plus that body con dress she wore; which you have never seen her rock before… that made you take 20 selfies in PUBLIC! Then quickly, posted the pics on Instagram and Pinterest and left your data connection on the whole night expecting ‘thoties’ to comment on how blessed you are but really you just want that yellow-yellow jealous after the way she dumped you*insecure*. Boy, you even for the first time used the hashtag LoveOfMyLife.

If it fit right in all the fundamental places that cloth was not bought from a Garissa stall that is behind a bar as you negotiate a corner at an ‘Isili’ fruit and suitcases market*I know my spellings, Eastleigh*. No honey, that dress *was probably rented* was definitely bought online. I would be meticulous with my clad choices, my stilettos, hand bag, coin purse, note purse, hair clip, earrings, perfume, lipstick choice and accessories to the detail.

Then the first thing nigger dare say on seeing this mami is “unapenda kuchelewa sana”. Honestly dude, I really don’t care *in writing* if I am an hour late. Do you know how long nails take to dry? Or mascara? Do you know how long it takes to set make-up or pin up a neat bun? 

Then when you finally see me off at the end you’re all, “Baby, you looked really lovely today. I like your eyes and the way you smile.” Thanks a lot! You told me that last week when we bumped into each other at the INDIMANJE Sacco stage…the one next to the kanjo toilets at Bus Station. How about a complement on the hair I just did which took about 2 hours?

That is why you deserve a great big handshake and a wave after the date.

On the other hand, aside the acrylic nails and body con dress; being broke when you have a date coming up, especially on valentine’s is very stressful. On that particular week as I recall, I looked my worst. I for some reason had a bad case of acne two days before the date that I could not with all of mother nature’s Gingko Biloba, Aloe Vera, Tea tree, roots, plants, leaves and soil get rid of. I did eggs, avocado, lemon, honey… you name it! Now I know that it takes time *a month if you’re lucky* to treat acne; No amount of dermatological zapping can take it all away in a day. 

I had just completed High School and my style was all over the place, I hardly had pants that could fit; because I lost a tremendous chunk of pig weight trying to score an A *which I did, mostly*. Of course my hair looked terrible but it was pretty long, so I found my way around that but I did what every other girl would do in my situation, Borrow! I even had to ask my friends to borrow from their friend’s-cousin’s-wives. Desperate!

I really wanted to do a glam dress by the way but at the end I could say I looked the part for a day in Nairobi’s wildlife park; Chiffon *mine*, rubbers *gifted after all the borrowing* and jeans *borrowed* and had lots of fun but never called the guy back. *Everybody went and got rubber shoes after that*

A guy who points out very little flaws in your outfit and makes a big deal out of them, that’s no guy to call back.

A guy who is working and expects his school-going-girlfriend to look like million dollar Beyoncé that’s no guy to call back.

A guy who tells you how beautiful you look after the date, that’s no guy to call back and especially that guy who compliments another woman during the date *he was checking her out*, that is definitely not a guy to call back.

Like I said at the beginning a woman’s looks matter very much to her. So dear gentlemen, for valentine’s maybe buy your lady shoes and a dress then take her out for a picnic at Machakos People’s Park. And just like that you can become that romantic future husband.

Love and Love,

Stephanie

Ducks are not in prison!

To being Ducks and Goats and Birds

Ever thought of yourself as a duck? Floating on still waters in some eerie pond in those ‘Ushago’ neighborhoods? With half-naked boys running around and throwing things in the water to scare you but being used to them you just float there unperturbed? Or probably being a more civilized duck and wading the waters of some tourist resort on rugged hillsides of Naivasha? Having some corky photographers and some old tourists taking pictures of you? Would you even smile at them? Do ducks smile? I bet you’d be a little passive, partially rigor mortised by the cold water, you’d be proud and shelf any excitement that’d come with strangers lining up to take pictures of you. 

Wouldn’t it be cool to also just be a goat? You know, to climb on ramshackle sheds over the Kariokor market and cause women selling groceries to freak out? How’d that feel like? Exciting? Maybe a little invigorating? Would it scare the shit out of you when they yell and throw banana peels at you?  

Now forget ducks and goats, here’s a better one, how about being a bird? Do you watch birds fly and glean some vicarious pleasure imagining how good it feels to birds now that they don’t have to worry about bumping into some overly-muscular guy whilst walking down Tom Mboya Street? Being a bird would be glorious. I mean you can confidently spot those overstayed weaves and poop on those heads. Give those ladies a little push to change the weaves. You know, doing the society some justice and relieving yourself at the same time. We humans call that killing two birds with one stone. Would you also call it that? I bet you wouldn’t – it would sound illicit to you – a bird taboo.

Speaking of Tom Mboya and Moi Avenue streets, why are there so many reckless walkers on these streets? It’s like the number of people that find bliss is aggravating others is on the rise.  You know those college kids that form a line of four and then expect to walk the entire pavement at a snails’ pace. And the lovey-dovey chaps who insist on holding hands in a crowded street. I absolutely find that rude – not the holding of hands, the part where you do it in a crowded street. It’s simply rude to be oblivious; of situations and people. 

Well, I have. I have thought about this thing of being a duck and all. It is weird in a way; especially because I don’t even remotely believe in re-incarnation ideologies. Who in their right mind thinks someone died and now they came back in a body of a cow? No way I’m falling for that. It looks more like a government conspiracy to keep us from eating beef sausages for breakfast. It’s even worse when I think of the birds I killed as a kid.  Were those like real people? I killed real people? No, I can’t live with that. Re-incarnation is not real. I’ll be damned if I let it be. 

Actually the reason I pictured me as a duck – of course in a highly civilized tourist resort, is because of how systems imprison men. FYI; even if re-incarnation is true I cannot come back an Ushago duck. I’d fight really hard in that other world to come back a civilized duck. I’d even form a duck-only gang over there to help me fight for the right duck body – and promise the gang seven duck virgins when they come over to this world. I’m sure some would even take a bullet for me over there ;). Maybe some would be bold enough to do a ka-duck suicide bomb thing for me. I’d be the MVP over there.

Now back to this system-infested world. As I was saying systems are our own little prisons. They blind the beautiful horizons. They have a way of making us comfortable thinking that’s the best we’re ever going to get. The cell windows are so small that you can barely feel the orgasmic breeze beyond your comfort zone. I talked of a floating duck, a wild goat or a bird in the air because these creatures have freedom. They do what they want. I don’t think there’s a duck code where they assign roles based on what a duck-degree certificate says a duck can do. I also don’t imagine that birds are restrained by a system of norms and traditions. Birds do what birds want to do – I hope they often do want to poop on overstayed weaves.

Ok, let me get this off my chest. I loathe bad weaves. Not that I care so much about women’s hair. I’d count the female hairstyles I know and they’d only cover up to my middle finger. I just don’t care about hairstyles! However, thing is, when you have had that horsehair on since Noah was still nailing hinges on the ark’s door and am here seated next to you in traffic that isn’t just endearing. And no, I am not being spiteful. It’s just that wafting that corn chip odor is unsettling. Especially when you’re a little under the weather and all you care about is getting home in one piece; a piece not ruined by evil smells. Can we agree you’ll change that thing after it goes stale, or whatever expired weaves go? Yes? Awesome.

Moving on.

You see the way you literally cannot be a floating duck, you had to be human, is the way some things in life are inevitable. But you can figuratively become a roof-climbing goat. Different and distinct. You become that bird by following the route that makes it happy. You get to be the driver. As my barber (the Felix guy) told me, for shits’ sake you can’t let things run you. You get to run things sometimes; in fact most of the times you need to run things. You get to be a duck or a goat or a bird when you lose the imaginary prison confinements. You do this by taking charge of situations in life.

It’s true when they say you’re in charge of your happiness. Also true that you’re the sole variant in the equation of your success and God is like the constant integer that you multiply with. So the bigger you make yourself as a variant the sweeter the success. (Who says you can’t use mathematical jargon in writing? See your life!). 

If I were a preacher I’d tell you to poke you neighbor and tell them they’re a duck – a human duck, or at least they have a chance of being one. 

Once you're out of prison, you'll make mistakes and own up to them, try and fail, lose your way and find it, and the grind goes on and on. However, this won't dim your candle. It won't dwindle your spirit. You will be gladly in charge. You'll not just beat the storm, you will be the storm.

To being ducks and goats and birds.