Thoughts On Shisha and Seatbelt Selfies

Shisha and Seatbelt Selfies

Lately I have been preoccupied with thinking about what to blog next. Certainly, this is a not so fluid process because, being the somewhat perfectionist I am, I tend to over-think sometimes. My over thinking virtue in this case was not good because just like any civilized man can tell you, if you start over thinking about bagging that five star mami then you’ll probably have a better chance at winning the Sportpesa Jackpot. It’s an oxymoron; the focus de-focuses you. In such cases you're better off not show too much interest or you’ll look like an Arab girl showing too much ankle to Ahmed or Abdi; trying too hard and totally not acceptable.

Courtesy of Mpasho.co.ke

So I decided to just give up already and that a story would eventually have to find me, come to me the same way lions have become fond of coming to chill with people along Mombasa road and that the story would even beg me to write it and that I would even play hard to get if I get the chance. Probably tell it I have another story. A better one.

A few nights later a story came along. I was lying there, one leg out of the blanket - because if I had both in it’d be too hot and if I had both out it’d be too cold. One leg out is the perfect balance - my perfect temperature for grade 1 sleep. I imagine it feels the same way as floating on your back in the deep end of a pool – which I have not yet been able to do. I seemingly can’t trust water enough to let it carry me. I remember this one time I was at duff mpararo and this kid is there floating on his back like a duck and I was there struggling to float on my belly. Do you know how that feels? I had a lot of questions! Like does water have no respect for grownups? It needs to let grownups float first and if it has any strength left it can then float the kids and their little swim glasses.

Anyway back to my sleeplessness.

I am not insomniac but I couldn’t sleep. Just one of those nights where your body is all confused about sleeping and simply decides to play the how-long-can-I-stay-awake-and-still-be-at-work-by-7.30am game. Sleep was teasing me and I didn’t like it. She’s not like this on normal nights. Our relationship is a really perfect one and I don’t know why she was acting up that night. Maybe it was something I did. So while I was lying there staring in the dark in the company of mosquitoes almost dozing off I was snapped awake by screaming girls. It had to be girls, boys actually don’t scream at night unless they are scared by Chuck Norris physically. I got out of bed and my first thought was “damn it! I will have to start this all over again”. I had been like really close to sleeping. On a scale of one to ten I was at the nine. Really close.

Now it is not uncommon for drunken girls to stagger past our flat at 3 am but I am usually dead asleep at such a time and don’t have to get all aggravated by their ungodly banter. But this time I was in the middle of it. A group of around ten intoxicated teenagers or maybe they were a little older were hanging onto each other trying to get home or maybe to the next pub which is on this other end of the stretch or headed to god-knows-where those young men live. They were really loud and very explicit while at it. Even Erroh, our Maasai watchman whose real name I don’t know could not get them to keep it down. Erroh tried shushing them but they called him bad things and Erroh called them other bad things in return. Bad people!

And how people walk with their mukonyos out at 3 am beats me. It is ice land cold at such times but again I guess drunken people don’t feel cold. Do they? And do their moms know they’re out in the cold without jackets? Will this affect their children? Maybe their kids won’t feel cold like the rest of the kids. Or maybe they’ll be born a little drunk. You never know these things. Or as we are fond of saying, "hii maneno mtu hawezijua".

Now eventually the drunken confusion that was those teens got on its way and I did sleep after some time but it is from that situation that I got my story. A story about the precedence we are setting for generations to come. I assure you as I write this I feel like the professor with big glasses, hanging a baggy checked coat behind an old wooden university chair, using a flickering table lamp and sitting beside a pile of books in the calm of the night penning down life-changing manuscripts. Well maybe that’s an exaggeration, let’s say more like the guy sitting alone with a drink at the poorly-lit corner in a bar thinking about changing the world.

Well I’ll start saying that it appalling how hunnies (if you’re not from twitter A then you’ll probably not get that) live their lives. Ask Njoki Chege; it’s all about drunken stupors, smoking Shisha, riding in Subarus owned by guys who mostly live in South C and Roysambu, taking selfies and trending on twitter A and well the other part is just applying makeup and learning how to draw their eyebrows. Clearly a very busy lifestyle! Plus they have to get their *appendices pierced (again from twitter A) and learn how to twerk. I kinda have a feeling in future twerking will be a P.E. lesson in some schools. Anyway, you should appreciate that hunnies even get time to do lame things like going to church and dancing like normal people, getting education or looking for a job. Of which the latter they excel in a measure equal to the Jubilee government’s success at fighting corruption.

I am holding no blood feud with anyone here but I am afraid of the kind of mothers we will have in ten years. Shouldn’t we have a serekali saidia initiative? We seriously need one to rescue us from the hunnie menace. In ten years what kind of kids will there be? I suppose they’ll be born normal and all but how will someone raised between Shisha smoking breaks and catching air from all the twerking turn out? A little part of me wants to know but I am also afraid; afraid that we might just be testing the waters like the guy with diarrhea trying to fart; afraid that it’ll get too messy to behold.

Or maybe they’ll all be in India with lung complications from all the Shisha smoke. Or they may not be married after all. Such girls only tickle the fancy of few men. They tickle the fancy of men who are deprived of morals; the kind of men that own an apartment in Kilimani while their mother lives in a ramshackle place at the edge of a village in Kirinyaga. The kind of men that are known by name at Sabina Joy and even get a quick fix on credit. These are the kind of men that don’t marry anyone for more than two years in a row. They are the men whose realest shot at a brain is a tattoo of human brain on their head. Such are the men that hunnies tickle. I wasn’t too hard on them there, was I?

I also wonder how I would take such a girl home to meet my mother? She’d curse the sun should her son shows up with some city girl who smokes plants and rivals Thiga the village’s three-time Annual Drinking Fest winner at downing the bitter stuff. It would amount to thahu and she would agree with Mzee on calling village elders to slaughter a sheep for a horohio ceremony. I’d be made to sit at a corner and reflect on my life’s decisions. They’d make me feel bad even with a plate of boiled meat and roast meat and rice in front of me.

But I wouldn’t take such a girl home. Not with regards to what defines their life today - the hunnies not the village people.

You’ve heard of seat-belt selfies? No? Well they are a thing now. In pursuit of social approval chics take selfies in a car with a seat-belt on. It is supposed to be cool. Which it can be if you genuinely own a car and you like taking selfies but in this case it’s the people whose chance of driving their own motis are close to the camel-rich-man-needle-hole-heaven situation. But don’t give up aye you’ll drive some day. And speaking of which I adore some twitter comebacks. 

Look at these tweets by #KOT 

Is it the society that expects a guy drive and own a house at 26 or is it just a thing for hunnies? If you’re raised from a relatively poor background like me then you’d probably understand how damn hard it is to make it to the top. Before you say ‘mama I made it’ there are periods of overwhelming disappointments, of blood, of hard work and unending sweat. Things refuse to work out. You get small problems sometimes and get big problems other times and think you’re done. It’s not easy. You have to put your butt on the line too many times before you can cruise in a moti under your name. Lest you think I am pity partying I should assure you that I know this is expected of any guy.

But let’s turn to the comeback; a waist trainer and 78 Instagram likes!!! That does not give you the right to point a finger at me. Not me and not any of my brothers tweeting from the discomfort of their bedsitters. Not even those tweeting from Melbourne, Australia while their device location shows they are somewhere in Dunyu Njeru, North of Kinangop. You can’t fault these brethren. They are doing the little they can to get up there; compared to your evil efforts of posting ‘kim kadarshian’ (this word is an adjective) pictures of you on Instagram for likes. You can’t expect the boy child (I’m finally sounding like an activist) to meet all these expectations whilst all a girl needs to do is learn how to twerk, be blonde and be on social media and probably learn how to draw eyebrows without getting us thinking she works as a brand ambassador for Nike.

So point is she won’t even cut it as a wifey material if all she worries about in the morning are what filters she’s going to use for Instagram. Neither am I willing to be subjected to the agony of 99 selfies in a day just to feed her social media glamour. Worse still I am not going to put up with buying fancy food just for the pictures. If you’re among the girls I have described above and you’re reading this please reform and find you way – the way. For the sake of future generations and their sobriety please learn how to cook round chapatis so that you can pass something good over to your kids. in the end sober guys will marry the good girls.

Before I put an ending to this I’ll just say it is not lame to be a good girl. It is something we shall have an Oscar for in coming years. Something we will wear tuxedos and Sir Henry’s bow ties to go witness its recognition and appreciation at a glamorous night party at some expensive hotel in Nairobi which we shall pretend we can afford on a regular day.

Happy Easter Someone!

Intoxicated; The Tale Of Love And Life

Intoxicated

Don’t you just love how we fall in love? It’s mysterious. Like the way we fall asleep – slowly then all at once; John Green’s words not mine. 

Our scathed reality slowly ushers in a fantasy; a lustrous moment that takes our breath away. Literary so if you’re into a plus-size beauty and you want to sweep her off her feet. I am willing to bet that those castle-in-the-sky moments are why people in love do crazy things. 

Things like staring at each other's eyes. Well because on a normal day I’d hardly stare at any eyes; not man eyes and not woman eyes either, I simply look at people’s eyes. You look at people’s eyes when talking to them, its courteous to, but you stare when you’re in love.

At that point when you’re the only rose in someone’s garden little else matters. Dudes become generous because of love. You’ll see Kinuthia, with all his stingy behavior agree to buy ‘Felly Fun’ roasted maize with the pilipili thing they smear on it. And both of them will be happy. She’ll giggle incessantly as they walk and disappear into the sunset. Kinuthia won’t feel cheated off his money. 

He’ll push her all the way to her home, two, maybe three ridges away, get a peck on the cheek (in the village they don’t really kiss but the peck is an equivalent, it will make even his toes tingle with excitement) and he’ll sleep under the stars in his Thingira a happy lad. He’ll look for more money to spend on her tomorrow.

It’ll feel Christmas; exhilarating. He’ll say he feels funny about Felly Fun – because they don’t have a word for goosebumps in Kikuyu.

And about the lemon and pepper stuff that people smear on roast maize, isn’t that slightly unhygienic? There is this day I was chatting up a maize roasting guy, do we have a name for them? To pass time as I waited for one of those friends that tell you ‘nipee five minutes’, turn up 30 minutes late and the first thing they say is ‘sijakaa sana. Sindio?’ 

So at the maize guy, five heads bought maize. Each squeezing the lemon piece with pepper (or whatever the red stuff is anyway) and running it, slowly – some did it fast, against the maize. How many hands? Five damn hands. Say one hand has shaken another 10 hands since morning – it was around 3pm – the total hands that will have touched that lemon will be fifty. Fifty!! I suggest that if you can’t go without roast maize, like if you’re crazy in love with roast maize, maybe deworm often. But again what do I know, akina Kibet have been eating those things since time immemorial and they’re still fine.

But Kinuthia and Felly Fun won’t mind the roast maize or the lemon thing, they’re in love. It is part of the daze of love. And before I forget, there is that weird thing I read at Biko’s where he christened a chic as ‘Freaky Fiona’. Isn’t that a weird pet name? Freaky Fiona would do weird things to his guy during copulation (don’t mind the choice of words, I am on a mission to make use of the stuff I learned in high school and that I can’t apply anywhere else, like the word copulation). But still Freaky Fiona? No. I think I will have to chose the pet name my missus will be calling me.

So speaking of a missus let me handpick one love story of my life. There’s this girl who I knew back in the day. Disclaimer here, back in the day can be any time between the third Saturday of Feb, 2005 and four years ago. I don’t want my sister who mysteriously found my blog to try time-guessing this.

So I was in my teens and with all my exuberance I only understood somewhat like twenty percent of what love entails. Thought I was a Mutahi Ngunyi of love though. Choosing a girl then was easy. The only (sloppy) standard I had was that she looks good - physically. And the loving I knew was easier; simply write to her as often as the meager pocket money I had from mzee allowed for postage expenses. I was a good writer. Splendid at drafting those ‘top-notch’ letters that made me more than Suzy’s Cupcake, I was her Kikuyu Shakespeare. Yeah she was called Suzy. No freaky pet name. We never had such then.

Here is a rare extract of my prowess

Dearest Suzy,

With love from my heart, I pick my golden pen from the basket of love to write to you this letter. I hope this letter finds you in the best of health as bestowed to me and you by the gods of love.

Time and capacity have teamed with ability and enabled me to jot something down on this *benedicted sheet of paper. ……..I want to say I love you spontaneously and continuously. Like the flow of Sagana river. ………. How my heart beats when I see you puts Tom Tom drum players in South Africa to shame. The other day I saw you and my metabolism stopped. I couldn’t eat even meat which I like a lot…….I want to marry you Suzy and have beautiful, chubby kids…..

Blah blah blah

So I have edited it a little bit but you get the gist. 

Then right about the end would be some song dedication from Westlife, Boys to men, Nsync, Iglesias, Keysha, and other musicians we fancied then. Before sealing the letter we’d apply cologne to it – just so she is sure it’s from you. Remember that vibe of I love the smell of your perfume? Yah that kinda stuff

I thought I’d marry Suzy. Seriously. But then on this other funkie I met a ‘rangi ya thao’ Caro with all the dimples, the perky chest, the bum and the gorgeous eyes. Okay lets back up to the eyes. She had those sensual and alluring eyes that you could see through to her heart but also carried some hint of mischief. I went Kinuthia on feelings; no English words kapsaa. Even love-struck isn't the word.

I leaned on the Kigo guy, my wing-man. Kigo was one of those guys from Murang’a with a heavy accent but big hearts. He had these endless stories that were centered on a certain river in their village and his journeys to and fro school in Tulaga buses. Most were unbelievable but interesting. He used to lie. He actually had twice the number of stories as the commutes he’d made. But I never cared; the best of wing-men are good liars. And the only other place Kigo had been to beside Murang’a was Kinangop. Such a tourist. Oh and he loved Ovacados too. They somehow soothed his failed attempts at bagging chics.

But me I bagged Caro. It didn’t take long to get her to converse;

Me: So, dimples yeah?

Caro: Huh?

Me: I like dimples. Dimples are pretty.

Caro: Me too, know anyone who has them? Ebu smile I see if you have them.

Me: Ha, I already like you. You’re funny. (She was funny or prolly the dimples were just distracting)

Caro: So what’s your project about? (It was a science congress)

Me: People with dimples (You can’t let such a conversation digress to boring science stuff, I’d have let down my ancestors)

Caro: C’mmon, enough with the funny stuff. Seriously, what’s your project about?

Me: There’s more funny where that funny came from.

I said a whole lot more stuff here and so fast forward to the point she guffawed, somewhat, and then we stared a bit. Love staring.

Caro’s eyes somehow convinced me she was the one. She was way cooler than Suzy. Like a long way cooler. She had this weng in her voice that I’d make Bruno Mars kind of sacrifices just to hear. I’d fight John Cena for her, ata kill Mufasa the lion. She even came from Nairobi man. And Nairobi was a synonym of all things cool. We got along mostly because I never had the accent from Mount Kenya and I made her laugh.

And just like that I forgot about Suzy. I got my epiphany moment way after Caro and I were no longer a thing. I realized I wasn’t shit when it came to love (excuse my French). I was just on a teenage roller-coaster of emotions. That was never love it was the opposite, your fall in all at once and then out slowly.

There always came a better one. Like those Rongai Nganyas.

Of course love is more sophisticated now. There are these crazy standards, the inner beauty thing, dines and wines at fine restaurants, regular trips to Galitos and Pizza Inn and KFC and Java and Café Deli and other fancy places. And akina Suzy and Caro are now different. They have more leverage now to deny ‘entering the box’. They have a job, prettier faces; smeared with lip gloss and massacre (there this kid I know who calls Mascara that) and lip stick, bums sticking out and all. 

I bet they would literary make you walk a wire to become their Bean-in-Githeri now.

Regardless, love is what it is. We can’t refuse to stare at each other’s eyes sometimes. We all get that Suzy or Caro or Freaky Fiona that drive us crazy. The one that, in the words of Idibia, will make you float like a pot upon the Nile (Confession; I did serenade another one of akina Suzy with this Jam, It was lit I’m telling you, we even nini’d).

In good and bad ways and big and small ways, we fall in love; we get intoxicated. 

Love is intoxicating.

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