...Baggage

In my conscience, I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers anyone else to rail about me...

Congreve, William

In the past year or so I’ve gone through phases where I want to equally shoot, hug, soothe or detach myself completely from you. Yes you, my darling. You seem to creep up wherever I go and run amock in not just my life but in the life of my friends. You make me wish I could be more assertive than I currently am (which would technically turn me into a b* but who cares?). you make me want to slap my friends when they “go through things” but by virtue of the fact that I’ve known them for so long, I realize these “things” are caused by you. Baggage you’re definitely not a pal. You’re a sadistic being that causes more pain than any form of happiness. You come along when people are forming memories and the worst part about it is, you latch on with nary a ‘hey, how you doing?’. You’re like that witch I read about who tricked a warrior into carrying on his back because he had learned respect at an early age and didn’t realize you’d grab hold for dear life and wear him out. Because that’s what you do. You wear me out and you wear my friends and family out and you’re just no good.

You turn normally interesting people into blabbering fools and idiots. You make informed, knowledgeable (INTELLIGENT) people start retarded fights…

I honestly HATE and dislike you for what you have done and I hereby denounce you. Good riddance!

Oh Kenya...

Kenya was never known for its black gold like Nigeria,

Or its diamonds like South Africa,

Instead it had that mystical swagger, that little shake of its gynormous African hips when confronted with a vice

An ability to tap into it and mould it into its own

An inherent solution to every problem, it would find its dearth in creating infinite choices but mainly at the bar

Kenya didn’t have copper like Zambia or the entrance to the Nile like Uganda

Despite all this it was still considered a masterpiece in and of itself

Sometimes we consider the fact that we are luckier without these things in our beloved country

Or we might turn out like war torn Southern Sudan,

Decrepit like the Democratic Republic of Congo,

Chopping off our people’s limbs like in Liberia.

Sometimes we stray but we never delve too far into the madness brought about by the almost incurable greed our riches may aid in destroying us

Our riches lie in our ability to cater to the neo-imperialists

Struggling every day to create a suitable image so that our version of diamonds, black gold and people can be turned into a pretty image featuring us as a touristas haven while casting aspersions between us and the rest of Africa. Carefully sweeping our problems under a rag until we’re holding onto frayed bits of string on top of our tableau of garbage. Taught ever so eloquently and frequently to deny that we have any issues for the sake of our imaginary peaceful & honorary status among white people (unlike in Zimbabwe?).

Our politicians know exactly how to stir us up right before elections. They claim to have the answer to our every problem from failed rains to dramatic increases in our girls dropping out of school due to preying teachers who knock them up or for men who knock them about because they have no jobs and have to find ways to prove themselves worthy of the term ‘man’. We fail to acknowledge that five years ago they made the same damn promises so yet again like sheep to the slaughter, we fall prey to their empty words, all the while pocketing the petty handouts flung to us by their so called adherents. Local youth promoting a culture of materialism that seems to fit more precisely on a 50Cent video but no matter- it’s all about a facade. They dress in baggy jeans, wife beaters and funky tees, some even rocking fake bling, branded in the logos and mentality of their “political parties”, tees that tout the faces, names and slogans of their so called ‘leaders’. Standing for one thing today, busy resolving to fight for another the next.

Once in a while, they get into it with members of a rival gang because that is unfortunately what they are. Gangs of marauding youth are given a grace period of power; heady stuff like potent {obeyah} juju from a Haitian witch doctor that inhabits their souls and beings for a time.They wield machetes and bay for blood...

During this period, they don’t have to explain to Mr Mohammed why they came into work late, dusty and looking more battered than pounded yam. Well, at least until the elections end. And all the while they are taking it upon themselves to relive African battles & moments of warriorship, the inimical leaders, progenies of a time, watch from afar able to distance themselves from the terror of the blood thirst that takes over their ignorant minions.

Let’s learn to love one another again. (I kinda ran out of words here...)

Warm Milk

I was walking back to my room after a somewhat dismal breakfast (who runs out of warm milk? We all need it, for cereal, tea, coffee) and ran into the tourist from the day before. Before she could say, ‘Jambo!’ I was on it like white on rice. Just not ‘Jambo’ though. I slide in my ‘morning’ and felt so much happier for having said it. ‘Jambo’ to me has a place and a time. Naru Moru was not just that place and the timing was off. ‘Jambo’ reeks of tourists on the beach in Mombasa. Maybe after a few drinks I’d be (more) congenial to ‘Jambo’?

I remember once, many years ago, a gaggle platoon of tourists chose to roam the estate we lived at and they unfortunately decided that this poor unsuspecting African child was the best option to yell at the first word they’d learnt. ‘Jambo’ they chorused and I looked at them aghast. I muttered a stony ‘hi’ and left them shocked and appalled that I wasn’t warm enough to repeat their dreadful cry. I was annoyed they assumed I didn’t speak English and they probably thought I was extremely churlish. But that’s neither here nor there. Teenage angst is hardly the moral of this story.

What does ‘Jambo’ mean anyway? Where did it come from? Why does it exist? I’d be more impressed if a tourist yelled at me ‘asapaaa’ or ‘wallaps’ or who knows. Maybe I’m just stuck in a little rift of my own, sneering at tourists with their dopamine & oxytoxin-laced, generalized terms of greeting and ashamed to admit that I am technically the same because I bear the same generalized greeting forms but don’t insist on them. I digress.

I assume this all boils down to the stereotypes people have of places and my main issue stems from the preconceived notions people from developed nations have towards people from developing nations. ‘ohmigosh u have running water’ ‘there’s tissue here?’ ‘you use toothpaste’ ‘you don’t wear skins’ ‘you don’t live in trees’. WTF!? Sure some places don’t have running water, sure some people still use leaves for tissue, sure some people use a medicinal twig to brush their teeth (apparently it’s so much better than an actual toothbrush or paste) but I don’t remember the last time I saw someone running around in skins (cue Dedan Kimathi circa pre- independence pre-my birth even) or lived in a tree. I really don’t think any Kenyan has achieved that feat despite my sister telling her pal in Engineering that where we came from my dad owned a whole forest and he made people pay rent to stay in the trees because ferocious beasts like lions stalked the forest floor waiting for some hapless human or animal to stroll by ready for… breakfast? At least they don’t need warm milk (cue title of this blog post). I’m just saying.

My ramble for that particular day in December ’09 (right before we went off to see the splendor of Isiolo town).

Blessings & Curses

My blessing: I write really well. I’m not trying to toot my own horn and won’t even do the clichéd “beep” at the end but I do. It’s a given… I like that people like what and when I write. I used to write a lot. But I used to put myself in it. Not necessarily my soul because as a good writer you’re apparently supposed to unleash all the itsy bitsy particles of you but… the parts that counted. In a very ambiguous way.

I’m strange in that I crave anonymity but want my friends to read what I write. Maybe I should just apply for a column in a magazine… write in on occasion about things that strike my fancy. I FANCY that people would grow to love me (the writer) and my column. Like those columns you imagine people poring over during a wintry, rainy Sunday when going to church isn’t envisioned as an option and your heart tells you that you can live with the guilt of not attending. What? I used to go for mass during the week to atone for it.

Granted I live in Kenya now and there is little hope of there being a wintry anything let alone coffee and your paper by the breakfast table after the delivery boy on his bike throws your paper over the cute white picket fence. *sigh* We have to go out and get our own papers. Paper boys? (Why no paper girls?) Unfortunately, this is Africa where we employ askaris with vicious dogs called Simba to guard our property and where the walls loom a good twenty feet too high for even a love struck teenager to heave over a sweet note wrapped over a rock tied up with string. That’s neither here nor there though.

Back to my story about my column, I’d want people to read it and comment and appreciate it. I would especially like for my friends to know I was the genius behind that witty line that had them going for hours after the fact. I want to be that Oyunga Pala that stirs people up but leaves them wanting more. Like Carrie in Sex & the City who despite her short comings is a writer who manages to use her gift to pay the bills. I’d like my friends to know it’s me writing under a pseudonym because they tend to give me feedback. Except sometimes I don’t know if they’re just being nice. So maybe I’ll be forced to just stick to the randoms who read the column. Ask them to write to *insert random email address here* and let me know what they think. Then get irked by the spelling mistakes and grammar but be happy nonetheless that someone’s reading the spawn of my thoughts.

My curse: I’m lazy. It should be a crime. I love to procrastinate when it comes to writing essays or reports. The fact that I write well notwithstanding. I hate deadlines. With a passion. I’ve dallied on writing a report for 3 months a fact that doesn’t sit well with my mkubwa. He was shocked and pleasantly surprised when I handed him the bulk of it. Told me I wrote really well too. Then proceeded to ask if I had any help. At some points I’d have loved some but it would only speak to my inherent laxity. No one else knows this information anyway so it’d be kinda pointless to ask them to help.

Think its time I went for lunch. Enough of my tirade.

I’m really hurt that its lunchtime and my boss doesn’t seem interested in leaving for the rest of the day. More work. *siiiighhh*

LUNCH! Taa b*chiz!

Crushing...

Men always want to be a woman's first love. That is their clumsy vanity. We women have a more subtle instinct about things. What (women) like is to be a man's last romance.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

It's unfortunate but most of my blog posts are about the relationships I'm in, have cultivated or in the process of cultivating. I assume (when I read some blogs that make u think) that at times it means I'm not as deep as I should be... but this is my form of catharsis so let me stop hating and just accept it.

In the past weekend alone, I've run into two of my high school crushes. People I haven't seen SINCE I was in high school. One I'd kept in touch with- even elevated to best bud' status for an age while the other was ... hmm... just one of those people u crush on I guess? They are both still fine eligible bachelors ;)

"Constant communication for a bit in uni" crush apparently wants to be with me. He wants us to do the unthinkable. Has given me timelines, guidelines and many other such things to work with in a quest to make me believe we're meant to be together forever. I'm more cynical and realistic. His inability to see things through makes me want to run off screaming. I have this depraved solution to the current challenge that is him. My spiritual (father) shepherd/ guide at some point told me to test men. The man I was currently seeing. Any man who chose to come after... Random# One of Common's tracks (faithful is it?) talks about tests (not HIV... ). How men are dogs? The jam about if god was a woman...

Couldn't be out getting bogus with someone so godly... Even if they don't try some ladies test men, and this was a test that was bigger than him'...

His test is cruelly simple. When someone tells u ur meant to be together forever, u have to test the boundaries of their so called "faith" in such extreme beliefs. Beliefs that they've held for apparently the last 8 years. I'm always a 'more action, less talk kinda girl' so let's see how this pans out. Especially since I was given a week to end things with my current 'lover/ man'. Funny. I don't take orders really well but I figured since I was done anyway I might as well end things before more time was wasted. Time is that one resource you can NEVER get back. So having moved on swiftly....

I mention it to one of my closest girlfriends and she proceeds to ask if I'd now be interested in her cousin if he styled up.... stepped up to the plate.

What is it about 'u snooze u loose' that people don't quite grasp?!

Let's see how this plays out.

More later. Ciao, adios, hasta luego and all that jazz.

Eat Pray...

Eat Pray Love

The title of the book I’m currently reading.

Kinda like the Zahir in how it relates to me… in how it flows and speaks to my soul. Listening to Makeda (almost as per usual). Les Nubians. This song reminds me of *him* who gave it to me yet, again of him who also reminds me of *closer* Goapele? I feel myself drifting away in these emotions again though I fought them off last week. I should listen to myself more often. Told myself no more but ended up making the same mistake blunder I did last week. Thinking of ‘us’. Who are we but a figment of my imagination?

Something(s) I read caught my eye, for instance- and particularly this bit- I am exhausted by the cumulative consequences of a lifetime of hasty choices and chaotic passions. So maybe in the grand scheme of things, I should pursue that life, no, current state of celibacy that will enable my heart to heal/mend.

I am the hopeless romantic who pretends to be the greatest cynic around. D’s words come to mind… they always do when I’ve gotten over being upset with her (which tends to be when she calls me out on certain ish and damn the woman for knowing me so well)... But she was hugging me *close* on Friday and telling me never to sell myself short OR cheap. I have been. All in the name of living whatever dream it was concocted to beat the loneliness I must unerringly be feeling yet ignoring. I want to embrace it, learn to love myself again. I was well on the right path until I fell into this temptingly inviting quagmire of liberated self indulgence.

No Jive- De Phazz. I really needed to google this track. I LOVE IT (thanks Monsieur E).

Dig it like its written for my heart & soul… at some point, it sounded like, I don’t want no child… ha, funny.

It’s very addictive. Made me think of trip hop, jazz and salsa and yes, the description bears that mix. Think ~Lynx~ would love it. Washy does =) my new online lover! Don't watch the video first... just listen to it. Videos can turn you off music... and this one is really, what's the word, out there?! Special? lol

Its been a long, cold and dreary July. Let's hope August looks up.

(I get the feeling this post comes off as very spiritual... )

Taaa!

Temptation

I like the various explanations of terms that I pick out at random... however temptation seems to find its way into my life on a regular basis, more often than not... on weekends when the vino is flowing, inhibitions cast aside at will...

Temptation describes the coaxing or inducing a person into committing such an act, by manipulation or otherwise of curiosity, desire or fear of loss. Temptation: something that allures, excites, and seduces someone. Temptress: a woman who tempts or entices (how dull sounding)...

The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it... I can resist everything but temptation.
Oscar Wilde

The reasoning behind this post is my belief in certain standards... for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction and sometimes, the adage, everything that can go wrong WILL applies. So my thought processes led me to question behavior I used to be inclined to like when I was younger.
Say for instance I make out with someone I'm attracted to today, what reaction could it possibly have? I mean, it is cold (wintry Nairobi weather) and it makes sense to spread a bit of love & affection where I can. Is the reaction then blown out of proportion because I am a female and thus more open to scorn (by those I have scorned before?). Does the reaction eventually entail my losing out on dating someone else who is actually 'perfect' for me because they saw me making out with the aforementioned attractee? I use the term loosely because I'm positive there are attractors out there. Just a thought, only a thought... and remember, we're only talking about first base at the most, second +)

"I know u see me watching you, and I see u watching me, coz boy your body's calling me, teMpTAtioN is killing me..." 'Writings on the wall'. Beyonce & her tu pals.



Random aside:
My current state of mind compels me to want to behave in a beatnik fashion... make my way to a coffee shop that would house like minded individuals where I would drink and smoke and discuss the inanities and vulgarity of life as I see it. Pretend not to be conforming to the group with its ideals of freedom, joie de vivre and frugal standards of living because living as an artist doesn't pay too well... everyone knows that.
Maybe I'd take on a lover who paints bowls of fruits in abstract and girlfriends who sideline as singers & poets. The life of a beatnik. Oh, how it appeals to me (right now. who knows how I'll be feeling tomorrow).