I am changing…

…and it’s making me cry.

I always thought I knew myself inside out. I was wrong. I look at my friends, the people I grew up with. They all seem to have morphed into these strange, sophisticated, sometimes b****y creatures - and it’s not just the girls. They all seem to have - I don’t know - grown up? Or maybe just grown down.

I met one a while back. She’s a hotshot lawyer. There she was in her bobbed perm and pinstriped power suit and attache case, and in my mind I had this before-and-after image of her in our shapeless high school skirts. See I was in this high school where - well, the nuns didn’t want us to distract any men. So our uniforms were so amorphous that they’d make a coke bottle look like a cabbage. Hence chicks from our school had this rep of being suuuuupuuuuus ! Coz after being seen in those sacks [and we were rarely seen], any civilian clothing was glamorous by comparison. It was entirely the before-after effect.

Anyway, back to lawyer lady. We met on the street and chatted for a bit, then suddenly she laughs and says “CB you haven’t changed a bit!” I was so flattered. I don’t ever want to change.

And yet I am.

In the past year I have done things that I swore I would never do. And they weren’t good things. I have broken promises that I vowed on my life. I have learnt that ‘I will love you forever; nothing will make me stop loving you; I will never hurt you’ are empty. When you say them, you probably mean them with every fibre of your being. Or at least I did when I said them. But now I realise they are just words. Better to say I love you, and mean it, and leave it at that. Those other big words are just big words.

I wear skirts. And I like it! I met my cousin last weekend. She was maid-ing for a wedding so she was all done up in satin and chiffon and make-up and she was miserable. Her and a friend of ours - who was also maiding - were ranting and whining, and I was laughing my heart out. See, when we were younger, we had this ‘burn-the-skirts’ club. Those ones of ‘catch me dead in a dress.’ Well after a while they quit whining, coz, well, I like skirts now, so I could no longer feel their pain. I’d still rather wear jeans 24-7, but some of that denim can be A-line and wide hemmed.

I fuss about my hair. Me. Who specifically grew dreads so that I would never have to. I actually spend money to look pretty. And it’s not entirely for the benefit of butterfly. Me, myself, on my own behalf, I, actually want to look pretty. And to wear heels. Whether I can actually wear them is something else, coz I walk like a duck. But that I want to wear them is like a shape-shift in itself.

I like soul. I mean I sat at a rave and listened to DJ Adrian and actually enjoyed it. I’ve always liked old music - kina Beegees and The Police and Ray Charles and Elvis, the original rockers. And I’m partial to Rick Asley and London Beat and Black Box and what was called funk. I’m into new jack kiasi, but within limits. I mean I love motown philly and naughty by nature - but i never really felt Tony Toni Tone. And I always said people who loved soul are way old. But guess who was bopping her head at Galileos and wishing I was uninhibited enough to shake the rest of me. Sigh.

That’s another thing. I want to dance. I actually want to dance. In public. Not just in my bathroom where nobody can see, but in the open, to real music. I don’t know if I actually can - coz I chickened out when I had the chance, but I so want to shake that there what my momma gave me. Not around a pole though. Except maybe for a particular private screening, maybe.

I like handbags. That is like a miracle, since I used to swear by rucksacks and monkeybags. But lately I can’t resist buying these pretty handbags. There’s this rasta dude who has the most amazingly unique sets for just 2sock kenyan. I buy so many bags from him that i often get freebies.

I function best on four hours of sleep. This for me is the most traumatizing discovery, since I have always prided myself on the ability to sleep for days and days. It’s a talent. But lately as soon as I clock four hours, I’m wide awake and fresh as close-up. Should I make the mistake of going back to sleep, I will wake up on the wrong side of an elephant stampede. I was lying in a very comfy bed with a very comfy person and just itching to jump out of it and DO something, anything! After four hours, if I am still in bed it better be coz I’m doing something worthwhile. Like reading.

I read slowly. Me. Who once finished Sidney Sheldon’s Stars shine down in four hours flat, now took six weeks to get through LOTR. How embarassing. And I don’t watch news or read newspapers. They have become suddenly boring. Don’t read magazines either, except Reader’s Digest and occasionally Eve.

I bow out of political arguments. Amazing!! Mostly coz I never have a clue what’s going on anymore. Somebody told me Orengo was minister of tourism and i was like “That’s nice.” He isn’t though, is he? I mean I know I gave up learning minister’s names after the last reshuffle - and there are too many now to learn anyway - but Orengo tourism? Er…

And then - I stopped arguing. This one is total twilight zone. My brother’s favourite passtime was to pick fights with me. We once argued for one hour about whether a gate was pink or purple. And the argument was not ‘is too - is not -is too -is not.’ The gate was actually lilac, and Kid Bro finally admitted he just felt like arguing and that he liked listening to my points.

Lately if you say the sky is green I’ll just say ‘okay’. I just can’t find the energy to fight anymore. Princess got in trouble at school - the kind of trouble that would normally make me go and bitch-slap her teacher. Instead I wrote the teacher a note, then called her cell phone and politely asked her to stop being, you know, unreasonable. It was effective, sure, but the old me would have beat the lady down hard.

I find myself longing to be domestic. I am SO not, and always prided myself in being unfeminine, but now I look at my pal cooking and cleaning and I actually get envious! And worse - I envy the power suit! I want to do the whole short-skirt-blazer-heels-dinner-and-laundry thing. Me who hates blazers and would rather tweeze and thread and wax all in one millisecond than actually wash anything!! Eff, that is scary!!

Some stuff about me hasn’t really changed. I still believe I have a wild side. And I pierced my nose, got dreads largely to convince myself that that crazy side is there. [and will get a tattoo if i can get someone to drug me without hurting me - I have SUCH a phobia for pain. You shoulda seen the nurses dissing me during post-labour stitching. They couldn't nyita how somebody who had survived labour could be wincing over stitches. Hey, it hurt! It's so true what the say - once you see your newborn baby, you forget all the pain. Or at least I did, so I yelled when they put needles down there. Eish - sorry guys, TMI]

I still love cartoons and ice cream and black forest and rock music. I still have a phobia for snakes, cockroaches, and getting fat [which is understandable considering I went through high school with the nickname Yokozuna]. And I still believe in love.

But I walk home and some idiot gang of men catcall me. I want to stop and give them a piece of my mind. To terrify them into silence, to make them think long and hard before they talk that silly again. I used to do that. I was once mobbed by four armed cops and I made such a royal ruckus that they apologised and walked away. I even spoke jeng’. Note : i do NOT speak jeng’, but that day, somehow, I did.

But these days when I’m catcalled, I walk on seething, or at best stare coldy and walk on. Even Princess gets upset enough to tell them “Stop calling me rasta, that’s not my name. Mummy that stupid boy is calling you dada. Are you his sister?” Me, I just walk on. Then I get mad at myself for not saying something.

I speak my heart, then I apologise. Me, who always said ‘As long as I’m not lying, I can say what I want.’ But now each time I gush and mush I feel dumb. I sit back and retract my words and generally embarrass myself even more than the mushy words did. I act like I’m insane, or in love - mostly both. Then I feel ashamed for admitting it.

And I don’t know when I last wrote an honest-to-goodness love poem straight from the soul. I don’t even know where that is anymore. It’s been replaced by some shallow plate that I fill then scrape and say I’m sorry. Where’s the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, and s***w anyone who didn’t like what it said? Why am I so ashamed of loving? It used to be enough for me to love someone, to know that I loved them, to tell them that I loved them and let them decide. No regrets. But now I feel dumb for even allowing myself that leisure. I say a word, then ask to have it back. I am that scared of being rejected, of looking stupid.

That at least hasn’t changed. I’m still proud. And I’m still afraid of looking stupid. And that’s the one thing I wish I could change. I wish I wasn’t so afraid of what you think of me. I wish i could just be me, and let you love me for me - or not, if that’s your will. I wish i didn’t want to explain myself, to validate myself, to justify what i feel. I know the logical solution to that is ‘don’t’. I wish I knew how.

I never used to care what people thought. I used to enjoy being a rebel, being different, being weird, not fitting in. I used to thrive on criticism, to enjoy going against the grain. It made me feel important to be doing the abnormal. Now I cringe at the slightest reproach. I ask for it, I demand it. I always say ‘be brutally honest’. But then I hide and cry. I can’t handle the truth. Not anymore. But i don’t want people to lie either. I don’t want my ‘intelligence’ insulted.

My most important value is to be true to myself. But how can i do that when I don’t even know who I am?

I look at you, and you are so together, so solid, so sure of yourself. I really like that about you. You are who you are, and you’re beautiful. I thought I was like that. I thought I knew who I was. But I don’t. And knowing that makes me curl up and cry.

On a saner note…

…after all that rock ranting, I’m feeling a little philosophical.

You know that scene in Fools rush in where Salma Hayek is cooking and dancing salsa, and Matthew Perry is watching her with this smitten look on his face? Do guys actually do that? Coz me I want. Call it good directing, but that right there is my benchmark for being in love. Without the cooking of course.

I want a dude to watch me dance and look at me just like that. That look that says ‘God you’re amazing!’

Does that happen? Gentlemen? Have you ever looked at a woman dance and thought wawawawawawa. And I don’t mean Shakira or Beyonce or Rihanna or that chick of Sean Paul, or any dancing involving a pole. I mean an actual, real life, regularly proportioned female. Preferably when you’re sober, in a daylight scenario that doesn’t involve other women. Or have you ever watched your girl dance at a rave joint and everyone else just disappears? Honestly? Ladies, hush, I want the guys to answer this. Use an alias if you wish…

Ps : Yes, I can salsa.

Then there’s the scene in that country song, moments like this by - some guy in a cowboy hat. He says how she’s so clumsy but he adores her anyway, the way she was singing in the shower and didn’t hear the fire alarm coz the kuku was burning, and the way she was terrified when she prenged his truck but he couldn’t resist that cute look on her face. Haiya, it’s not me, it’s a country song. No, i don’t do country. I just heard the song and it kinda stuck with me.

Are there dudes that still enjoy rescuing damsels? Coz balls or not, I do need rescuing sometimes. Like when my computer is blinking and my fridge is singing and my phone is winking and i just curl up and cry. I can change lightbulbs and unclog drains, but when it comes to technology, I can barely find the start button. So is it possible that dude loves me for doing my own plumbing, but still enjoy solving my technobofia for me?

Yes, I know the prenging dude’s car is totally pushing my luck, but does that kind of attraction exist? Where you think even her screw-ups are cute? Coz yenyewe there’s a way me and those scrambled eggs…and don’t even get started on housework!

I know I already lost points for the nosering and the butterfly tattoo [that i don't have yet, but I am so getting it once i black out and get past the needle], and that the whole little-girl-routine doesn’t work when you have dreads coz nobody believes that it’s not an act, but are there guys who still think it’s cute to pout? Truly? I mean real-life-nice guys, not those closet paedophiles who like catholic-schoolgirl-role-play and say stuff like “Who’s your big daddy?” Eish! Creepoid!!

My armour is down, I am so busted. I am sensible enough to NOT expect dude to do the toilet-seat-flowers-door-opening-what-are-you-thinking thing, but I have my daydreams too. So seriously, gentlemen. Is this stuff for real? Do tell, use an alias if you must. Don’t want people thinking you’re gay or anything.

Warning : this is a rant…

…so pay me no attention.

First off, let me just say that I get high on oxygen and music. And no, I don’t mean the Oxygen on Arsenal t-shirts, though I occasionally get high on them too. Those boys are just sooo pretty! Well, at least Thierry was. [please pronounce that for me. Pretty please? I insist. A little louder...] I sometimes shift to Barca strictly for him. Back to the point.

Music.makes.me.haaaaiiiiii

but it depends on the music. Rock is good. Kienyeji old school alternative rock, kina Staind and Nickelback and Creed and Linkin Park. Okay, I know LP is only pseudorock - whachamacallit - there’s a name for that hiphoprockfusion thing they do, i forget the word. I don’t do any of that gothic heavy metal hellraiser marilyn manson stuff though. That’s just creepy.

And I’m a dancer. Pick your jaw back up you [**pointing**]. I am too a dancer. I dance in front of my mirror, and with princess, and in bathrooms. That makes me a dancer. So there. I don’t know how to dance to rock though, beyond shaking the dreads and air guitar. And I don’t dance in public. But if you could convince DJ Adrian to throw a rock gig it might be attempted…

TZ radio is on a low-rock diet. So I get exactly two doses of rock a week : 2 to 6 on Sunday and 1 to 2 on Wednesday. I might catch 1 to 2 on Thursday if network behaves, coz network isn’t too clear at my desk, and even at home, I have to simamisha the thing just so to get a signal. Let me explain. You see, I have this phone on my radio…

Haya, from the beginning. I am stingy. Very stingy. The only thing I splurge on is novels. Anything else natafutanga discount. Speaking of which, I just finished LOTR 3. And I have several bones to pick with it. I loved it, sure, but how come there are only 4 women in the entire book? 1500 pages, 69 million characters, several monsters, a troll, and just 4 women??!!

Granted they are pivotal to plot movement - the gossipy old lady nurse, the tamed tomboy, the scary goddess type and the one who gets 5 seconds of fame - at her wedding! And yet she’s supposed to be the starring, literally!!

And THEN the first strong female character was an evil spider that vomits darkness. And that spider chick meets some tiny guy who sticks a tiny sword up her … eh… well, not her front. I know she was trying to eat him at the time, but ai chamaaani!!

But where was I? Oh yeah, Wednesday. No wait, the phone. Right. I have this phone. It is a nokia, pretty and silver and colour screen and everything. It’s a 6030, was on offer, and came with a one-year guarantee. That should have been a warning to me. NOTHING IN DAR COMES WITH A GUARANTEE. Unless you buy it in a South African supermarket. Read Shoprite, or maybe Game. My nokia TV had a 30 day guarantee, and the fridge, well, the fridge sings. Really. No, it’s not a nokia. Those generally come with a one-day warantee. And the difference is…as I reach for the 10 dictionaries on my desk - and those are just the English ones.

So anyway, my nokia phone. To make up for having a one year guarantee, I had to ignore that it had no box. And no manual. And that it was assembled as I watched. The battery came from one corner, the handset from another [well, not a corner, the handset was actually among a bunch of other handsets wrapped in old newspapers] , the battery from another, the earphone - yes, i did say earphone, it’s just one…I’m not really complaining. The guarantee is valid - they’ve already replaced the phone three times. And I got a receipt to boot!

Oh, and here’s the best part. My hands - that is the hands on the phone - well, you know what happens with the hands when you turn off a nokia and put it on? Mine don’t do that. They are, as Viola said, unfriendly hands. Or maybe they’re just overlyhygienic. Coz when they greet, they don’t touch.

Now what was this post about? Oh yeah, right music. And fake nokias. Well, I’ve had my nokia for a while now. It still looks really pretty. But the internet function died a few weeks ago [sob sob]. And the earphone is moody. You see, the radio can’t work without the earphone plugged in. Once you do that, you can use the loudspeaker function, but the earphone still has to be plugged in. Go figure.

Sometimes the earphone plays invisible. I think i rubbed off on it. So you plug it in and the phone bleeps and goes ‘Connect enhancement.’ Of course I yell, “But I just did!” Er yes, I talk to my phone. But I get annoyed when too many people want to talk ON my phone. Seriously, i find phone calls annoying. Unless they’re from her or him - those ones I relish. And another thing. My radio doesn’t work if there’s no network, and the phone has issues finding network. So if you ever see me walking around waving my phone in the air like I’m swatting invisible flies or something…

The phone, sometimes gets mad when I yell, and replies “Enhancement not supported.” To which I reply “i’l show you ‘not supported’… . I tend to throw tantrums. They generally involve slamming doors, breaking things and throwing stuff around. And deleting. I don’t throw like a girl, and i’ve lost a lot of good nokia-parts that way. You see Nokia is the ultimate Kenayn phone. You throw it, it dismantles, you re-mantle it, life goes on. And I have had phone conversations on disentangled nokias. For real. Sometimes the vibe is too juicy to wait for reassembly.

So TODAY, as I psyche up for my bi-weekly rock dose, the phone goes all not-supported on me. I begged and pleaded and coaxed and throttled it for ten minutes before it finally co-operated and allowed me to catch like 5 rock songs. Sigh. That said, Far away by Nickelback just TOOOOOOOOOOTALLY does it for me. It just gives me this warm fuzzy feeling inside. Then throw in What I’ve done by Linkin Park. Bliss I tell ya, pure bliss. That is like the ultimate hangover song. Not that I get hangovers, but still…

Of course nothing says rock like Teenage dirtbag. That has got to be the rock anthem of rock anthems. It’s the best thing since Fly away by Lenny Cravitz. Bitch by Meredith is another favourite, it was my theme song for the longest time. Note that I actually spelt it out this time. And Bare Naked by Jeniffer whatsername - I can’t belive i’ve forgotten her name. She’s the skinny chick on the Enrique Iglesias video where she gets rained on and he gets beaten to death. Torn by the neighbours chick is another one.

**finger snap** Jeniffer Leyton Hewitt - that’s her name. She was Bailey’s unrequited on Party of Five. How I loved Bailey. He was just so cute! Way back when that Wild Things chick was nice. Whatsername. The one with brown hair.

One of the coolest things about being a rock fan is name-dropping. It is SUCH fun to say things like stupid girl, garbage, smashing pumpkins and chumbawamba in a regular conversation with straight face. And the reactions of antirocks to those words is just classic! “So what d’you listen to?” “Mostly garbage, and some bare naked ladies.”

My brother thinks i’m goth…i don’t think it’s a compliment.

Er, okay, my mind’s done spinning for now. As you were.

PS : If your regional director, who has never met you before, is introduced to you and says “Finally! This is like Stanley meets Mutesa!”…if that happens, is it a good thing?

I need to get me a camera phone!!!

Scenario One

The place : Drai[ve], opposite the US Embassy.

A gang of five maasai dudes, fully dressed in maasai regalia, definitely not TZian, TZ maasas are very short. Probably not maasais at all, coz they were way too clean - sio ati nasema wamasai ni wachafu, but, eh, maybe clean is the wrong word. They were too, shall we say, meticulous, na hawakuwa wameparara. They had blue shukas mostly, and purple. TZ maasas don’t feel red like ours, except maybe in the hair.

So what makes this a kodak moment? Simple. The most maasai of the dudes [he was the only one with the ochred long hair] was carrying a suitcase. Well, not carrying really, [i have never spelt this word. how odd] more like dragging. It was one of those pretty little suitcases with the wheels, the girl-bag of travel, the kind you can’t lose at T5.

I was quite amused by the picture of these dudes who walked right out of a tourism postcard, carrying a suitcase ?! Then as I overtook them, they broke into the tradi maasai singing thingie they like to do. I should have looked back to see if they were doing the jumping thing, but I was too busy SOL-ing so…

Scenario Two

The place : My hood, hapo karibu na Guardian day and boarding english medium nursery school. [yes, that is correct, it says so on the wall]

The kodak moment : Outside this really pretty house, two maasai watchies are on patrol. They’re fairly young, early thirties maybe, but their hair is short, which means they are not morans, and probably have wives in some manyatta somewhere. One of the dudes is standing, quintessential maasai pose, with the one leg bent, leaning on the wall, chewing a stalk of grass.

The other one, is, well, I had to get close to be sure. See he was sitting on this plastic chair, facing the wall, and straddling a head. Er, that came out wrong. Let me try again. You know that ‘African mama’ pose, where some madhe is sitting with her legs kidogo apart, and some poor victim is squashed between the legs, facial expressions contorted while the said head is being beautified? A common pose in verandas in shags, or in those mabati esto salons, or generally at kenyatta market? Yes, that one. He was doing that.

From far all I saw was this reddish head, so I thought ‘Aaw how cute, he’s making a fellow moran’s hair! That is soooooo metro!’ But then I got closer and heard a loud, healthy dose of salon-style gossip. Creepy, I thought. Maasai men talking b****y ??!! But alas, it was even stranger than that. The maasai dude was braiding alright. But he wasn’t braiding his age-group-mate. He was braiding a mboch.

Now I know male hairdressers are all the rage, and metro is bringing major major issues, but, er, when Maasai dudes, the epitome of African masculinity, start talking b***h and braiding girls hair! I know I said morans and spartans were the ORIGINAL metros, but ai!!!

Scenario Three

The place : my new hairdresser. Yes, he’s a dude.

I got to the hairdresser and decided not to warn him about the terror that is my hair. They never believe me anyway. I would explain, but it is SUCH miscellaneous chick vibe, I will save it for mwaura. But anyway, it was only a few seconds before he started whining.

This dude isn’t the metro type at all. He’s rugged, skinny, unkempt, un-neat and not the least bit attractive. First hairdresser that I haven’t had a crush on. I’m not sure if that was coz of my butterfly, but the thing is, this boy did nothing for me.

And he’s moody too. I like that he isn’t a yap-yap-yap like other hairdressers, and didn’t ask me any personal questions. I hate nosy hair-people. And he had a nice nokia phone though, with P-square’s temptation as the ringtone.

Partway through my hairdo another customer shows up. She’s classy, real classy. She’s got the petite frame, the spiked heels, the highlighted bobbed dreads, the little black dress, the meticulous make-up and attitude. Think Jada Pinkett with a weng ‘ in her English and TZ in her swa. She’s a teensy little coke bottle, and a flirt to match. This girl was HOT!!

She starts to whine to our hairdresser dude that she had booked him, so he should quit working on me and start working on her. He looks at his watch. 11.15. He says “Hii ndio saa tatu? Si ulibuki saa tatu.” I love this guy.

Coca cola then parks her little black dress on the seat, slips off her shoes, and does the little girl pose. You know, the one where you bring your knees together, tippie-toe on the floor, clasp your hands, put them in your lap and tilt you head just so? Of course the little black dress rides up. Then she starts whining about how hungry she is.

He tells ‘basi si uende ukatafute chakula?’ By now I was so SOL-ing that Frodo was long forgotten. She whined a lot more, then went silent for about half an hour, then started again. To which he replies ‘Si nimekwambia ukatafute chakula? Huendi?’

Diet coke lady sat a bit longer and eventually drifted off to sleep. After about three hours, I was put in the dryer and hairdresser [his name is Rashidi, and he has dreads and a red ngepa] starts work on her. She gets up and walks to the hair washing thingie - i think it’s called a sink.

And here lies the kodak moment. Coke lady had taken off her spiked heels, but apparently, her legs didn’t know that. Or maybe her feet are on autopilot. Coz chick is walking around barefooted, but her heels are still in the air. I stared for a bit, then I thought maybe this is kawa for chicks who live in heels. But then I noticed everyone else was staring too. Chickdi was walking on her toes as if her feet were still wearing imaginary high heels! I would have ROF-ed if I wasn’t so bumbwazed…

I so need a camera phone!

Right, to other matters. I found me a new song. YAY!!! Ryan Seacrest first described it as uncannily catchy, and predicted it would be a big hit. I made a loooooot of noise about how it got on the rock charts. But now every time I hear that song I go hukoooooo, unakujua. And I’m pretty sure you [***pointing***, yes you] know why…now if I could figure out how to actually dance to it, coz all I do is shake shake - shake shake shake it!!

And finally, I have officially been embraced by Dar. They [yes, the same they] gave me an AKA. Several actually. I am now known as CB aka mwogopa unene aka mtisha wasusi [actually it's terror of the hairdressers, but...] aka mwana wa mikocheni aka rasta feki. And that is a story for another day.

But I will say one guy called me Christian [he decided Crystal was too hard], until I retaliated and started to call him Muslim; and another guy calls me Kristo coz…well, I really don’t know why; and another guy calls me Craistal coz, well, my name is ‘cry’ and a few letters added; and another guy figured Crystal was too long, so he started calling me Crist, which he later shortened to Cri. I have considered telling them to just call my Crys like my pals do, but, I may end up being called cries, so I shall stick to Mwogopa Unene. For sure, leo ni monday.

Shake it by Metro Station

Plot 8 goes bleach

My landlord, Babu, has a worldwide [well, okay, neighbourhoodwide] reputation of being the resident ‘Grumpy old man’. Everyone calls him babu, even his agemates. Never mind that at the time they were guffawing over some suspiciously gutteral conversation. But it was being conversed with such skill that the only hint was the laughter. You know, when someone says coconut and laughs like that, and you know they’re not talking about nazi. It was kinda cute to see the reverend patriarch laughing like a naughty little boy. Made him more human somehow.

Of course I always knew he was human. He doesn’t pull those grumpy moves with me. I always see the teddy bear side of him. And he is a teddy bear, i’ll give you that. He likes to walk around in a leso and nothing else, and there’s lots of chub there. I find it quite disturbing, but hey, it’s his house. And a few days ago I bumped into Bibi [transalted as 'grandmother'] - his wife, feeling equally - shall we say - ventilated. It was equally disturbing. More so. But again, it’s their house. One of these days princess will unleash that famed five-year-old verbal d*******a and knock some sense into babu and bibi. Am I making any sense at all?

Babu is so scary that for the longest time I didn’t need to spank Princess. When she got naughty, all I had to do was say ‘Ntakwitia Babu’ and she would be back in line in a second. But lately they have bonded, so I need to find a new punishment.

Grounding doesn’t work. She takes after me - when we get mad we throw tantrums, slam doors and lock ourselves in rooms. For a while “Go stay in your room, and don’t come out until you stop crying” was a sufficient punishment. But by the time she was three I got “Mummy, you have made me annoyed. I am going to my room and locking the door. And don’t call me out until I stop crying.” Sigh. Sometimes I wish she didn’t get my brains.

Back to the point. Babu now has a new reputation. He’s the resident babe magnet. And not just any babes, foreign babes. Mind you the dude is over 70, and has a horde of kids and grandkids. But he has this infectious smile and unlined face, and a scooter. I’m sure he was quite a catch in his day.

The foreign babes - well, there’s me, the single mum, who looks very foreign, even when I’m at home I’m told. They can’t quite figure me out. And i have heard them ask ‘Huyo hana bwana?‘ more than once. Then there’s the jungus next door. Two of them, a blonde and a brunette.

I haven’t actually talked to them, I just hear their voices and see flashes of them through the window. I think one has green eyes. I like green eyes. They speak passable swa, and are causing quite a stir because ‘wazungu wale economy sana, wanakula magengeni kama waswahili!’ They have totally impressed the locals. Babu right now is a man being envied.

Last sunday I had a working holiday. I sent Princess to sunday school with a house guest while I caught up with my work. Note : I don’t generally do church, but Princess does sunday school. I sometimes tag along and hang around big church till she’s done. I’d rather stay at home and watch Ben 10. I am a believer, I’m just not big on church.

So anyway, I was - working - and watching the bleachers - and playing some rock on my radio phone. Of course at some point Apologize played and I forgot myself and sang along. Now I can sing, quite well actually. But y’all know what happens when you have headphones on - and you know how whiny that song is. Bleach lady realised she had company and ran away. But I am telling the story backwards. Here’s what happened.

Of the two bleachers - and I hereby baptise them Blondie and Bruny [not carla] - Bruny is more, shall we say, active. She’s the slim type - I should say skinny. Not very tall, but kinda stooped over and almost flat. Unhealthily pale skin, and black nail polish. That I can’t quite figure out - they’re still very pale, no suntan, so they can’t have been here long. But they are very acclimatised and eat magengeni [that's mitaani to us]. Hard to figure out really.

Anyway, Bruny likes to wear jeans and t-shirts, like me. i have no idea what they do. Possibly volunteers on some kind of one year ‘my time in Africa’ programme. They look the type. So Bruny was trying to do her laundry. I shouldn’t laugh. I’m lousy with housework - it’s why I overpay my mboch. But seriously, it was funny.

Bruny was squatting under the tap, no bucket, no soap, caressing her t-shirt. i say caressing, not washing, coz she was papasapapasa-ing it like a baby. I think she was watching her nails or something. Once she was done bembeleza-ing it, she closed the tap, walked aaaaall the way to the back of the house, hung the t-shirt on the line, then went back inside the house, took out one pair of jeans, came back to the tap…well, it was a process. Hata kama her clothes were few, there must be a saner way to do laundry than one at a time. At least pile them all up in one place. Unless of course the walking around was mileage in her walkathon. Maybe the chick was piga-ing tizi na sijui.

I haven’t seen much of her roomie. She seems wider, and shier, and quieter. Time will tell I suppose. But this dose of jik will certainly spice up Plot 8.

In other matters, I am still changing my lightbulbs like a nonsense. i did switch to Philips, but still bilaz. Last night I changed one, and I think I got a little rough with it. The thingie that holds the bulb in place, the coil, you know the one you twist? Yes, that one. It broke.

So I had to call Babu to come fix it. Mind you it was like 7p.m. and I was sure he’d come the next day, but noooooo. Dude came rushing right over, and I shudder to think what his wife thought we were doing in my bedroom for 30 minutes…

Well Babu is a little…er…short. So even with a chair, he couldn’t quite reach the said lightbulb. Mind you the bulbs in my house are pretty high. I usually have to get on a chair and tiptoe just to reach them. And remember that my chairs are plastic and wobbly.

So Babu decided to make a step ladder - of stools. He got one stool, placed it on another stool, and then accessed them from my wobbly seat. Let me just say that I was very, very afraid. i kept wondering what would happen if this dude fell off that ‘ladder’.

Number one, the dude is BIG. Number two, he was in his usual leso and…eh…i was not looking forward to catching that if it fell - and it was a long fall! Number 3, his wifey was grumbling next door [er okay, next wall] and i did NOT want to be caught red handed with my hands on her man - in my bedroom no less, whether or not it was a life-saving tactic.

Number four, princess thought this game was quite amusing and kept running around the ladder. I was holding my breath hoping she wouldn’t brush it and make it fall down! And number five, I was trying not to giggle, coz a seventy year old man, balancing on three wobbly chairs in a leso and [okay, he had on a julius nyerere shirt today] was worthy of dar es salaam’s funniest videos!

I’m not entirely sure he knew what he was doing. He was tugging at the wires with a pliers and snipping bits and throwing them down, then he’d give me the candle and look at the wires confused-ly…did I mention that wiring in dar is non-existent? There are no conduits or insulators. Water pipes run free under the sand, and electric wires float around inside the walls.

My lightbulbs are literally suspended in a mass of coloured wires. It looks like those gory scenes in a movie where somebody’s brains spill out, except the ‘brains’ are multicoloured copper. And here babu was, randomly snipping and tugging the ‘brains’. With a pliers. And a candle. Creepy.

Well he did manage to fix the bulb in the end, and was so pleased with himself that he forgot his ladders and i had to carry them out for him. They’re heavier than they looked! Of course he promised to come back tomorrow to give me some energy-saving bulbs. Groan. But on the bright side, I was able to get back to Frodo. I was sure i’d have to put my book away for at least three days. You know landlords and repairs.

Now, if only I could put off the power and lose the keys here - then I could spend all day with Gandalf and Gollum instead of my boss…

Minutes of the blog

Agenda

1. [For Bomseh] Disclaimer : This will be a long one.

2. That %^%$@%&&^$% killed my song!!

3. Stalkers anonymous.

4. Oyunga is right, again. Sigh.

5. I’m in mourning.

6. Lessons learnt.

7. A poem for Kip.

8. Instincts.

In attendance

Any reader that makes it to the end. Attendance will be awarded with a smile. Comments are mandatory as proof of attendance.

Absent

Deserters are expected and will not be held accountable for their human-ness.

Let’s begin.

1. Last Monday I wrote a post that had no title. This Monday I write a post that has too many titles. I wrote and rewrote this post in my mind all weekend, and each time it had a different title, so yeah.

2. Victor ^%$#%^$^*$*^$&*^$%&*$^(^ shidwe!! So you had nice curly hair and a great body, but did you HAVE to sing that song!! YOUUUU!!! Does anyone have a recording of the original [semi-original, the one Timbaland tinkered with] Apologize? I need to play it over and over and over and over until I can exorcise Victor’s version from my head. HELP!!

3. Hello. My name is CB and I’m a stalker. I don’t do guns, and I have lousy aim, so my prey is safe. But that doesn’t make it okay. If the roles were reversed, and a guy did what I have been doing, I would take out a restraining order. I would be afraid, truly. So, I am sorry dear. i think my sanity is partially restored, but certainly my madness is suppressed, chained, padlocked and hidden under a big heavy well. Again, thousand apologies. I hope you are not scarred for life. I know a good shrink who could undo my damage on you.

4. Yes. He is. And I so hate when he is right. Ladies, wooing is a man’s game. We couldn’t play it if we tried. Leave it to the experts. They’re built for it, and they handle the backlash better. This girl has retired, permanently.

5. Why why WHY did David not win Tusker Project Fame? Does anyone have his number? Do you know David means beloved in persian? Don’t worry David, if you are reading this, you are safe. i am content to admire you from afar lest the stalker in me finds that well. Refer to agenda items 3 and 4 above.

6. (a) Sounding sensible and being sensible are two different things. I am not. Didn’t mean to disappoint you. Sorry. Again.

(b) I blog for therapy. But that’s no excuse to air dirty laundry. From now on, my shrink posts reside in drafts.

(c) There is a reason why people don’t always say [and do] what they think. Honesty is NOT always the best policy, because honesty is effing freaky. The truth may set you free, but it is DAMN scary!! At last, I know the value of silence. And for a bonus, people think you’re smarter when you shut up.

(d) Mr Irungu taught us waaaaay back that girls are stupid because we write things down. How many times were we busted by our little notes and diaries? I never listened then, but I am listening now. No more verbal disclosure. Refer to (c) above.

7. I was walking and thinking, and I saw some butterflies dancing. They were flying round each other in circles, and they were so pretty. One was pale yellow and the other one was a darker shade. I like butterflies. They make me happy. I like to chase them. It’s fun. It makes me feel like a kid again. And it burns calories. But I know I’ll never catch them.

Sometimes I watch them and just smile. A few times I’ve seen a butterfly standing still, and crept up to it to try and catch it. Most times they wait till you are so close, so very close, then they fly away. It never makes me angry, I just smile and watch them. It makes my heart light.

One time i got right up to the butterfly and even touched its wings. But then it dropped. I caught it because it was dead. Butterflies never stop unles they’re dead. You can trap them with a net, but that’s cheating really.

I sometimes wish I was like those Disney princesses who hold out their hands and butterflies come and land on their index finger. Birds too. I’ve had a bird do that. A bird once came and landed on my shirt. It thought my button was a flower, and it hovered over my tummy for a while, flapping. It tickled, it was just the amazingest thing.

I think flowers are luckier with butterflies. They sit still and look pretty, and the butterflies just come and land on them. Perhaps I shall be a flower. But not a rose. Roses don’t just attract butterflies. They attract bees, and ding’oing’os, and lovers with shears. I shall be a bougainvillea. They’re common, and come in four flavours - white, orange, red and maroon. Butterflies like those.

But sitting in one place doesn’t burn as many calories.

I found a name for you. Kipepeo, my butterfly. The one I love to chase but will never catch. The one who makes my heart light. No matter how down I am, I see a butterfly and it makes me smile. You are my Kip.

I wrote you a poem. It isn’t very good. Not at all inspired. But I did write it for you.

My butterfly

Your wings are spread to catch the sun.

The colours gleam:

Reds, greens, hints of orange-

yellows bright as a smile.

You are flying high, out of reach.

And as I watch you, I smile.

Your freedom thrills me

as I long to fly like you-

to fly with you.

Inside me you twirl,

I’m nervous, you’re tickling my insides.

I giggle despite my fear.

Like Snow white, you rest in my palm, for a while

and then you fly.

Be free my butterly.

I cannot cage you.

And being free, you bring me joy.

Sorry by Buckcherry

Crazy by Gnarls Barkley

8. My instinct when i get upset is to undo things. I rip things I have written, delete blogs and emails, cancel chat accounts and whatnot. it’s been hard not to rip my ‘diaries’. i had to literally stay my hand from deleting cbthree. some of my chat accounts are gone already. Facebook, well, that’s a yo-yo at the best of times. So if my chatmates don’t see me for a bit - or if CB goes suddenly quiet, that’s what cut. bye! Meeting adjourned.

This I could not resist !

I shall burn the Exes post Boms, too much bad blood. But this one is a must-read.

Britain’s Got Talent judge Piers Morgan has apologised to former Beatle Paul McCartney for introducing him to ex-wife Heather Mills.

The former tabloid editor claims it was he who set the singer up with Mills, but insists he didn’t know she would turn out to be a “grasping, gold-digging little bimbo”. [Ouch? !]

Speaking to US radio DJ Howard Stern, he says, “I was fooled into thinking that she was a good person…

“I’m not sure if Paul knew she was missing a leg at the time.”

The pair, married in 2002, began their divorce proceedings in 2006 after they split in May of the same year. They have joint-custody of their four-year-old daughter, Beatrice.

I rest my case.

Friday

I desperately wanted to post today, but I haven’t a clue what to write about. I started today all high and flighty thanks to that sms of 10 p.m. last night. Just six words and they totally made my day - er - night. Oh I am so easily pleased. Thank nokia for 1110s !

This morning, now let’s see, what happened this morning? Oh yeah. Work. It has a way of taking the friday out of me. So now it’s four p.m. and I am tiiiiiiiirrrrrrrreeeeeedddd ! And not a single new post to zoob my mind. Oh ye bloggers where art thou ?! - er - what’s the plural of thou? thee?

Yesterday evening I wrote a post about exes [not you Xs] and the dynamics of getting along with them, and how those dynamics are pure greek to me. Quite a feat. I didn’t post it when i wrote it coz it ‘reeked of too much bile’ and eh…coz mwaura was highly influential in it. I am looking at it now - still deciding whether or not to post it…perhaps Bwana logic will come by and phish it out for me.

For now i retire to my Friday lethargy and Frodo baggins. And to all a good night.

PS : Is the movie not so much better than the book? and how often does anyone say that? Be afraid. be very afraid! Good night.

Swallowed in the sea by Cold Play

PPS : these guys were giving out free downloads of their latest song on their website for a week - did anybody catch it?

This is not a joke

A man of 25-ish walks into a kiosk at 7 a.m. in a shirt and boxers. His name is Abdallah - sometimes shortened to Dullah.

Dullah : Joni, naomba sukari.

John[i] : Sukari kiasi gani?

Dullah : Mi sijui

Joni : Sasa kama hujui ntakusaidiaje?

Dullah : Mi sijui. Baba kaniambia nije nikuombe sukari. Kasema hivyo hivyo. Sasa kiasi na aina ni nyiye mwajua.

Joni smiles, scoops an unspecified amount of sugar, puts it in a bag and hands it to Dullah. No money changes hands.

Dullah is my neighbour, his dad is my landlord - everyone calls him Babu. Joni is the shopkeeper. His shop is inside our compound, so technically, Babu is also his landlord.

Only in Dar. I rest my case.

Ps : This same Dullah once tried to sell me a computer - leptop ya deri. “Bei gani?” “Laki sita.” I asked him what kind it was, expecting him to quote RAMs and ROMs and things like that. After all, he has a job someplace working with computers. I don’t know what exactly he does with them, but he should know his gigahertz better than I do - I rule technobofia!

Instead, all he said was “leptop ya deri, nishakwambia. kaitumia kwa muda, lakin’ anataka kwenda kusoma, ndio maana anauza. ipo pia desktop ya deri, lakini naona hiyo deri leptop ndio inakufaa.”

I shall stop now before my sanity is [further] doubted. But I can’t resist one more crack - all you 8-4-4 leftovers, does the word majazi have any relevance here?

Of princes and princesses charming

I was looking through my comments for the last few weeks or so, and the whole Charming thing came back to me. Jaded topic, I know. But it really can’t be addressed enough.

That’s why fairytales make bestsellers - even the feminist variety. You haven’t heard of those? They have lines like “And the Prince rudely interrupted her peaceful nap with an uninvited kiss. She opened her eyes, picked her cell phone, called her lawyer, and sued the Prince for sexual harassment.” Oh, and you should see scientific sleeping beauty. That one is just to die for, literally!

Prince Charmings are supposed to be tall, dark, and handsome. I always wondered about that, coz the princes are all …er…pink. And considering the history of discrimination against darker people, well, what exactly is a dark light? Suntan? Or a red indian - um - native american? Coz dark pink is red…

They’re supposed to be gorgeous; blond and blue-eyed, or dark haired and ivory skinned - no wait, those are the princesses. The guys are supposed to be great on horseback, charming - naturally, have good knees - you know, so they can get down on them [in a strictly non-guterral way, unrelated to any showers, golden or otherwise] and etc and etc. The princes in the story don’t get much airplay or dialogue. They just show up, look good, slay the dragon and rescue the princess.

The princess herself is a golden haired angel with pale skin and sky blue eyes, or a raven haired goddess whose pure white skin is almost transparent. Or more recently, a red haired green eyed firebrand. And why oh why did Disney’s first black princess have to be so ugly? I know she’s supposed to be a frog princess but iiiii yawa! She looks like an ad for Kiwi ! Or maybe that was my low resolution screen. 3, help!!

Now, back to the point. As you see, our ideas of Charming did NOT come from fairytales at all. They came from soaps. And mills[tones] and [ba]boons and harlequins and etc and etc. In my defense, I usually read chapter one, chapter 12 and chapter last. That’s where all the good stuff is. Romance novels for me are strictly lessons in the art of…

[Never mind that I ended up writing one, though my version is low on 'how to' lessons. Coming soon to a store near you]

Where was I? Oh yes. Thanks to soaps and novels and what not, our ideal man/woman is born. The ideal woman - hehehe, looks like Sheila Mwanyiga, cooks like Susan Kamau, gyms like Angelina Jolie, plays like a porn star, bears children en masse, stays away from her dude’s car, and pays for her own hair.

As for the ideal guy, he buys flowers and chocolates, changes lightbulbs, can fix anything, always answers in detail to ‘What are you thinking?’, talks about his feelings, is emotional but not a crybaby [??!!], remembers her birthday, buys her stuff, is tall, dark and handsome, looks good in suits and jeans, does not hit on her friends, does not ogle other women…

And by the way, about that toilet seat - I have NEVER seen a man in a soap handle a toilet seat. So ladies, get over it.

Now, dears and darlings, those two people described up there? They don’t exist. If you have met anyone like that, run far, far away : they are faking.

I believe Prince Charming exists, because I found mine. Note, I did not say I found one, I said I found mine. As Mo Ma said, Prince Charming for me is everything that I want. It’s not about flowers or toilet seats. He does open doors for me sometimes, and he does treat me like a princess. But that’s not what makes him my prince. He is my prince because he is everything I ever wanted in a guy.

I had the list. The long, ridiculous, 72-item list. [oh alright, mine has 15 and then some, with (a), (b), (c), (d), (e)...]  I started out with a list of, let’s say, 100 things I want in a man. Then I cut it down to 20, then I cut it down to 6. I wrote the list for my own amusement. I really didn’t think I’d find a guy with all the criteria. So when Prince met 5 of the first 6, I went into the list of 20. He fits 18. So then I dug out the original hundred. He’s at 95. How’s that for Charming?

Of course my Prince has faults as well, lots of them. As do I. And I have no idea how well I rate on his list, or if he has a list at all. But you see, I found him. He was out there all along, and I found him.

What happens next is not automatic. It’s not happily ever after. It’s blending, meshing, meeting half way. It’s finding a way to work round each others gifts and faults. It’s appreciating that he’s everything I want and learning to accept the things i don’t want. Seeing as my list was pretty comprehensive, and he met almost all of them, I can forgive the flaws that - compared to 95 good things - are negligible. Love is all about work, and hard work at that. Some of those flaws can be pretty grating, sometimes unbearable. But I think 95:5 isn’t a bad ratio, I can stand 5 unbearables for 95 adorables.

Coz it’s too easy for it to all go wrong. People change, people eff up, love is not enough to make a relationship work, even if that love is the walk-in-the-rain-fly-to-the-moon-miss-the-game-for-a-soap variety. You have to compromise, work with what you have.

Note that I’m talking about a good guy/girl. Don’t use this as an excuse to stay with a loser. A good guy/girl respects you, TRIES not to hurt you, and never, ever, under any circumstances, cheats on you twice. Once could possibly be a mistake, or limbwata, or juju or a spiked drink or whatnot. But twice? Wake up, smell the coffee, dump it down their innards and walk out. Quickly.

And love isn’t just about taking. This dude-girl may be everything you want, but what about you? Are you everything that they want? Are you trying to make them happy? Are you willing to do the things they like, to please them? I’m not talking about changing yourself, or moulding to suit their desires. That’s stupid. But are you willing - within reason - to be what they want?

If he wants you to change your wardrobe, dump all your friends and stop watching your favourite show; if she wants you to banish the boys forever and ditch all your suits for jeans, run. But if he doesn’t like your new hairdo, or if she doesn’t like your favourite cologne, would you change that for them? If you changed that cologne, would you let her choose a new one for you? Would you consider that ‘wearing a skirt’? And if you ditched that one hairstyle, would you always ask his approval in future? Coz that’s when things start to get control freaky…

The true Prince/princess charming is a two-way thing. They will be everything you want, and you will be everything they want - naturally, without even trying. It’s Adam and Eve. It doesn’t count unless it’s mutual. It goes both ways. So if it’s not, walk away. Don’t stand staring at a closed door, transforming yourself, trying to be what they want. You’re better than that. The heartbreak of losing yourself is way worse than getting dumped. Believe me. And you may change and win the object of your affection, but you will never be happy coz you just won’t be yourself. You’ll strain to maintain the image and end up resenting them for it.

Now, even when the ‘charmingness’ is mutual, even with the 95 good things, there will be the 5 things you don’t like about each other. Are you willing to adjust your five negatives to suit your lover? The key is willingness, that you WANT to make them happy. And if their five deplorable traits can’t change, are you willing to accept those flaws and love them anyway? Coz that proves a REAL Charming - that you love most of what they are, and they love most of what you are, and you can accept the little that they are not, and that you are willing to change the little of you that they do not like.

Life isn’t about finding the dude who will buy your flowers, like your mum and fix your car. If a guy likes your mum, it’s unlikely that he will have jerk appeal, or that bad-boy drive that we [stupid] women swoon over. If a man is faithful and always on time for dates, chances are he doesn’t drive a harley or a Ferrari. And the James Bond - cadillac types generally do NOT do mothers.

If a man is good with children, it is unlikely he will make your girlfriends swoon with jealousy over his dashing hair and tuxedo. If your man stays up to feed the wailing baby, and sometimes cooks when you’re exhausted, he is unlikely to remember your one-week anniversary and take you to some tropical paradise to celebrate.

In life, there are good guys and there are bad guys. And bad guys are generally more charming. They’ve perfected the art. Same goes for girls. The ones with the perfect bodies and the perfect cooking skills will only use them till they catch you. Then they will ration both. You can bet on that.

The nice girls will be the ones cleaning up the digs on a saturday morning BEFORE they doll up, take your car and go shopping. It’s hard to look glam when you’re mopping a floor, though the leso helps. And the ones that have their own cars and do their own shopping are probably career girls who will pay the bills and buy you dinner, but probably couldn’t do laundry to save the world.

Here’s my advice. Everybody has a dream guy/girl. You can draw up all the fancy pictures, lists, whatwhat that you want. You can even go a little crazy and pull something like this. But then whittle it down. Pick out five things that are essential in a partner. Make them important things - values rather than fakeables. Jugs can be bought, eyes can be contact-ed, hair can be borrowed, as can cars, clothes and italian leather. Make your priorities character.

Focus on that top five or top ten. Real things. And when you date, look for those things. Don’t think ‘did he open the door for me? is she dressed to kill? Did he tip the waiter - and how much?”

Think “did she keep me waiting? Was he nice to the waiter? Did he try not to stare at the pretty girl who walked past? Was he/she actually listening to me? How did he/she answer his cell phone? What kind of questions does he/she ask you when you talk - are they interested in you as a person or in what you have/do/know?

Work your way down your list. Once you get the top five, and the person treats you well, you’re on the right track. It is possible to get your top 100 hundred desires in a guy or girl. i know, because I have. But don’t go around thinking it’s all or nothing. Start small and take it from there.

And keep in mind that your Mr/Miss 100 has a list of 100 too. And even if your two hundred items or less are totally synched, you still have to work to make it work. So if your dude loves you, forgive him for not caring that your red dress is really vermillion mauve dark pink. And if your girl is a fox when it counts, forgive her for burning supper or spending millions on her nails or hours in the bathroom. Prioritise. You can get a housewife who spends 50 on a manicure [read supermarket nailcutter] but is less than adventurous, or you can get a drama diva who costs a packet but knows the kama sutra, You’re very unlikely to get both.

You can get a dude who loves your kids and buys you sensible gifts like a blender for your birthday [i'm not kidding] or you can get the roses and poetry and sexy lingerie guy who says “Honey, the baby needs changing.” But both? Does James Bond change diapers?

Think about it like this. Why have Halle Berry, Donald Trump and Angelina Jolie been divorced several times? Even Brad had to ditch Jennifer befor he got with Angelina. Why are Oprah and Steadman both single? For that matter, how come Sheila Mwanyiga and Esther Arunga are still available as far as I know? Perfect people and yet…

Bottom line, review your image of the ideal mate. Make it more grounded, and you will find your Prince/Princess charming. Then take off your gloves and dig in, coz the fun - and the work - is just beginning.