Remember that time I had a weird Monday?

I’m sure I’ve now disappointed a number of people. One of them being the patron of the SDA group. See, I had a supper invitation to his house on the day Ugandan cranes were playing the Harambee Stars and tickets were already bought. I attended church for the first time this year that Saturday 9th October and left just before the main preaching could start so I could make it to the match in time. I made it in time, finding the teams warming up on the field before going to the changing rooms to change into their official kits.

Holy Bible

I texted David Samson (the patron, not his real name) and told him I’m sorry I couldn’t make it for supper, I’d already left school and to thank his wife for me. He replied, asking me if I had attended Friday night vespers. I told him I hadn’t. He asked me, why? Where was I? And I felt I owed him no explanation. So I did not text back. Part of the reason I prefer to live in campus hostels even if home is like 20min away is because of this freedom thing. You just don’t want to be explaining to anyone what/where/with who/why you are doing, whatever it is you are doing.

He called me the following weekend but I had left for home so we were to meet when I came back so we could talk some more. He didn’t call me until the Friday 22nd of October, asking me where I was. Had I been honest, I’d have told him I had just finished getting my tattoo at a parlour in Westlands. I told him I was at home and would be coming back to school on Sunday and he said we really do need to meet and talk. I remember that particular night too, because it was on the same night that my one-month-long relationship ended. Okay, one month is too short to be a relationship but whatever it was ended then. Details withheld.

I’ve disappointed some tweeps too, who wanted to know how my talk on the 29th would go. I was to do the ‘preaching’ for the Friday vespers. However, my spirit just wasn’t in it. You know when you’re forced to do something you don’t really want to do? Not with a gun to your head but with compelling words. Or did I just escape my responsibility? Is this what responsibility is about, doing what you gotta do?

Anyway, on the said 29th day of October, I lost a new Nokia C3 (review coming later) I had just had for about six days. At the time David Samson was calling me asking me where I was, at the same time I was supposed to have finished my preaching, I was in a matatu headed to town to rave; celebrate a friend’s birthday. As usual, I said I had gone home and as usual, he said he’d call me we talk when I get back to school.

So someone pick pocketed me the phone at a club in Westlands, and thus I pause a little in my tweeting career. (I’m a career tweep, but I moonlight as a student some days.)

I’m sure David Samson has been calling me and finding me ‘mteja’. He probably thinks am avoiding him.

FYI, I did have a sermon in mind. Coming from Ecclesiastes, chapter 9: 10-15 (thereof). Maybe I’ll still preach.


Why Kenyan Women Went to KICC

Crashing the High Metal Fence of A Fungible Reality

by Eric Ng’eno on Wednesday, 08 September 2010 at 11:17

One of the best people I have had the good fortune of counting as a friend is a woman. A woman in full. And she has been my friend since fresher year, back in the day. Intelligent. Sensitive. Strong. Feminine. And a stark raving mathematician.I suppose the latter attribute led me to be plentifully wary of her.By the way, under the constitution – yes, you idiot, there is no old and new when it comes to constitutions, because that would imply that you are governed under two sets of laws, which is impossible, meaning that you are generally an idiot, QED, thank you very much – you are obliged to report any mathematician you spot to the authorities ASAP, otherwise you become guilty of ‘harbouring a mathematician’. If you have ever scored 6% in Mathematics, in High school, and someone known to you scores the Full Red in the same paper, then you know that the law is excellent and all mathematicians ought to be computing their iterations inside Kamiti.

Anyway, this best friend was full of very unsettling insights. For example, she once made known to me that the term ‘out of body experience’ is a male construct, because for women, it is everyday life. In fact, so is ‘multiple personality’.We were discusssing designer wear, actually, and the fact that an utterly shapeless person will cram her entire self – body, mind and soul, i.e. the hips and butt – into an ill-fitting, expensive jeans that will not flatter her at all, and walk about in arrogant majesty, as though she has never seen herself before a mirror. This puzzled me, but did not puzzle her in the least. Why?

Apparently, a vast category of women make their choice of attire, accessories, make-up, name it, not based on their physique, complexion, personality and other personal attributes, but, rather, on the firm conviction that they are virtually the twin of whichever model advertised the product, and that once she is geared up in the item, the ineluctable result will be a gigantic chorus of oohs and aahs all round. This means that there are two women wearing the jeans. One is the one physically cramming her entire life into skin tight trousers and the other, the one who inspects the result and decides that there has never been a more perfect booty this side of creation.

A wise man is necessarily a democratic man. This means that he quietly succumbs to the will of the majority – the woman.The numbers do not matter one whit; the gender does. Each woman therefore constitutes an overwhelming majority, whereas all men combined cannot even raise a decent minority – look at the census results. So when several women, who clearly get the cue, see the quivering, semi-liquid mass of utter shapelessness trapped in denim and borne on heels, they recognise at once an insuperable ass, the one that Beyonce and J-Lo light candles for at St Paul’s. And they let this be known to the wearer of the jeans and bearer of the youghurt-in-12-micrometer-paperbag-butt:”Wow Georgie! you look fabulous!” Whereas we in the stark minority see an unprecedented disaster-on-two-feet. As a rule, all women get this. As a sub-rule, all men live in eternal perplexity and horror and ask, Why?

Because I am, naturally, ahead of the pack, I accept my mathematician’s verdict as read, and bow to democratic reality. You do know, of course, that all reality is democratic, right? That is why the man was beheaded despite the fact that the emperor was actually naked.If he wasn’t, he should be.

I was at the National Bureau of Statistics a few days past. I learnt many incredible things. However, the statistics on potential for unreality were really eye opening. Let us summarise it this way: more women are likely to wear ridiculous-but-fashionable outfits, affect an accent, date and marry a foreigner whose only going thing is his foreignness, and depart this country for the West for no particular reason. There are men who do that, naturally, but we can’t be hating on professional beach boys here in this new dispensation, can we?

The reason girls will do this without batting a fake eyelash is simple: the female reality is completely fungible. In their mind, the pre-Cambrian, huffy-puffy,limping, apoplectic, overweight octogenarian is a dead ringer for Mr Brad Pitt, Esq. The clearly illiterate, awkward, redneck truck driver wallowing in the grossest tattoos is, in reality none other than Master Theo Walcott in the flesh. And the fact that this nobleman of Europe and America has finally rewarded her over-made-up, slutty-dressed, blatantly whoring gyrations with a brandy, then Viagra-assisted, unremarkable sex, and has not yet sent her off with 50$ , is all the evidence, if any was required, that on her part, our girl is Halle Berry, Rihanna and so on. Hence the accent. Hence the fact that our girl is keeping poodles in a bedsit in Uthiru. Hence the frank, adoring gazes, holding of the pink, wrinkly hand, and PDA with the octogenarian.

Her lover

You think, because of you limited education, that the girl had big-time daddy issues and is compensating in Freudian form. Bure kabisa. You are the minority, the ones not yet admitted to the fungible reality of the elect, and, obviously, you can’t see that the Agweng-Octogenarian couple before you is actually Alejandro and Paloma moments before they go into the golden sunset.

Once in a while, the blinkers somehow fall off, and she calls me up for coffee and goes, “Gosh, Kip. He turns really pink when aroused, and his nakedness made me want to puke, so lights off for the Deed.” But that is only before Joe the Plumber arrives to sweep her off her fake leather boots. Before you know it, she has children with a Nigerian, Swede, Iranian and Frenchman, and all nationalities signatory to the Declaration of Human and Peoples’ Rights. So when the fathers’ visitation day comes, she is to be heard calling out,”Ricky, your dad’s here, Joanne, present, Gilbert, apologies, love, Ruth, present, Jack, absent.”

Anyway, this ability to substitute reality – replace a drab existence with a soap opera and reality television episode occupies girls throughout their 20s and most of their 30s. This explains the attire, the accent, the mannerisms and gestures, the cocktail sipping brokeasses dissing Kenyan men and gazing hungrily at a Hosni Mubarak look-alike on his fifth by-pass and third kidney transplant. It explains the bedsits in Gigiri, which have caused matatus to plague the leafy suburbs,and the bashes, gigs and do’s in places no one has ever heard of, but where all white-dating Kenyans are considered life members.

The ones who get the passport will be heard of, eight dead husbands later, in connection with some Pension fraud racket, facing 380 years in prison, or dead of an overdose, S&M strangulation or a simple knock in some dockside hovel in Belgium, or in a documentary, cleaning melons at an organic farm. Very few of them ever put their KCSE, BAs, etc to any good use apart from fellatio.

The ones who do not get the passport continue to litter the lobbies of the Stanley, InterCon, Tribe, Serena, swigging cointreau, doing the salsa like a dervish, singing the men-bashing girl-anthems on the Karaoke and looking wistfully at portraits of the Aga Khan, whom they confuse with George Clooney, and it does not matter one bit. Oh, and they continue to hate Kenyan men, who are neither romantic nor sensitive nor deep nor gallant, until, without a sound, they sneak off to become mistresses of politicians and unhygienic millionaires, bearing children named Mau and raising dairy cattle in Kiserian.

Others hold out longer until, one morning, they fill in 35 in the ‘age’ section of their income tax returns and then the penny drops. Reality shatters into a million shards to reveal a pot-bellied, jelly-assed, double-chinned harridan in designer jeans, dreadlocks, a slight bald patch, and a huge handbag – in other words, a Halle Berry still waiting for Denzel. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the girl who wanted to take down the fence at KICC, having fully convinced herself, in her wash-and-wear reality, that a Nigerian fraudster has crammed his suitcases chock-full with handsome husbands. She was resorting to her right to self-help, in order to rescue her David Beckham out of a Louis Vuitton travelling bag for her eternal delectation, amen. She was Being a Better Me,exercising The Seven Habits, finding who Moved Her Cheese and appealing to Her God and Her Man, and actualising all the toxic ‘motivational’ nonsense she has been reading on her way to work every morning of her life.

Yet the beauty of a fungible reality surely must lie in the vast array of possibilities in every combination, including overt acts of abject desperation before national television, right there in your capital city.

Weird Monday

I have had a weird day. I haven’t been in control of it, everything I had planned to do, I haven’t. it all started on Friday, really. I got this weird call:

“Hi Savvy. Are in campus?” It was a lecture-ish voice so I switched to my official voice and wondered aloud that we had no class.

“Can I talk to you in person?” I wondered aloud again if I could give him the assistant class representative’s number because I wasn’t in campus.

“No, I want to see you in person.” So I agreed to look for him on Monday when I’d be back.

I forgot about it until today afternoon on my way to the hospital. I’m having one bad cold, the kind that gives me nosebleed, just in case you are wondering. Which you are. Anyway, I decide to give him a call and he says he’s in the staff quarters; he’s on leave so we can’t meet in his office.

That’s very very weird. I tell him I can’t come to his house but am on my way to the hospital. He says fine, let’s meet there.

He does look like a lecturer, but he’s not. He’s an accountant and he’s with a fellow accountant and they both work at the university. So we all introduce ourselves and begin small talk and am like, could you all please get to the point!!!!! I need to make it the hospital before queues get much longer. Other campus workers are passing by and saying hi, hello, etc and we are still there talking about our counties and districts.

The other accountant excuses himself and leaves to go back to work. He tells me he wishes he’d met me earlier because he knows am a bright girl, he did ask my high school and my grade during small talk. So am left with Lecturer 2. That’s how I have saved his number in my phone because I already have a Lecturer in my phone whose name I don’t know. Lecturer 2 asks me to accompany me to his house so he can tell me why he called me in the first place. You can imagine I have never met him before, never heard of him, and just like that am to go to his house.

So I ask him to tell me what he has to tell me there and then and look into his eyes and ask, “What are your intentions?” and he says he has no bad intentions and he’ll explain it all in his house. I have to make a quick decision, and I decide this guy is probably married with kids and university workers seem to know him and I had told my friend @boosywoosy I was going to meet this lecturer and I know some karate and ‘mtu hakatai wito, hukataa aitiwalo’ and told him, “lead the way.”

And that is how I met the Patron of our SDA group! He must think am a very suspicious girl. Imagine me asking him what are his intentions. He tells me his name is David Samson (not his real name) and asks me if I’ve heard of him before. I haven’t been to church at all this year. And about twice last year. Things are bad, I tell you. My faith went with the wind at some point in my campus life.

We reach his house; all the while am looking around and seeing lots of people and kids playing around and I knew I had been mistaken if I had thought he had ill intentions. Now my thoughts shifted to his good intentions, what does he want?

The smell of fish hangs heavy in the air and he apologizes as I make myself comfortable in the dining/sitting room. His sister and another lady I assume is the house help are up and about, like shadows in the wall.

David Samson aka Lecturer 1 takes his sweet time getting to the point. Come to think of it, I still don’t know his point. He talks about his family, asks me about mine, talks about how the SDA group of students is mostly disciplined (at this point I wondered if I had a disciplinary case that had been forwarded to him, but I know I don’t and he doesn’t mention it.) He talks about the alumni, all the while am nodding and uh-huh-ing and coughing in the right places. He talks about opportunities to study abroad and scholarships and sponsors he could hook students up with. He says of course, this is in no way tied with whether you come to church or not, but I don’t believe him. Is he ‘blackmailing’ me back to church with the promise of a scholarship for my graduate studies? I wonder.

He asks me why I stopped coming to church and I say it’s because I go home during weekends and that is where I go to church and he wonders which church is more interesting, the one mixed with kids, the youth and the old, or the one made of just youth?

I drift in and out the monologue and think about how I will write this post. Finally, things seem to be coming to an end when he stands up to get cups. There are thermoses and flasks and jugs on the table and he picks one and pours me cold uji. It was either that or tea and I didn’t want soya tea; SDA’s are advised not to take tea or coffee, the caffeine you see. I sip as we talk some more and I wonder why me? I still don’t get it. His kids come home from school and it’s a beautiful family picture, they clearly love their dad. His wife also works here and she has the family car and will come later. Meanwhile, he asks me what I can do for the SDA group, since am leaving in December.

He says he knows I can prepare a good topic and deliver it well to the rest of the students. Inspire them, sort of. He asks me to choose a day, midweek service on Wednesday, Friday night vespers or Saturday, during the Sabbath. The Sabbath is a lot of responsibility so I pick Friday October the 29th to give my talk. Read to preach. He says he’ll be there and jots the date down in his notebook.

What’s this all about? I still don’t get it. He makes me promise to come for vespers every Friday night and to be attending church in campus on Saturdays, and if I must go home, then I could go after the Sabbath.
Finally, his wife walks in and she’s all genuine smiles and I evade a supper invitation but just for tonight. This Saturday after church, I’ll be their dinner guest. Seems like my weekend plans will have to change: go out on Friday evening, go home Saturday and back to campus on Sunday. Damn, the Harambee Stars vs Ugandan Cranes game is this Saturday. What to do, what to do?

I hate to disappoint the patron. At the end of the evening, he had given the cough remedy: garlic and lemons and ginger and all that concoction. He then drove me back to right outside my hostel with his kids accompanying us and said I’m welcome on Saturday.

I just don’t know how to deal with this. Religious fanatics are easy to dismiss, but a genuine Christian who acts like one?

Oh, and on the way back, the other accountant I had met told me to see him in his office tomorrow. I wonder what that is about.

Unknown Soldier by Breaking Benjamin

Borderline, dead inside,
I don’t mind, falling to pieces
Count me in, violent, let’s begin,
feeding the sickness
How do I, simplify, dislocate,
the enemy’s on the way

Show me what it’s like,
to dream in black and white,
so I can leave this world tonight.

Full of fear, ever clear,
I’ll be here, fighting forever
Curious, venomous, you’ll find me,
climbing to heaven
Nevermind, turn back time, you’ll be fine,
I will get left behind

Show me what it’s like,
to dream in black and white,
so I can leave this world tonight.
Holding on too tight,
bring the breath of life,
so I can leave this world behind.

It only hurts just once,
they’re only broken bones,
hide the hate inside

Show me what it’s like,
to dream in black and white,
so I can leave this world tonight.
Holding on too tight,
Breathe a breath of life,
so I can leave this world behind

The Bahai Faith

The religion question usually pops out a while after the tribe question. This is when trying to know someone….usually their names give you a clue. Last year I was having a different set of roommates altogether, and I did write about them. I just hope they never read it.

I consider myself a Christian, and am usually the lost sheep that rarely goes to church and still has a million doubts about the whole Christianity thing. However, if someone inasmuch as questions my religion, I am ready to defend it with words, Bible quotes and all.

One I day, I was pondering my one of my roommates’ name. It sounded Muslim/Arabic, yet I knew she wasn’t a Muslim. Christian? I asked her, no. Hindu? No. Muslim? No. Scientology? No. Budhism? No. what then?


“Baha what? I’ve never heard of that religion before.”

“The Bahai Faith. It’s like a union of all religions.” She started explaining. We had a long argument after that….
The Bahai Faith was started in Persia (modern day Iran I think) by Bahaullah. Now who is this Bahaullah? We asked incredulously. He is Jesus Christ come again. Really? How can Jesus Christ have come and we don’t know about it? I thought the Bible clearly says that when He does come back, horns will blow (or is it trumpets, then the shaking of the earth or something), and he will descend with angles (I really need to study my Bible)…and the whole wide world will know.

She explained that these things happened, just not the way we expected them to. That when he was born, these signs were there.

Well, there is such a thing as freedom of religion. I can imagine how doubtful those Jews were when Jesus was explaining to them that he is the Messiah. Some of them are still doubtful of course. They think the New Testament (of the Bible) is hogwash.

I went and googled the Bahai Faith and I admit I didn’t finish reading on it. They do have a holy book of theirs ( can’t remember the name). I remember having the same incredulous look when I first heard of the Mormons, wondering how people just start to believe in something so er…doubtful.

But then, to each man, his own. The search for God has never been this complicated.

The Awkward World of Hugs.

the friends hug

Back to school means seeing some of your friends that you haven’t seen in months. It also means renewing old acquaintances, trying to reignite sparks that existed with could’ve beens, trying to avoid meeting recent Exs on the paths for fear of awkward silences…..and thus enters the awkward world of hugs.

I know much has been said about etiquette, hugs and kisses. Am not trying to advice anyone…let’s just go through the motions of my day in these first first days.

I meet my best friends…this is my tight crew of about 8 of us. I hug them tightly..the long more than 10 second hug where you put your feelings on the line showing them just how much you missed them. This hug is reserved for just once a year….after the long holiday. After that, you only do the brief one second hug if you have to.

I meet up with a could’ve been. They get the long….long…did I say long passionate hug that could turn into something else in private. Eyes closed, deep breaths (trying to remember the scent? Maybe), sensual back rubbing may be thrown in, and suggestive whispering. You can be quite breathless when you get out of this embrace. Best you do it when you are not with your other company.

Then there is the jealous/attention demanding hug. This is kinda uncomfortable for the usee. You see, there is the user (the one using the hug to demand attention/make S.O jealous) and the usee, the one who is hugged. So you meet this guy with his girlfriend, and he hugs you like he’s a could’ve been (I hope you are following), yet you couldn’t be more than friends. Hopefully, the girlfriend doesn’t come after you with sharpened claws. Or if you meet a shocked classmate and you want to show your boyfriend that you are still in demand, you give him an extra long hug. Ah, am not really a fan of this hug.

The stranger hug can turn two ways. Stranger in that you are hugging a stranger or someone you are familiar with but haven’t hugged before.

The stranger-turn-awkward-hug. It could be a disaster. Some guys are so stiff you bother why you hugged them in the first place. Maybe coz you were hugging your friend and he/she was with them so you extend the love. Extend a hand next time. It’s easier.

The stranger-turn-nice-hug. You hug someone new and they return the hug with equal friendly measure. You bookmark them for future hugs.

The bro hug. The clasping of hands and bump of shoulder. I don’t get why guys have to hide feelings. Throw your arms around each other and get over with it. Kiss if you have to. You do it on the football pitch, so why not in the paths when you meet?

Did I mention the cold hug? The one that leaves you shivering, wondering why you ever decided to hug in the first place? The one with the ex, when you are not ready? Or the one with could’ve been’s current girlfriend. Or the one with the guy you really don’t like and he insists on it.

I almost forgot the two way hug, or cheek to cheek. I don’t like it either. But social decorum means I have to do it time to time.

Post Coital Depression

P what again? Yeah, I googled it. There is something like Post Coital Depression. Sounds like one of those wazungu diseases: ADD, DFD etc. Don’t ask what I was doing when I stumbled on it.

I would have thought the aftermath should be the best time but read this:

This is actually so common that it might be considered ‘normal’, although it appears to be more common in males than females. The French have a term for it: “Le Petit Mal” which means literally ‘Little Death’ and probably refers to the sensation that some males experience of being completely withdrawn and disinterested in almost everything – though this should not last longer than a few minutes.

Whenever you have sexual intercourse, at the end of the act you are supposed to have a develop a feeling of depression ranging from mild to intense. The technical termed coined for this is “Post Coital Depression”.

What could possibly cause this?

I don’t want to go into the chemical reaction and hormones explanation, it sounded boring. Even I didn’t finish reading it, and I read everything. Well, apart from the chemical explanation of PCD.

“the act of sex seems to bring two bodies together and link them and how duality becomes unity and togetherness and how, once the act of copulation is finished, the unity is lost, the links broken, leaving you feeling lonely, more lonelier than you were before you had commenced the act. It is like a dark night appearing darker still after a lightning flash.”

Intelligence may play a part too..

several highly intelligent people (Robert Silverberg, for one) seem to suffer from PCD

PCD could also be caused by a subconscious feeling of guilt.The men who were involved in extra-marital sex or the men who felt they were not sexually satisfying their partner have a tendency towards PCD.

So what then is post coital depression? Wages of sin?

Wait a minute, I thought the wages of sin is death?