Foolish is a verb

Welcome to the inaugural Kai Nikii? FOOLISH PLANS AWARDS.  This year we shall fete the biggest and brightest idiots, we thank them for brightening up our lives with their shenanigans.

1.      Foolish Plan to get laid
You are the head of the IMF and you’re jumping dodgy maids in hotel rooms?  In America of all places?  Home of Las Vegas and legalised prostitution, home of CSI? Dude!

2.      Foolish Plan to escape the revolutionaries
A NATO (or not) air strike hits your convoy and you flee to a storm drain?  Really?  And you didn’t think to carry a loose ka-AK47, or a busty bodyguard with a loose ka-AK47?  What is it with men and holes? 

3.      Foolish Plan to escape justice
slimpossible idiot
This genius mama was on the run from the cops, but could not resist the opportunity to lose a bit of weight on national TV.  Wow! 

4.      Foolish Plan to exonerate your pal
So your guy is accused of consorting with a ‘proscribed sect’ and your/his defence is that they approached you, not him, based on your, not his, long relationship with said sect, but you, not him, said no.  Because they were asking for money.  And then you gave them 'pocket money'.  Hmmm…

5.      Foolish Plan to take over the world
You banned booze, and music, and bras, and samosas?  And you also stole food aid and medicine.  Brilliant plan!
        Samosas banned

6.      Foolish Plan to develop the dark continent
CHINA WU YI (or as I prefer to call them, woo iii…)
It’s bad enough that you are unable to put up any form of signage to guide me through your random ever changing diversions, but did you really have to shag every single woman between here and Thika, without a bloody condom? 

7.      Foolish Plan to bang that drum
‘Shilling falling, Ndungu to blame’, ‘Oil cartels causing rising inflation’, ‘Banks increase lending rates, economy to slow down’…  So the print media decided to go on a misguided crusade to protect us poor Kenyans from the evil elite.  Good idea.  Oh and by the way, the price of your paper has gone up, again.

8.      Foolish Plan to bang the wrong drum
R A Massie-whathisface
So God sent the Englishman to civilise us?  Woohoo!  I know we have a new katiba, but come on…  Screw free speech, can someone please deport this lunatic?

9.      Foolish Plan to steal from yourself
Peter Muthoka/ Andy forwarders/ CMC
Where do I even begin?  This was a classic case of biting the hand that feeds you, while looking the gift horse in the mouth, and then shitting where you eat.

10.  Foolish Plan to steal from your government
Some genius robbers stole cows from a research facility, in industrial area.  Yes, they stole research animals, recently injected with god knows what, and now the cops are warning us to be vigilant.  If your choma starts to glow in the dark, be afraid.

11.  Foolish Plan to get a raise
postal workers union
They went on strike?  Really?  No, I’m not being sarcastic, did they really go on strike?  When?

12.  Foolish Plan to not get a raise
Francis Atwoli
“Workers of Kenya unite, down your tools for better wages, take to the streets for cheaper fuel...  Meanwhile, I’ll just be waiting back here in my multi coloured 30M Mercedes Benz.”

13.  Foolish Plan to sell us crap
When did KFC become a fine dining experience?  My friend at those prices you’d better be selling me the golden goose!

14.  Foolish Plan to sell us crap, again!
So now you bring back Pilsner Ice? 

15.  Foolish Plan to become a movie star
kim jong il
So this chap apparently had a South Korean film director and his girlfriend kidnapped in kendo 1986, this because he thought the North Korean film industry needed improvement.  And judging by the high number of quality Oscar-worthy flicks coming out of North Korea we can only assume he was very successful. 

Happy New Year folks.


Get your sexy back!

“I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave…” 

Why is it that the men who are great in bed are also the most screwed up individuals you will ever meet?  Conversely, the men who are the most sane and lovely gentlemen are as exciting in the sack as hot cocoa in the morning (delicious, but no caffeine, never quite hits the spot now does it?).  I know they say you can’t have everything, but come on man…  I’m starting to think that sexual skill and sanity are mutually exclusive, can’t be found in the same place.  Kind of like politician and honest, can’t happen!  So what’s a girl to do?  Now I know the men (if any) reading this have already started foaming at the mouth and composing hate mail, but don’t be so hasty gentlemen, turn my argument around and look at it from your own perspective.  Your best lay, she was ‘completely-off-her-rocker’ crazy, wasn’t she?  And the one you ‘love’, not exactly Priscilla Pornchick, is she?  But this is not about your ex girlfriend who could fold over like a chapati, its about me, lets focus shall we…  Great sex and acceptable human behaviour, apparently, do not go together. 

You’d think with this knowledge I’d know to stay away from the illegally sexy men and stick to the somewhat less sexy but considerably more stable types, but what we know and what we do are not always the same, no?  That said, I think I’ve found the exception.  ‘What’s that?’ you ask.  Well, to every rule there’s an exception, right?  And if I remember my high school debates properly, the exception proves the rule (not really, but I’m trying to make a very flimsy argument, so bear with me, please).  I have managed to meet a man who is not only quite sexy, but also quite sane, a cross between Tyson Beckford and Shaka Ssali, kind of hot and kind of smart, what woman could resist?  He is an upright man who knows how to get down!  It’s brilliant!  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying he’s perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination.  He has his issues, we all do, but apart from a fondness for ‘The Lion King’ and being a complete teetotaller, he is the exception.  A man who can shag you like a superstar, then make you curry, then argue about the merits of the death penalty…

Sounds like a match made in heaven and it was, for all of 3 months, and then he moved away, far far away.  Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘what did she do this time?’  Nothing.  Really.  He moved to Obama land.  And yes, I knew about the impending departure, but that’s what made it so bloody brilliant, I didn’t have to waste time worrying about where it was headed or why, I simply enjoyed it for what it was, a delightful pseudo fling.  And it was delightful.  And sexy.  I’m talking Barry White sexy!  But he left, many months ago, and now every other man I meet is instantly compared to him and of course they fall short, who could possibly match such unreasonably high expectations? 

But am I really asking for too much?  It’s not like I’m looking for tantric seven hour long sessions, with a massage that will make me cry (a la the movie with Val Kilmer and Mira Sorvino, the name has slipped my mind, but I’m sure you can all remember that scene) and a lively two hour discussion on the failure of Mugabe’s land policies.  All I want is a man who doesn’t look at me like I’ve just sprouted six oozing sores on my upper lip when I ask, ‘Can we try something different tonight?’  No offence, but lying on my back once a month (if I’m lucky), counting water stains while you grunt your way to heaven, isn’t exactly my idea of satisfaction.  I’m pretty sure the phrase ‘rock my world’ involves…well…rocking.  Why is it that the good guys (and girls) don’t seem to get that?  Yes, you are a lovely man sir, kind and intelligent and generous, you are quite attractive and your bum looks very nice in those jeans, but if you think sex in any position other than missionary is too risqué, then we will have a problem, my friend.  I cannot spend the rest of my life, or even the rest of the night, with you.  And I shouldn’t have to.

For some reason it appears that if you are a good boy/girl (I’m talking about serious people with real jobs and sound morals and savings accounts and chamas, not the bad boys/girls with motorcycles and drinking problems and tattoos and different ‘sleeping’ partners for every day of the week), then you must frown upon all indecent proclivities, like oral sex or, god forbid, the woman on top (the horror!).  And if as said good boy/girl, you are in an even remotely serious relationship, then you can be sure that hot, or freaky, or even frequent, sex is not and never shall be part of the equation.  Eh?  Ati because I’m looking to spend the rest of my life with someone, sex is not a concern?  How is that even possible, let alone acceptable? 

Why does it have to be either or?  Why cant a man, or woman for that matter, be a decent person AND a decent shag?  Is there some unwritten rule that states, ‘All good boys and girls shall not engage in any sexual acts that involve mirrors, feathers or lubricants, or all three, together.’?  Because the last time I checked, being a hard working, loving, gentle soul AND wanting to do it doggy style on the roof (flat roof I’m assuming, unless you have retractable claws you haven’t shown me), that doesn’t make you a pervert, a bit complicated perhaps, but definitely not a pervert in need of salvation, or incarceration.  Gentlemen, is there no way you can treat your woman like a lady, and then treat your lady like a whore?  Ladies, can you not cook him a nice steak, and then ride him like a bull?  I know, I know, you probably think it’s a dirty forbidden sin, but look at the up side, it’s probably a dirty forbidden sin. 

Look, all I’m asking is, why should the bad boys (and girls) have all the fun?  Now I’m not a bad girl, not even close, the most reckless thing I’ve done recently is leave unwashed dishes in the sink, overnight (the shame!).  But even a straight arrow like me wants to get bent every now and again, no?  My fellow good and (occasionally) sane people of this city, we have to do this, we must take our sex back from the sick twisted bastards who use and abuse it, and then make us feel ashamed for wanting just a little slice.  Gentlemen, does your woman sneer at you every time you suggest a blow job?  You need to look her dead in the eye and tell her, “I’m a good man, woman!  Now kneel down and say aaaahhh…”  Ladies, if your man thinks foreplay is what they call the run-around before the game starts, stand in front of the TV and get completely naked (ideally before the game starts…) and tell him, “Honey, how about we engage in a little pre match analysis of our own?”    

Dammit people, its time to bring sex back!  That drumming sound you hear in your head every time you have mind numbingly boring sex; or the rattling one you hear when your man/woman turns you down for the umpteenth time this week; that faint scraping noise you hear when you watch a steamy sex scene on TV and look across at your snoring partner, wistfully wondering why the hell he doesn’t shag you on the dining table; the tapping you hear when you walk past the lingerie shop in town and see the studded leather harness, with matching thigh-high patent leather boots; all those sounds you think are figments of your imagination, they’re not.  That’s the bloody sound of your inner freak trying desperately to break out of the bloody closet.  You don’t believe me?  Fine, don’t take my word for it, open the door and see for yourself.

My people, are you with me?  Okay then, this is what I’m proposing.  On the count of three, we shall all bend over, and pull the sticks out of our repressed and hypocritical asses, and just get on with it.  One, two… 

“I want a freaky girl, somebody just like me…”

Hot Oil!

“I’m so tired of being alone, I’m so tired of on-my-own…”

I’ve always considered myself a bit of a music guru, well informed about all things lyrical, and not just deep but broad too, kind of like an amateur encyclopaedia.  So you can imagine my shame when I heard The Rev for the first time, on Ally Mcbeal.  There I was, self proclaimed lover of all things R&B and Soul, childhood graduate of VoK/KBC’s “Beat Time’, ‘Sundowner’ and ‘Late Date’, long time fan of John Obongo Jnr, of Pat Shange and Yvonne Chaka Chaka, of Quincy Jones and Freddie Jackson, hell I was making mix tapes before they invented the double deck player… I was the shit!  At least I thought I was.  Up until a skinny white woman (more accurately, the writers of a show about a skinny white woman) introduced me to Reverend Al Green.  My life has never been the same since.

What I need you to do, if you haven’t already, is click on the play button on the Al Green track in the soundrack section to your right.  Have you done it?  Is it playing?  Because this story only makes sense if the song is playing while you read this.  Incidentally, if it refuses to play I apologize, technology is no friend of mine.  Well, that and I got instructions on how to set it up online from some random Indian dude (not the Pakistani spammers, unfortunately), something may have gotten lost in translation.  Moving on swiftly, is it playing?  Good, let’s proceed.

I’ve been single for close to four years now and in that time I have oscillated between complete denial (‘I’d rather be alone than unhappy!’) and utter despair (‘I’m going to die alone!’), the severity of my mood swings and subsequent foolish actions depending on either:
  1. the number of engagement parties/weddings/anniversary dinners/happy couple events I’ve recently attended
  2. the amount of red wine in my system
  3. my hormones
  4. all of the above
But in all that time, at no point have I ever, ever said to myself ‘I’m lonely’ or ‘I need someone in my life’ or any other such like sad pathetic rubbish.  No, I’m an independent woman, my life is full of interesting things and people, I have a (somewhat) successful career, I don’t need someone to…wait for it…complete me!  Yes, I was alone, but I was never lonely. 

That’s a complete load of crap isn’t it?  Because if I wasn’t lonely, I wouldn’t keep trying to fill the void with a bunch of ‘friends’ I had nothing in common with, save for a fondness for cheap booze on Saturday night.  Or chasing men I couldn’t/shouldn’t/wouldn’t ever have.  Or getting slightly crazy over unsuspecting idiots who wanted nothing more than a brief fling, and there I was getting them fitted for morning suits (for the impending nuptials).  Or constantly going back to the ex to find out ‘why it didn’t work between us’.  Alone my ass!  I was lonely, so lonely I was borderline desperate, but only borderline.  Something had to give, and quickly, before I did something truly stupid, or reckless.  And so I decided to look for a man, with seriousness, because it’s like The Rev says, ‘I’m so tired of being alone…’ 

That decision was made about 8 months ago.  I went out and I met some men, some nice, some not so nice, all completely fucked up, but considering how I met them I can’t really say I’m too surprised (long story, another day), and besides, I’m not entirely stable myself, am I?  I’ve met short men and tall men, skinny men and large men, blonde idiots and overbearing intellectuals, men so boring they bring tears to your eyes, men so pretty they bring tears to your eyes, religious men and at least one man I am convinced worships the devil… you name it, I’ve met it.  Sounds great no? 

Problem is, I’ve realised I was better off alone. 

You didn’t see that coming did you?  You thought I was going to sit here and wax lyrical about this one lovely man I’ve met who has made me…say it with me…complete.  Ha!  As if…  No, I’m afraid the last few months have convinced me that I was better off single and not searching, because, and I need you listen closely here, being alone, and lonely, is much, much better than being fucked with.  Don’t you agree? 

Let me tell you about some of the men I met, then you decide… 

There was the older dude who was so serious I constantly felt like I was taking an exam when I was with him.  Seriously, I had to read all 5 papers daily, watch Al Jazeera, BBC, CNN and CNBC, just so I’d know what he was on about.  Eventually I got tired and gave up the chase.  Then there was the sweet young thing that was so pretty I thought he was a doll.  Unfortunately, he was planning to drink all my money, until he realised I had none that is.  He has since lost my number.  And let’s not forget the creepy pathological liar that was looking to either shag me or eat me (the suspected worshipper of Satan).  I realise its odd that I couldn’t tell the difference, but he really was very peculiar, and large, and constantly hungry, and he licked his lips when he stared at my bosom, not in a good way.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, I’ve already told you about disappearing dude (who just for the record is still being a complete twat), and I’m saving ‘no baggage’ dude for a rainy day, he was classic...

What’s my point?  Dating in this city is difficult and tiring, and not entirely productive.  I’m all for getting out there and meeting new people and such like nonsense, but where are all the normal people?  I’ll admit, when I first began the search I had a list of unreasonable demands, sijui 5’10” or taller, professional career, no wife or kids, well read, likes music and good food, hates white shoes, blah blah blah…  But once I got out there, I quickly realised that perhaps I was asking a bit too much.  One chap actually told me that I shouldn’t bother asking for anything, I should be grateful for whatever I get.  Idiot!  Now, I’ve revised and adjusted and all I want is a man of slightly above average intelligence, who is not married and doesn’t smell too bad.  Is that too much to ask?  Stop nodding.  Either way, I’m going back to my lonely hole for a couple of months, I’ll rest up, detox, try and shake off the crazies, and then I’ll give it another go.  How much worse can it get right? 

Assuming you read as fast as I do, you should be about 2 minutes into the song by now (if you read slowly dont worry, you can rewind, its not live).  Stop reading and listen, this is where he takes it home.  Brilliant no?  Thing is, I used to listen to this track and get a woiyee twinge, I’d start thinking ‘I think I need a man…’, but no more.  What’s changed?  Well apparently The Rev wasn’t always The Rev, he only turned to Jesus after his married lover tried to burn his ass with hot oil, and then proceeded to kill herself, this after he refused to marry her.  Yes, I’m tired of being alone, but not hot oil tired.   


No disturb sign

“Hope we never get tired, and I never have to go to work…”

There’s something about the beautiful December sunshine we’ve been having the last couple of days, for no reason I start humming reggae tunes and craving sangria.  Now reggae is my happy music, it is a scientifically proven fact that lover’s rock will improve your mood by a whopping 98%.  I just made that up.  But think about it, how many unhappy people have you ever seen at a reggae concert?  I’m guessing less than 2%.  You show me a person who doesn’t get mellow listening to roots and I’ll show you the stick wedged firmly up their butt, or in their ears.  And this is why, despite the funk I’ve been in the last couple of weeks, the sunshine and Mr Hammond have come together to put a smile on my face today, and I thought what better time to exorcise these demons I’m fighting with...

One day, five years ago, almost to the day, I decided to go out on my own. ‘Screw the midget!’ I said to myself, in reference to my then boss who is, unfortunately, not vertically endowed, at all.  Slight detour, I have a problem taking orders from someone I can sit on.  I know, its discrimination, only one step away from the sexist crap I deal with almost daily, but that’s just the way it is.  I have a problem with little men, and skinny men, and skinny little men… basically, if I can lift you then you can’t be my boss.  I should point out that I’m neither little nor skinny so perhaps my bias comes from my own insecurities and other such like rubbish, who knows?  So having said ‘screw it!’ and quitting my job in a moment of foolish pride, I went off down the road of entrepreneurship. 

Nice word that isn’t it?  Entrepreneurship!  Sounds like something from Star Trek, very scientific and exciting, like a new galaxy, or an alien with three breasts that glows in the dark.  Well folks, hate to break it to you, it isn’t.  It’s a slog, a hard tiring slog that more often than not leads you not towards the light of success and riches, but further down the dark corridor of depression and alcohol abuse, and those are the good days when you can actually afford to physically abuse the alcohol, most days its verbal abuse at the empty bottle in the trash.  But this isn’t about my perennially struggling business, it’s about the struggle, and I’m guessing anyone who’s ever set up any kind of business knows what I’m talking about. 

See what they don’t tell you in all those crappy ‘how to start a business’ books is how to handle your life, your real life not the business.  Its all well and good teaching me how to market my business or set up an accounting system or ‘wear your power colours for success’ (apparently I have cool undertones to my skin and should therefore only wear bright yellow and magenta, but never together.  Eh?).  How about some practical tips?  When I started out, what I needed to hear was ‘how to keep asking your brother for money without getting shot’, or ‘how to cruise down the highway in free to save gas’, or ‘how to explain to your boyfriend that the weekends of drunken revelry are a thing of the past’, important stuff like that.  Because that’s what makes starting a business hard, the changes you’re forced to make to your lifestyle, the new persona you have to adopt to cope with the new and varied challenges (no longer the errant employee, now the bitch employer), the fluff and distractions you have to cut out of your life.  In the process of setting up you become a different person, some would say more mature, others say more of an asshole, depends on your perspective.

What did I become?  Scared.  Shitless.  I was in no way prepared for what was coming my way, and in retrospect that was a good thing, because if I had known that I would go for months without a cent, or a new pair of shoes; be screwed over by even the unlikeliest of suspects (a church group for crying out loud!); be driving the same decrepit tuk tuk long past its expiry date; if I’d known all this, and more, I probably wouldn’t have done it, I didn’t have the balls back then (plus I had a decent job, was on my way to an even better one).  And if I had stayed put, I’d definitely be a very different person, in a very different place, definitely not writing this on a Friday morning when I have a ton of work to get through and I haven’t even had a shower yet. 

So why did I do it?  Because I always said I’d run my own shop one day, and I figured better to do it before I got tied down with the hubby, kids, mortgage, dog, etc., ‘do it while you’re still young and reckless’ she told herself, cocky little idiot, and off I went like a rocket.  In the process I’ve lost, dropped or been dismissed by: one boyfriend, four friends, twenty something ‘bar friends’, six clients, one family member, and the list is still growing.  I’ve lost weight, put it back on again, put on more, lost that, lost more, put it all back on again.  I’ve bought precisely 7 pairs of shoes, and not much else.  I’ve read more work related books, magazines, promotional brochures, product specs, tender ads and classified listings than I had my entire life prior.  I’ve been on no more than 10 dates in the last 5 years, and 7 of those were this year.  When I call my brother, he no longer answers with ‘Howzit?’, now it’s ‘How much?’ 

The thing is I’ve survived, sometimes barely, always with a lot of help, sometimes from the unlikeliest of suspects (former boss, the midget…).  That’s another thing they don’t tell you about going it alone, how to ask for help when you need it, more importantly, how to tell when you do.  I was extremely stubborn and independent and proud, but these days when I’m in a fix or I simply don’t know something (disturbingly often…), I ask for help, from anyone and everyone, because you never know who knows, no?  And I’m all the better for it.  And I’m still standing. 

Sometimes the grind gets you down doesn’t it?  I’ve been slogging away waiting for my ship to come in.  I’m still waiting, although I’m starting to think its been taken hostage by Somali pirates who then sent the ransom demand to the wrong person hence its disappearance (even if they sent me the demand I’m in no position to pay so perhaps its just as well).  Every once in a while I stop and think, ‘This shit is not worth it, life’s too short!’ and this year has been a long ‘one of those moments’.  I’m tired.  Bloody tired.  But despite the bad days, and there will always be some very bad days, there are also some very very good days, days when it all comes together, and it eventually does come together, but only when you finally figure out what it is you want. 

What is it I want?  I just want to do a hard days work, and get paid for it.  Everything else is simply fluff.  I’m off to have a cup of coffee in the sun.

“I think I’m gonna have to call in sick…”


Why Paco, why?

“Baby let’s cruise, away from here….”

Six months ago I discovered that a song I loved more than life itself is a cover.  I was heartbroken.  And when I listened to the original, I was completely and utterly crushed.  What little hope there was that my undying love for the (formerly) brilliant artist I had been obsessed with could survive the shocking revelations was blasted away by the reality of a far more superior original.  Alas, it appeared my love had not only stolen his genius, but he had done a horrible job at it.  All of a sudden, he had gone from sexy god of all things music (and one of only two candidates for father of my unborn children), to petty thief with substance abuse problems.  I fear the love was gone!

What am I on about?  Flashback to 2008, I’d just met a hot man called… let’s call him Paco (long story, don’t ask), and I was in the midst of an intense crush that involved long meaningless conversations and a shared fondness for all things music.  Now Paco quickly realised that the easiest way to get to me was to present me with a select choice of hot R&B tracks in the form of the ubiquitous ‘mix tape’, MP3’s in this case, and on one of these mixes was the song ‘Cruisin’ by D’Angelo.  My oh my, didn’t that song, and man, drive me mad!  Its not that I’d never heard D'Angelo before, we all remember the video for ‘Untitled’ and his glorious almost very naked self… sorry, I drifted off in a fog of delirious lust… I was saying, I’d listened to the man before so it wasn’t that he was new to me that got me hooked.  What did it was the combination of a nasty break up (that Paco was talking me through), unrequited lust (for the very same Paco) and an addictive drum and bass beat (with violins dammit, violins!), that was the match to the fireworks that was to become my love for D’Angelo, oh how I loved him. 

I’d listen to the song over and over again, morning, noon and night, and when Paco presented me with the best of album, I listened to that over and over again, obsessed with damn near every track on the album.  It probably goes without saying that my obsession with D’Angelo was fuelled by my obsession for Paco, and vice versa.  When one sang ‘…and if you want it I got it…’ the other was whispering it in my ear, at least in my fantasy he was.  And fantasy it was, glorious passionate fantasy, but fantasy nonetheless.  You see, Paco was married, still is best I can tell, happily it seemed, at least to my unmarried and (then) recently scarred eyes, but that’s what made him the best fantasy I could ever have.  Because he was unattainable and therefore could never disappoint me, the fictional man I created in my head would forever remain unspoiled.  And so it was with D’Angelo, until that fateful night, six months ago.

Now, courtesy of Paco, I’d started drifting towards more authentic soul music (not the pop they play in the clubs, I’m talking about the Rhythm and Blues of the 70’s and 80’s, and the original soul music from whence it all came).  At one point I began to get a bit obsessed with one particular Smokey Robinson track (‘Just to see her’) and began to hunt for it in earnest.  Seeing as how he’d got me hooked in the first place, of course I tried to get it from Paco, but at that point he and I were no longer the ‘almost affair’, we were drifting ever so slowly into ‘woulda shoulda coulda’ land, so when I placed my request for the Smokey song, I was politely, but firmly, ignored.  I was on my own.  But being the stubborn idiot I am (with the mild case of OCD that wont let me ignore a song… it’s a bit frustrating!), I kept looking, eventually finding a greatest hits album with said song, and all the while mourning the loss of my fantasy man.  Little did I know how much worse it was about to get...

I put the CD on the following night and began to skip through the tracks looking for the particular song, but as I was sampling I heard the beginning of what sounded familiar, a guitar riff that’s unmistakable, ‘Could it be?  Surely not…’ she muttered, before skipping forward to the next track.  Once I found what I was looking for, I happily set the player on loop and proceeded to revel in the splendour that is Smokey Robinson, congratulating myself for my own resourcefulness, ‘Who needs Paco?’ she chuckled to herself.  Problem was, that bloody riff was also playing on loop at the back of my mind, and if you’ve heard the song you know what I’m talking about.  Finally ten minutes later I gave in and went back to confirm my gnawing suspicions, and immediately the song began to play I knew I was right.  Worse still, the more I listened the more depressed I got.  You see the brilliance of D’Angelo is in fact the brilliance of Smokey, right down to the damn violins. 

‘Why D, whhhhyyyyyy?’ I wailed into the night, grief-stricken (I’m not exaggerating here, I really was very distraught).  ‘He’s a fake!  I’ll never listen to him again,’ I swore angrily, as I contemplated calling Paco to call him very bad names for giving me that fake shit, ‘no wonder he wouldn’t get me Smokey, he knew the awful truth!’  The only thing that stopped me from making that demented call (yes, I do know how strange this all sounds) was the thought of having to explain to his Mrs why I’m calling Mr Man at 11.30 pm, I assumed her reaction would be ‘Ati to bitch about who?  You whore!’ or something like that.  So I didn’t call.  But I fumed, for days.  And that was the beginning of the end for Paco and I, the trust was gone, I could no longer treat his mix tapes with any seriousness.

I know it sounds extremely fickle to you, to dismiss someone on account of a song, but for me, D’Angelo and Paco were inextricably linked, and when the fantasy of one fell apart, so did the other.  After that revelation, listening to D’Angelo only served to remind me that that which I loved most about him, was not his, it belonged to a yellow yellow mzee with the silkiest voice I have ever heard.  I couldn’t get past it.  And it was worse with Paco, he went from sexy fantasy dude to ‘What the hell… could those shoes be any more pointy?’ dude (don’t laugh, those shoes looked like a weapon, I feared for my life).  This is the thing with putting someone up on a pedestal, you get to see their clay feet, and I don’t care what you say, not too many fantasies can survive clay feet (unless of course you have a clay feet fetish), but then again they’re not meant to, hence the fantasy i.e. removed from reality.  

In retrospect, the end had probably began much earlier (with Paco that is), the song was just the straw that broke this camel’s back.  The fog of heartbreak had already began to clear and I was slowly getting back to my old self, and with it I started to see him, and myself, more clearly, but what I saw was troubling.  My obsession with the man was shallow, selfish and hedonistic, and unreal.  And ultimately unsustainable, because who can be satisfied with the idea of a man?  Turns out that although I really liked that man (really…), I wanted more than a hot fantasy on a cold night, I want the original, not the cover version.   

But there’s a happy ending to this tale, D’Angelo and I have repaired our broken relationship, our love is back on track, hell I think it’s stronger than ever.  See, after not listening for many months, it finally hit me that I missed him, so I put the best of CD on one night and sat back to appreciate, no bullshit fantasy this time, just honesty… and a bit of red wine to numb the residual twinges of pain.  And it was good!  His cover, which I had so heartlessly dismissed as a cheap fake, is absolutely mind fuck brilliant.  He took a beautiful borderline risqué track and made it so bloody sexy it’s a miracle the CD player doesn’t just get up and shag itself.  It’s that good.  He’s that good.

Paco and I?  Shoulda coulda woulda….



“I’m not in love, so don’t forget it, it’s just a silly phase I’m going through…”

You have to listen to this song.  Its by some random white dudes called 10cc and its bloody amazing, simple yet complex, many voices layered together to create a sound of such brilliant depth… amazing!  The reason I’m gushing over a song done when I can’t have been more than a year old?  Because I live alone, and work alone, and I have two friends, and no cat.  This is what excites me these days, music, more accurately the disturbingly large amount of music on the internet (and here I thought it was only good for porn and bootleg episodes of 24, but I digress…).   The song?  I stumbled upon a cover version of the same on a Queen Latifah album that blew me away, but as I listened I realised I knew the song, ‘must be a cover… figures!’ I thought.  But a cover of whom?  The problem was, I knew I knew the song, but I couldn’t remember why. 

Now if you live alone, with no cat, and have a mild case of OCD, this is the kind of thing that can drive you to insanity.  The hook just kept playing in my head, over and over again like a stuck CD, so finally I got up in frustration and snapped open my phone and googled the title, and lo and behold, welcome to the world of 10cc.  I’m now hooked, hell at this point I’m thinking of making a pilgrimage to whatever godforsaken frozen wasteland in the north they currently reside in, just so I can look any one of them in the eye and say thank you, thank you for possibly one of the greatest ballads ever written… except for the bit with the girl whispering in the middle, that’s just odd.

This post will probably make sense if I point out that I may or may not be in the process of falling for a new man.  Unfortunately, I don’t think he feels the same.  Actually, that’s putting it mildly, sometimes I get the distinct impression he’d like nothing more than for me to disappear off the face of the earth.  And considering I think I’ve morphed into crazy stalker woman (CSW), who can blame him no?  ‘Aaahhhh!’ I hear you say, ‘She’s one of those ones…’  I’m not.  Really, I’m not!  On a normal day I’m an unemotional cold bitch who doesn’t give a shit about your ‘feelings’ and other such like touchy feely crap.  ‘Get over it!’ is my standard response to the mind numbing array of emotional problems my (and I use this term loosely) friends are constantly assaulting me with.  So for me to tell you I’ve become a CSW, be afraid, be very afraid…

Let me lay it out for you, then you decide just how bad it’s gotten.

I met this guy 4-5 months ago, and we hit it off, he was warm and funny, and so bloody smart, and I was my (not) normal charming sexy self, and for the first month it was the bliss of getting to know someone new.  The hour long conversations about anything and everything under the sun, the shy flirting, the constant laughter, the stupid grin plastered on your face every time you think about the idiot…  That phase, all one month of it, was just lovely.  And then we met (don’t ask me many questions, just go with it…), and we really hit it off, he turned out to be even smarter, and sexy!  At that point I was thinking ‘this man might just be worth the time’ and anyone who’s dated in this town has to know how serious a statement that is. 

So there I am, happily cruising along in my ‘could be something’ bliss, and all of 2 weeks later the man starts acting iffy.  ‘Iffy how?’ you ask.  It started off simply, he blew me off, once, then again, the second time with no explanation, no contact for 3 days.  One would think I’d have read the writing on the wall at that point but nooooo…  He stopped calling, or texting, and when I’d call, he’d be very busy, promise to call back, and of course he wouldn’t.  At this point you’re probably laughing to yourself wondering how thick I am not to have seen the signs, don’t worry, I’m laughing too.  Thing is, writing this shit down it seems so obvious I’m wondering why I refused to accept it.  Please note, I didn’t say see it, I said accept it, because I saw it, I even raised my concerns with said idiot (feeling slightly idiotic about that now mind you), but while my rational mind was saying this bugger is backing off so let it go, the foolish girl in me was insisting that that was not the case.  Cue irrational behaviour…

Now for those of you who don’t know this, a crazy stalker woman is the bastard offspring of the rational grown ass woman you are and the irrational 13 year old girl with acne and a flat chest you used to be (don’t deny it, we all have one inside us ladies, don’t we?).  CSW is one part calculating, one part devious, three parts hormonal and one part lust.  Think Sharon Stone’s character in Basic Instinct meets Samuel Wanjiru’s mother… basically one fucked up individual with a fondness for panga sized bags, it’s not pretty!  My CSW, has the added advantage of being a malicious maladjusted creature with occasional substance abuse issues, keep this in mind as I continue my tale of almost love almost gone wrong…

So the man was not so slowly becoming unavailable, and I was getting increasingly frustrated at his unexplained behaviour, so I called him out on it, with disastrous results (not surprisingly…).  You see, right at the beginning, I’d made it pretty clear that I’m not the flinging type of chick (I am sometimes, but that’s not the shit you’re going to tell a man you’ve just met is it?), and he explicitly stated that he wasn’t looking to funga, that’s why it took a month to actually meet up, there was no rush.  And then… nothing!  The idiot vanishes on me!  If the man is to be believed, he sunk into a vicious cycle of guilt and alcohol, exacerbated by a ridiculous work schedule, all combining to make him unavailable, I believe his exact phrase was “I’m lacking in motivation, for anything”.  Now when a man starts talking lack of motivation, my CSW pulls out her ice pick!  The harder I pushed the harder he ran, away, like in the opposite direction.  A couple of weeks later I finally gave up pushing and decided to let him be, I was starting to feel a bit embarrassed at how desperate I seemed (stop laughing, this is a true story!). 

For the next month or so that’s how it went, I’d call once a week to check up on him (seeing as how he was struggling with his motivation issues, and yes, I do realise how stupid that sounds).  But just as I was on the cusp of complete separation, at the point when I had finally come to terms with the fact that he just wasn’t feeling my ass, just then, what do I do?  You guessed it, I stopped by his house.  The next thing I knew I was right back in it.  Why did I stop by?  Because I wanted to see him, I suspect it was a last ditch attempt to resuscitate the dying horse (already flogged to death, but my CSW has been known to overlook such minor technicalities).  And in my defence, he seemed happy to see me, he cooked me dinner and everything!  In retrospect, he probably cooked because he was hungry, and I was there, but the point is he cooked.  It’s not looking too good for me right now, is it?  Anyhow, that was a couple of weeks ago, and since then he’s been somewhat more attentive, and I’ve been somewhat less CSW.  Things are ok, not too hot, not too cold, just… there. 

So what’s my problem?  Its simple really, my CSW thrives on drama (she claims to be a passionate woman, she’s a lover not a fighter…), a relationship that’s ‘just there’ is her idea of hell.  She’s probably looking for some hysterical man who’s sulking half the time and erratic the rest of the time (there’s a story there, but I’ll save it for another day…).  Now when I was 21 that was just lovely, but more than a decade later I don’t think so!  On the one hand I’m craving the excitement of the new ‘thing’ (not sure I get to call it a relationship, and yes, I know how stupid that sounds…), but on the other hand, I cant wait for the calm security of actually knowing how someone feels towards you, the confidence you get from being desired… that trumps excitement any day of the week and twice on Sundays! 

And having come to this conclusion, I now have the unenviable task of trying to force my CSW back into her little box at the back of the closet that’s my subconscious.  It wont be easy, she’s a stubborn little thing, and slightly evil, she’s been known to discover imaginary thongs belonging to imaginary women hanging in his bathroom (that actually happened once, long time ago, and I completely lost it, only to realise a few minutes later that said thong was a jock-strap type thingi.  Definitely one of my more embarrassing moments…).  As I was saying, its time to put the craziness aside and get on with it, either the man likes me and it works out, or he doesn’t and I get back into the cesspool that is dating in this our fair city. 

Oh joy!


My sister's got a Range Rover... and that's ok!

So I’m turning 33 in 2 days time and I’m freaking out a little bit.  Its not that I’m uncomfortable getting older, that part I actually enjoy most of the time seeing as how I’m convinced with age comes wisdom and other such feel good nonsense.  No, the reason I’m freaking out is this, I’m broke.  And I’m single.  And I live in my parent’s house in shags.  And I’m broke.  Are you picking up on my theme here?  I’m broke, penniless, no dinero, sina pesa… let me put it this way, if I was a country, I’d be fourth world.  Dude, I am broker than Bhutan!  But I have a plan, several actually…

Plan 1
I’m running for MP in 2012.  I don’t really need to give any reasons do I? 

Plan 2
I’m looking for a rich widower to marry.  Apparently, women today have taken to scanning obituaries in an attempt to find a man, and while I initially wrote said women off as desperate cows in need of counselling, I am starting to appreciate the brilliance of this plan.  Think about it, the man is grieving so he's not a particularly discerning customer, lower standards mean higher chances for the more aesthetically challenged amongst us.  If he has kids then he’s in dire need of a new house keeper, definitely the fast track to marriage for anyone willing to play mommy to his brats, and he’s willing to pay well for your services.  Amoral?  Yes!  Brilliant?  Definitely!!

Plan 3
I’m applying for a job as a security guard.  I figure I’ll do my time for a year or two, then I’ll heist a bank, or an ATM, or an armoured truck, and retire to a deserted island.

Plan 4
If all else fails, I plan to run my sister over with a tractor.  Why?  Because she has named me her beneficiary in all her insurance policies and her will, and she drives a Range Rover, so I’m sure there’s money somewhere (unless of course she’s one of those weekend millionaires who hire flashy cars on the weekend and spend their weekdays on the Citihoppa, but I digress…). 

At this point you’re probably wondering why I don’t just go out and get a job like the rest of you hard working Kenyans, right?  But alas, that’s not the reason I’m perpetually broke.  I have a job, a good one I thought, until my sister went and bought a Range Rover, and now my parents have consigned me to the ‘ne’er do well dustbin of disappointment’, although I suspect I was thrown in said bin years ago once they realised their little girl, now fully grown woman, had no intentions of leaving the nest.  In their defence, however, it has to be admitted that my attempts to build a timber shack in their garden, down near the river, 2 years ago, may have confirmed their suspicions, but, again, I digress… 

My problem is that my siblings (I spit on them…) are just so bloody successful, all of them, cant seem to put a foot wrong!  And me, the brightest and most brilliant, if only in my deluded head, nothing!  So all my seemingly great achievements simply pale in comparison to their Range Rovers and Audis and bloody Jettas, despite my brilliance.  There’s one I think I might eventually catch up with, in theory, but that’s only because shes the conservative, thereby appearing to be less well off than the rest, but I’ve seen her bank statements and she is richer than freaking Croesus, so all pretence at catch-up will be just that, pretence.   

So, what is to be done?  Well, assuming I do not go ahead with plan number 4 involving the tractor, perhaps its time to take stock of my seemingly unsuccessful life and figure out a plan for my future that does not include filial homicide.  All this is being done with a view to finding the much talked about ‘sense of fulfilment’ you often read about, in those self help books that teach you to rely on oneself (perhaps the best way to rely on oneself is by not reading another self’s random mutterings?).  Allegedly, when one is at peace with oneself, then all else shall flow forth.  I know, it sounds like a load of bull, but I’ve tried everything else, so why not?