Would you just shag me already?

You didn’t really think the month would end without the mandatory trip to the sewer?  Come on now, I must be controversial, no?  Slight detour, how now?  Here I was thinking I’m presenting sober discussions pertaining to our sexuality in this confusing age of sexual freedom, androgynous behaviour and commercial (s)exploitation, and all the while all I’ve been doing is titillating your perverted little minds?  Shame man!  Detour over, shall we proceed with the perversion?  You know the drill, sensitive types leave now.  Seriously, leave, please, because if I get one more ‘but what about love woiyee?’ email, I will track you down and smack you, why do you think I call it the sewer and issue elaborate disclaimers?  The rest of you, disrobe accordingly and follow me into the muck.  I will swear profusely (possibly more than usual), and use crude imagery and filthy puns that will make your panties blush (not really, but I’ve been itching to use that phrase so…), hell, I may even (verbally) sodomise a politician, or a plagiarising columnist, with a broom handle, if I have time, because that’s how I, make that we, do here, no? 

What's love got to do, got to do with it,
What's love but a second hand emotion,
What's love got to do, got to do with it,
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken…

I’m guessing most of you recognise the soundtrack, if not from back in the 80’s when it came out, then from the more recent movie of the same name (a role for which Angela Basset should have won that Oscar she was robbed dammit, robbed!).  This is one of those songs that you struggle to classify in any one particular genre, it’s a blend of Rock and Roll, pop ballad, R&B and reggae (or is it calypso?), it’s a little schizophrenic.  And the situation isn’t helped by Ms Turner’s brilliant vocals, one minute she’s crooning a seductive serenade, the next minute she’s wailing in true rocker fashion, then she’s growling like a vintage soulster, and then back to traditional gospel, and all in one song.  Now when one of you younglings shows me a Rihanna sing-along with similar depth, I shall forever stop talking shit about your ignorant behinds.  I’m just saying, there’s talent, then there’s the talent.  Moving on swiftly, ‘What’s love got to do with it?’ is either an anti-love anthem, an ode to sex without unnecessary complications, or a satirical look at relationships.  It all depends on how happy, or drunk, you are.  Just for the record, for the purposes of today’s rant, I’ve chosen to treat it as an ode to the simple pleasure that is sexual attraction. 

Us mature (read old) single types like to pretend that we’re above such base things as sex; talking about how we’re looking for something more meaningful than mindless rutting; how we’re using our time alone to make ourselves…better; how no sex is better than bad sex, this said with a smirk when the couples are busy whining about their crap sex lives; how no amount of sex is worth the trouble of another broken heart…  Bullshit!  Folks, we’re not always looking for happily ever afters, complete with 6 kids, a dog and a station wagon.  Sometimes, only sometimes mind you, sometimes we just want to have sex.  Gasp!  The shock of it!  Unless said singleton is a virgin, I guarantee you they have had the itch at one point or another, and if it’s been long enough since their last shag, they’re climbing the walls in frustration, craving sex like an addict craves smack.  They, we, are gagging for it.  No really, gagging.  All we need is that one genius who can provide the much needed shag without turning it into a bloody Greek tragedy. 

You must understand though the touch of your hand makes my pulse react,
That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl, opposites attract,

It's physical,
Only logical,
You must try to ignore that it means more than that…

Conventional wisdom has it that women cannot separate sex and emotions, that for us it’s always more than ‘just sex’.  Well I hate to break it to you, but that’s not entirely true, and by that I mean it’s a blatant lie.  Sometimes, only sometimes mind you, we like to have sex because we like having sex.  Hang on, I should probably say ‘I’ rather than ‘we’, lest ‘I’ stand accused of championing the moral decay of our womenfolk or such like nonsense.  I, (not) Alex, have, on occasion, had sex with a man I was not madly in love with.  And this sex did not make me love him, hell, in one memorable incident I even began to like the idiot less, and that’s disturbing considering I barely liked the man to begin with.  Now you know I’m not a whore (I hope?), far from it, if only because I am disturbingly reluctant to shag a stranger, which automatically precludes, you know, whoring.  Thing is, that doesn’t mean that I’m looking to form a deep and meaningful connection with every man I shag.  Yes, I will get to know the man, but only so I can figure out his sexual personality, and by extension, figure out if the shag will be worth my time.  That and I’m desperately trying to filter out the batshit insane men I keep meeting, with limited success if my recent past is anything to go by, but imagine how much worse it would be if I wasn’t screening?  Scary thought, no? 

The point to my (sexual) declaration of independence is not to make some misguided point about how women can have no strings sex just like men, as much as I hate to admit it, we cant.  We’re built different, and I don’t mean the nonsense about our emotions coming in the way of everything, I mean we are literally not built for endless, and mindless, rutting.  Our lady bits can only take so much abuse before they shut down, claiming fatigue; throw in the link between our minds and our arousal, and you end up with a situation where even the most willing woman would struggle to shag continuously, not unless you throw in an incentive like money, or intoxication.  I’m not trying to say that women can or should whore like men, all I’m saying is that once in a while they want to.  Nothing too dramatic, just the occasional romp with a man who will not be expecting forever immediately thereafter.  See the thing is, the men we like to shag are usually the men we should not be shagging.  I said this many months ago, and then proceeded to completely disregard my own (not) brilliance, the men who are great in bed are always supremely fucked up individuals. 

You know how men automatically categorise women as either ‘possible mother of my children’ or ‘chick I want to fuck sideways’?  Women do it too, all the time, even the sideways bit.  We are not so foolish that when we meet a man whore, we begin to harbour illusions of foreverness and monogamy; or when we meet a shy guy who gets flustered when he gets so much as a glimpse of thigh, we won’t expect him to be open to a lesbian spank inferno.  We’re smart enough to figure what sort of deviant (or not) you are, and then we’ll treat you accordingly.  Let me put it this way, if I want deep and meaningful, I’ll go after the quiet guy in the corner, but if I want a rocking good time, and nothing else, then I’ll pounce on the flirtatious idiot doing (body?) shots at the counter.  My problem, and this is the point to all this, is when the idiot turns around and tries to make like the quiet guy, because he figures the only way he’ll get to shag me is if he pretends to be a…wait for it…nice guy.  Why would you do that, man?  Wait, these buggers do not deserve to be called men, they shall now be referred to as man-shaped objects.  What the hell man(-shaped object)? 

All I’m trying to say, very badly, is that a woman doesn’t always approach a man with a view to making him her man.  Sometimes she just wants to lease him for a night, or a week or two, depending.  And that’s where the man whore comes in.  You may not know this, but a good man whore is very hard to find.  I’m not talking about those idiots who’ll shag anything that remotely resembles an adult female, those geniuses are always in plenty.  I’m talking about the discerning customers who know the difference between a shag and a good shag, the token few who place quality above quantity; they’re the high priced escorts to the streetwalkers that are the rest of the whores.  Unfortunately, all the ones I knew seem to have gone into (possibly forced) retirement, and the buggers clearly didn’t engage in any succession planning, because the young ones coming up have no clue whatsoever.  Which is why I shall now endeavour to teach them a little something. 

These days it seems that men think seduction is all about talk and very little action.  Quite simply, some of these buggers are unable, or unwilling, to do what it takes to seal the deal.  They will chat up a woman for ages, dithering like idiots, feigning interest in everything from Charity’s spoiler presidential bid to Caroline’s cut and paste (and I use this term most loosely) journalism, all in an attempt to convince the woman that they are men of depth and substance, and not the man whores they so clearly are.  Now you know I favour the intellectual approach to seduction, but that’s for men who haven’t made a name for themselves by shagging anything in a skirt.  A proud man whore has no business making a woman sit through a soliloquy on whatever (not) brilliant thoughts are running through his mind, that’s cruel and unusual punishment.  Just get on with it man(-shaped object)!  I know you think your silky words are the reason for your fame, but they’re not.  You’re famous because of your smooth moves, so stop talking and start shagging, because the harsh reality is, the only reason a sane (read grown ass) woman would approach a man whore in the first place is because she wants his ass.  Not his mind, or his wallet, but his ass. 

It may seem to you that I'm acting confused when you're close to me,
If I tend to look dazed I've read it some place I've got cause to be,
There's a name for it,
There's a phrase that fits,
But whatever the reason, you do it for me…

Gents, if a woman makes no attempt to find out your last name, or where you live, or what you do, or what you like for breakfast, then its likely that she’s not interested in your (alleged) depth.  She’s operating on the ‘what you see is what you get’ principle, and what she saw was a man willing and able to get down and dirty without the false pretence of emotional attachment.  More to the point, if you parade yourself as some sort of sex god who will fulfil my every fantasy, then you, sir, had better be ready to put your mouth where my honey is.  You can’t be talking shit about how you’re the best I’ll ever have, and then when I tell you to prove it, you start shaking and stammering like a little girl, talking about how you want to get to know me, really know me…  Eh?  You cant have your cake and eat it, either you’re a whore or you’re not.  This business of men pretending to be deep to get laid, or pretending to be studs to find love (it happens), that shit is false advertising, and its bloody confusing so stop doing it. 

For all you amateur whores, wanna-be ‘playas’ and man-shaped objects out here, if you’re going to walk around pretending to be ‘the man’, then at the very least make sure you can back it up with (real) actions, because if it looks like a duck, and it walks like a duck, and it even talks like a duck, then I expect it to fuck like a bloody duck, dammit, even if its nothing more than a brightly coloured chicken. 

What's love got to do, got to do with it,
What's love but a sweet old fashioned notion,
What's love got to do, got to do with it,
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken…

I think I’ve just hit a new low in the sewer…


Introducing... P44!

That’s right folks, I have a guest writer.  And not just one, but two, because I am the shit, no?  And that is as much swearing as you will be getting this week.  We’re on good behaviour, and that includes you deviants at the back who like to play with knobs, so be nice, they’re our guest virgins, or is that virgin guests?  And comment dammit (last swear, promise), it’s not every day we get ladies in this house and I’d like them to come back again. Without any further ado, may I present for your reading pleasure this Sunday the ladies of Project 44

What Gets My Goat!

So Alex, whom we love, was a guest at our ‘house’ a while back. She churned out a piece aimed at declaring a BOLLOCKS campaign. We had given her instructions about what she could and could not bring as ‘gifts’ to our rather orderly ‘house’; mainly, no cursing and then no cursing. Alex is bold and undeterred, she blogs and then blogs. It feels like, if it is not controversial, she will not bother blogging about it. Recently, she blogged about booty call etiquette and then some. She writes about sex like it were a ‘how-to-get-your-lil’-pumpkin-to-kindergarten’ (notice how we avoided using nursery lest someone thinks we are actually talking about a plant?) sort of topic, posts it and then responds to comments. Hehehe - nothing like that soft ‘thank you for dropping by stuff’ – she engagingly responds and debates. If you read Project 44, you can understand why we were at a loss when she came calling - we needed to return the favor and write for her blog. Although she had given us an open book as far as topics are concerned, we wondered what we were going to blog about and get it approved by Alex without her feeling like it needed some serious editing (read kink!). We relaxed and decided that she is at liberty to add some swear words and even tell us what gets her goat about booty calls (lol). So here is what ‘gets our goat’ - very random stuff:

1. Respect for time or lack thereof.
How many of you have friends who, to be honest, have neither manners nor courtesy when it comes to time? Picture this: we have agreed to meet at 10 am or whatever time. You text me and say “perfect”. I arrive at the meeting place; I, who respects people’s time and all, am there on time and you are not. I get out Dr. Phil’s latest book and I manage to get to the point where he is talking about being happy just being me even if Adam does not come (along, that is) – meaning I am way into the book - and you have not showed up. I am about to leave, I call you, you do not pick up (for some reason, people think that it is better not to pick up calls if they are late) and now that gets my goat. It really does! After what seems like eternity, you turn up and say “aki traffic ya Nairobi?!” Kill me now…and not slowly.

2. Emails.
These get my goat. I am talking about those junk emails that somehow find their way into the inbox. “Enlargement supplement sample, enlarge your penis by just popping a pill” “your love tool is set to thrill”, etc. Imagine that you are either waiting for a hotel reservation, train ticket confirmation or even better still, it is those times when you are job hunting, you are waiting for a confirmation mail and an email alert comes in. You eagerly open it only to read, “there is a long and hard one waiting for you”. Oh lord! This has happened to me. Well,  not the hard and long one (lol); I was waiting for official emails, first it was during the recruitment phase, there were so many steps in the cycle, and to be honest, I was keen on getting a job. Then those “Free trial enlargement, so hard you can break an egg” just kept coming in! These just kill the whole goat, not just ‘getting’ it!

3. Octopeople.
Yes, this is a new word we’ve just coined and yet to be entered into the urban dictionary. (Don't plagiarize it without giving due credit). There are people who move around like they have tentacles; they can’t move past you without brushing against your nicely coiffed hair and making a meringue mess out of it; or hit you with their elbow, hip or handbag – especially whilst getting through the aisles of public transport vehicles in Kenya. OK, so you may argue that some blame should go to the makers of the vehicles but I think people ought to be a bit more considerate when walking past others. If we were all clamoring for something and you shoved me, then I wouldn’t argue about it but when I am comfortably sitting and you decide to brush me with your tentacle body part, newspaper, smelly leather jacket or handbag, it just gets my goat! Pull it in, whatever it is!

4. Unofficial census.
Meeting new people is supposed to be a pleasant experience; you don’t know each other and you are supposed to extend courtesy to each other. However, there are people who choose to ruin the moment. I, like many other people, usually introduce myself by my first name and of course there are those who are undeclared lineage experts who are not satisfied with the first name and want to know my second name/surname. At the outset, this begins an itch on the chin of my goat because in many instances, it is like to degenerate into a tribal linkage followed by questions about where I come from and when I tell them, they tell me people of my tribe don’t usually come from there. The itch is no more an itch…..this just gets my goat. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for celebrating our heritage but I don’t think that gives a license to people to go around conducting unofficial census of who is from which tribe, where they come from and pointing out that their tribe and where they come from are not a match. I mean, really? Kai ni kii? I think this is where that body we pay so much money to help us with cohesion or is it co-existence should declare these unofficial censuses unnecessary or better still, classify them as hate speech.

5. Queue jumpers.
Need we say a lot here? Like this time I was at immigration, a well dressed lady who according to me exuded class but apparently with no manners at all - and hence no class - came, walked past people right to the front of the queue. My goat just got struggled for breath. It is very uncouth to jump the queue but what really gets my goat are the people who let it happen and then look at the person(s) behind them and say 'amenikata'. 'Alikukata ukiwapa wapi?' is what I usually want to ask but I maintain my cool and courtesy. If you let it happen, then don't point fingers - yes, the uncouth queue jumper is to blame but you are an enabler. Does anyone want to pick up a ‘no enabler, no queue jumper’ slogan?

6. Parrots.
I am yet to establish if this falls under the category of getting my goat or just eliminating it. Why are people so uncomfy with silence? Like someone said, Adams will spend a whole afternoon together, watching soft ball or tennis and not find the necessity to say more than 5 words to each other and they still remain very tight buddies. Eves (most of them) on the other hand, find the necessity to fill even the slightest moment of silence with chatter. How many of you identify with this because I do not want to feel like I am an egocentric loner? I would like to know that someone out there also believes that it is OK, very OK to have moments of silence. But tell this to people who think the more you talk, the more you look like you are great friends.

So that is our random list, but the fact these got on the list means that these must be high up there.

What gets your goat?

Fridah and Joyce


M.A.D. Yes, again. Because if I don't tell you about the foolish men I meet, who will, no?

I’m not entirely sure about this, but I’m starting to think that some men are not entirely normal, and by that I mean they’re completely and utterly batshit insane.  Mind you it’s just a suspicion at this point, so don’t go getting your panties in a bunch just yet, let me lay it out for you first, then you decide.  

Ladies and gentlemen, this is another foolish tale of a foolish man, as told by your resident foolish woman (that would be me).  Dont worry, its a M.A.D. tale, which basically translates to equal opportunity shaming and what not, and that’s always fun, right?  Slight detour, that guy, crazy eyes, pathological liar guy, hes really doing the DJ thing, I keep seeing him on posters and everything.  Hes everywhere I go, I think hes stalking me  Detour over, moving on to todays genius.  

Several months ago I met a brand spanking new man, one year older than me, and single to boot (that I have to point that out is so sad, no?), seemingly serious and intent on finding a woman to settle down with and reproduce forthwith.  Great, right?  Problem is, I met this man round about the time I was busy coming to the conclusion that I’m not looking for a serious man, so you can imagine the subsequent confusion.  While the man was busy waxing lyrical on how much he wanted to have kids and interrogating me on my future plans regarding family and such like nonsense, I was busy trying to figure out how to tell him that I didn’t share his enthusiasm.  It started with a soft, ‘I’m not sure I want to have children, I think my time has passed,’ to which he responded, ‘Ha ha ha, you’re so funny!  One week later, when I asked him what he was looking for in a woman, he gave me the usual spiel of, ‘Kind, caring, supportive, adventurous, and she must love kids,’ to which I responded, ‘Well then, it was nice knowing you, good luck and everything,’ to which he responded…wait for it…’Ha ha ha, you’re so funny!  One week later he was joking about how he wouldn’t leave me alone with the kids, in case I starve them, or deny them religion, to which I responded, ‘What kids?  Are you trying to get me pregnant?’ to which he responded…you guessed it…’Ha ha ha, you are so funny!  Long story short, the man is no longer in the picture, but not because I kept refusing to bear his children, nooooo…  This genius of a man has since vanished because, among other reasons, he was looking to have an open relationship and I wasn’t, apparently. 

Confused?  I am.

Best I can figure is, the man was harbouring visions of happily ever after when he met me, a single, seemingly mature woman with an income all of my own and no baby daddy issues to boot (apparently, many women my age out there looking for a man, have already had a man, and theyve got proof.  Im just saying).  Unfortunately, a month later, after getting to know me better, he belatedly realised that I was not the woman he was looking for.  I figure, the open relationship story was his attempt at getting the milk for free in lieu of buying the cow.  Cue pregnant silence…  So the man intended to keep shagging me while chasing/shagging x number other women, and this because he stuck me in the ‘women I will never marry’ group?  And I was expected to be okay with it because I didn’t want to have his babies?  Wow!  

Just when I think I’ve seen it all, I meet a whole new brand of genius.  Oh joy!  

Frankly, the mans only saving grace was that he was completely upfront about all of it, he laid it all out, no lies, no bullshit.  Well, plenty of bullshit, but not of the lying variety.  Seriously, the man answered every question I ever had, made no attempt to lie, cheat or conceal, even when perhaps he should have (some things you should never tell a woman, especially a woman with a blog, no?), and it was bloody refreshing.  Scratch that, it was brilliant, those two months I spent getting to know him were fun, strange, but easy and uncomplicated.  Fun, no?  If he hadnt come at me with his frightening dreams of a bright future with 67 children plus the other women, Id be telling you a very different tale right now, one better suited to the sewer.  I shall say no more on that matter, for now.  

What I don’t get is why he went through the whole ‘I’m looking to settle down’ rubbish if all he really wanted was to get laid?  That’s how men get shot in this city, no?  Can you imagine what state I’d be in right now if I had been serious about this man?  I’d probably be telling you this story from my phone, as I sit waiting for the judge to show up at my hearing, seeing as how they’ll probably want to charge me with manslaughter or something such like, because I ran over his punk ass on Moi Avenue.  Ati you show up with stories of forever and ever, and then you continue screwing around willy nilly?  Sweet Jesus!  In what world is that even an option?  I know Im pretty liberal, but come the fuck on  If I was a serious woman looking for a serious man and an idiot pulled this stunt, my friend, there would be blood on that dance floor, yes?  

I know you’re thinking if I had been serious with the man then perhaps he’d have been serious himself, right?  Wrong!  Even if I’d been the perfect little almost wife, he’d still have buggered off/around, the man has no idea what it is he’s looking for.  Folks, it’s not like I was sitting there pretending to be a demure little domestic goddess when he approached me, I was being my normal, delusional, borderline pornographic self when he stumbled across my path.  There was no false advertising on my part, is all Im saying, at no point did I even attempt to portray the image of a woman looking to multiply and fill the earth.  He made that flawed assumption all by his idiot self, assuming that because Im female and thaate something, I must be itching to have kids, even if I say I dont.  And then when I finally managed to convince him that I was quite serious about that one (not so) minor issue, he made another flawed assumption, in an attempt to turn it to his advantage.  This genius figured that because Im unconventional like that, then I must be open to...open?  Really?  Dude!  Just because I dont want to get married, that doesnt mean I want to be your clande, bloody idiot!  More to the point, you can’t approach me as prospective wife and then turn around and offer me the position of mistress, that’s just wrong.  This man is simply clueless, and insane, no?  

Moving on swiftly…

I was out for a drink a couple of weekends back, catching up with the fellas, such as we do, and in strolls a lovely gentlemen I had a gigantic crush on last year, a crush that he then crushed with speed, and a touch of malice.  He wasn’t feeling me ‘like that’ he said, but it was okay, I’m a big girl and I’ve been knocked back a couple of times, so I take the hit and I keep on walking, no harm no foul and what not.  I’m lying, of course, I was, and still am, slightly miffed at how he dismissed me with such ease, semi-publicly humiliating me in the process, but what are you going to do?  So there I am, out and about, minding my own business, only to turn around to find the bastard standing beside me.  Oh joy!  

He and his pal perch right next to me and mine, forcing me to introduce them to the fellas (and in so doing earning myself a couple of ‘this is the guy?’ looks, followed by a detailed gossip session soon after they left), but thankfully, after a couple of minutes of polite banter, Mr ‘like that’ wandered off in search of women in smaller skirts, I assume.  His friend/wingman now left to his own devices, and still standing next to me, then took that opportunity to chat me up.  Yes, he was flirting with me, quite well I might add, but all the while I was wondering, eh?  See, when I was dismissed, this idiot was in the audience, and I suspect he was cheering (and not for me), so for him to turn around and hit on me was very peculiar, to say the least.  I was convinced I was being punked.  Now while his friend was doing his thing, Mr ‘like that’ wandered back to the counter and stood back to watch, frowning at his boys manoeuvres, and the minute his friend took a break, Mr Man slid over and planted himself by my side and proceeded to…you guessed it…hit on me.  I am not lying, the man turned on the charm, he even threw in the reserve smoothness tank, the works, talking about how he’s missed me and shit.  The man was not only talking to me like I was the hottest woman in the room (I wasnt, but not for lack of trying), he was acting like he was oh so overjoyed to finally have me all to himself (he actually said that).  Eh?

Just so you know, I haven’t changed that much in the past one year, the hair is shorter and the scar on my forehead is a bit more faded, but only a bit, frankly I’m the same mama I was in 2011, back when he lengad my ass.  Hell, even when he walked in earlier he was still lenga-ing said ass, and then 30 minutes later hes all hey baby, trying to Barry White that same ass?  What the fuck man?  The only reason I can give for a man who wanted nothing to do with me last year suddenly getting interested this year?  He saw someone else getting interested, his idiot pal no less.  It was simply a pissing contest, and I was the lucky piss pot.  Say it with meOh joy!

And that right there is the one thing that always confounds me about men, how bloody changeable you are.  You buggers are the most fickle creatures on God’s green earth; on the way to the restaurant, the man wants steak, but when he gets there he decides he wants chicken, but then the waitress comes over in her little skirt and recommends the fish and the next thing you know, the man orders fish.  Fickle bastards, with the attention span of a goldfish.  I’m not being harsh, just think about it.  One minute a man is all over you, gushing like you’re the best thing since sliced bread.  Five days later, the same man is ignoring you like you’re a piece of stale bread.  Then two weeks later, you’re back to sliced bread.  What the hell man?  You can’t go around changing your mind like your hormones are fluctuating, useless buggers…  Listen, you either want me or you don’t, its that simple.  No really, it is.  Gentlemen, I am a simple woman who lacks the skills required to decode your finer subtleties, I expect that when you tell me what you want, you actually know what it is you want and that you mean what you are actually saying.  

Like I said at the beginning, completely and utterly batshit insane, some men are.  I rest my case.


Maumivu yakizidi...

Friday 19:05
I am as sick as the proverbial dog!  My nose is running like its last name is Keino, my voice has been reduced to a throaty growl that would be quite sexy if not for the occasional bouts of coughing up phlegm, my body has taken to shivering uncontrollably and at the most inopportune moment, like when I’m trying to steady my hand long enough to finish the sentence at the bottom of the page. 

That’s the only highlight of this homa of mine, I get to spend all day in bed with what has turned out to be a really good book, sipping on juice infused with whiskey (or perhaps whiskey infused with juice?) and nibbling on ham sandwiches (the only thing I can ‘cook’ in this state). 

I’m sick! 

Saturday 16:23
The shakes are gone and I no longer need to wrap myself up in a duvet at all times.  I don’t really have anything to tell you, but I figure if I sit here long enough something will come out.  I have to warn you that I’ve been self medicating with generic cough syrup from India, so I may be a little incoherent, or perhaps the very big, and very talkative, white cat sitting next to me may decide to take over the reins.

I think I should go back to bed.

Saturday 22:47
Or is it Sunday, my head is so fuzzy…  I should have read the contra-indications on that shit, I don’t think I’m supposed to feel like this.

I should get a cat…

Sunday 6:15
And she’s back. 

No seriously, my head is clear, as is my chest/nose/throat, my voice is almost back to normal, I’m good, except for the disturbingly vivid dream inspired by the strange book I’ve been reading lingering in the back of my mind (there was a man with no face who liked to burn things and called himself the devil, very creepy, kinda left a lasting impression…hmmm…I wonder if that’s where the thoughts of the cat came from?). 

You know what? I’m starving.  I’m off in search of pancakes, and something to get this horrible taste out of my mouth, tastes like I spent the night licking a door knob, she says, looking suspiciously at the door knob.  Did I?  Surely not… 

I think I’m done taking non-brand name syrups, I don’t care how (suspiciously) fast acting they are.  Maumivu yakizidi, msimuone pharmacist.

Monday 14:03
So it turns out I was not feeling better when I put the post up, I was back in bed about 1 hour later, and I didnt get up again till about 19:00, which is probably a good thing in light of the next bit.  On a possibly related note, I may have still been high on my bandia Cofta (thats the only way I can explain the fact that I have little to no recollection of uploading this shit). 

And the door knob taste is gone, just for the record.

And I can now post from my phone (woohoo!), although not too well apparently.  Apologies if youre on the feed, hope Ive cleaned up the mess.  Note to self: add 'dont blog' to list of things not to do when drunk/otherwise intoxicated.


A friendly break-up? Hmmm...

You can say whatever you like,
As long as we just say goodbye…

This has to be the most amazing break-up song.  None of that ‘woowoowoo, why did you leave me, baayyybeee?’ nonsense that’s typical of R&B, this is a brutally honest description of the end of a relationship that’s gone past its sell by date.  As always with most songs I’ve come to love, I found it completely by accident, through Sheila’s EasyFM midmorning show if you can believe it.  I know, what was I doing listening to MonotonousFM?  What can I say?  Some days I like to listen to the same songs, over and over and over…well, that and the fact that its one of only three stations my decrepit car’s radio can catch at all times, in all parts of the city, but that’s another story.  So there I am, sitting in traffic on Mombasa Road, and along comes this song out of the blue.  What!!!  I tell you, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and be knowing they’re lazy buggers those hairs, they don’t stand up for any old idiot, 
all I’m saying is when those hairs stand up I sit up and focus.  Its not just Ms Michelle’s absolutely amazing voice that got me, once I started to listen to what she was saying, especially the chorus… 

Blame it on me,
Say it’s my fault,
Say that I left you outside in the cold with a broken heart,
I really don’t care,
I ain’t crying no more,
Say I’m a liar, a cheater, say anything that you want,
As long as it’s over.

… Haiya!  I was banging on the dashboard like I was at a crusade and she was bloody testifying!  How often is it that you hear a woman singing about leaving, not because her man is a good for nothing, lying, cheating dog of a man, but because she has to leave for her own good?  Rare, isn’t it?  And then came the clincher, Sheila comes on and tells us the song was ‘going out’ to Ms X from Mr Y, ‘he says he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to hurt you’.  That was the saddest request I have ever heard on radio…  

Why are you looking at me like that?  I’m not always an unfeeling cow, dammit, I have feelings too you know, they’re not many but still.  I have a weakness, for lack of a better word, for break-up drama, probably from past experience, no?  

That’s right, this one is about breaking up.  Don’t worry, the break-up in question is not mine, I’m just the unwitting (and somewhat unwilling) conduit. 

I got an email that read in part: “So now, Doctor Alex (said in serious jest), I’d like to find out, preferably on the blog, whether friendship after a relationship is blind faith. I still find myself having petty issues with my ex, just like a normal couple, but then I realize I’m treating her as if we are still dating.  Not that I’d want to date her in the immediate, but losing her friendship is out of question.”  He then went on to not so humbly request that I put thoughts to words, forthwith.  Now, when you get to the point that someone writes to you, asking you to write about break-ups, know that your reputation as whiner-in-chief has been cemented.  Yaani, I’ve bitched so much, for so long, that I am now the go-to girl for matters unhappiness?  Ah well… at least I’m not yet the go-to girl for matters sewer, or am I?  Don’t answer that. 

The question at hand today is this.  Can you remain friends with an ex, and should you?

This friend of mine was trying to convince me that because his break-up was amicable, all his break ups have been amicable he says, then maintaining the friendship should not be a problem.  When I read that I thought to myself, perhaps I should go in search of these amicable women he dates, they could teach me a little something, no?  No.  I have been the woman on the other side of an amicable break up, that’s the one where the man sits you down and tells you just why it’s not working out, not just for him but for you too, he reassures you.  Then he proposes a break/break-up, to give ‘us’ time to figure out what ‘we’ want from this relationship, we’re still friends, right?  Wait, I think those are my issues, no?  Ah well.  Although I’ve never had one, I assume that an amicable break up is one where both parties want out, like a no-fault divorce, and the subsequent lack of bile is simply a reflection of these shared goals.  But the quest to be friends thereafter?  I don’t know about that one, I suspect it’s simply an easy way to make an awkward situation better. 

I’ve said this before (Ex'cuses, ex'cuses...), break ups are rarely (if ever) balanced affairs, usually one half is left holding onto more than the other, right?  Even when there’s no drama, there’s often some residual emotion, be it bitterness, despair, perhaps even a smattering of anger, who knows?  If you genuinely cared about someone then you can’t just turn it off, no matter the circumstances.  No matter how rational we try to be, relationships are first and foremost about emotions, and the end of said relationship is an emotional process, echoes, if you will, of emotions now passed.  If you were deceived, or otherwise mistreated, then it’s the gut wrenching anguish of… everything.  If you were hoping it would work out this time, but it didn’t, for whatever reason, then it’s the disappointment of failure, and the regrets that come with it.  And if you’re the one who woke up one day and realised that you had to leave?  Well then, it’s a curious mix of relief and remorse.  Yes, remorse, we assume that the person walking away does so with ease, but any half serious look will show you that is rarely the case. 

Yes I love you but I really got to lose you,
Freedom is where I want to be,
Yes I’ll probably always love you but I’m moving,
I got to do this for me...

In a society that places a premium on being half of a couple, making that decision to leave takes balls.  You’re telling them, ‘you know what?  This shit isn’t working for me, I’m out!’  Hopefully, you’re saying it with more eloquence, but you get the point, choosing to end a relationship, especially on a seemingly flimsy reason like, ‘it wasn’t going anywhere’, or the tried and tested, ‘we wanted different things’, will earn you a distinct lack of sympathy.  Single types will look at you and shake their heads, muttering, ‘Bitch please!  If I had half of what you had I’d be a happy camper,’ thinking no doubt that you’re just being an immature selfish little twit for choosing to put your needs before someone else’s.  Not here.  Here, I salute you for doing what I could never bring myself to do, instead insisting on hanging on to something that no longer existed.  The first time I walked away was with Disappearing Dude, and because I know how to fuck up even the simplest of tasks, I’m still holding my statue as he drifts in and out of my life at will, and only because I don’t have the balls to tell him that I had the balls to leave his ass.  I think I’ve just taken a slight detour, which should be a different post altogether, no?  Apologies, I was saying, it takes balls to look past the often frustrating need for companionship, at any cost, and put yourself first. 

Thing is, whose interests are you looking out for when you utter the ‘let’s stay friends’ line, are you assuaging your guilty conscience or theirs? 

I’m not sure whether this friend of mine has unresolved issues with his ex, the bit about ‘in the immediate’ got me thinking that perhaps this is more break than break-up, but I’m the idiot still playing possum, so what do I know?  At the beginning I told you I’m an unwilling conduit, unwilling because I clearly struggle to see past my own (perhaps not too good) experiences with break-ups, I don’t think I’m the right person to offer any sort of advice, and if you don’t believe me, take a look at my archive, I have the scars to prove it.  If anyone reading this can throw in their two cents to help this man, and by association his (not so former?) woman, through this episode, I would be very grateful.

Sometimes you can work it out, sometimes you can’t,
Sometimes you’re forced to watch everything fall apart, it’s out of your hands,
Sometimes leaving is easy, sometimes it ain’t,
Sometimes it hurts to know the loving you had was slowly fading away…

I will say this much.  Folks, if you’re hanging around your ex hoping for some great reconciliation, don’t.  Take it from someone with deep seated separation issues and baggage from here to TZ, it never ends well.  What you need to do is simply stay away from each other for a while, months, maybe even years if the split was that acrimonious.  You have to avoid them at least long enough for you to be able to look at them and not feel the need to kiss them, or slap them.  Simply put, as long as you are still getting hysterical over someone’s ass, then you have unfinished business, no exceptions, so stay the fuck away until you calm down and start thinking clearly. 

I know, quoting myself is the height of vanity, but I had to, if only because I’ve run out of things to say at this point, I think I’ve flogged this horse dead and well into the afterlife, and you know what they say about flogging in the afterlife, you might just be the horse…


This one is about a dodgy award, and an even dodgier move to Machakos.

You know how I’m always bitching about the idiot press?  From what I can tell from the stats, not too many of you share my peculiar fixation with the crap these geniuses put in the papers, but this one must surely offend you.  It just has to.  In today’s Nation, there’s an article titled, “Pattni receives 'a gift from God'”.  The article then goes ahead to state, and I must quote:

Paul Kamlesh Pattni has been selected to receive a continental award to recognise his “achievements in humanitarianism”. 

The awards, organised by a West African organisation, The Excellence Awards Foundation (EAF) registered in Ghana, has selected Mr Pattni as the 2012 winner of the “Lifetime Africa Achievement Prize 2012” where he is to be honoured for outstanding “humanitarianism and equity in Africa”.  This year’s awards ceremony, according to documents seen by the Sunday Nation, will be at a Kampala hotel on October 27.

Ambassador Ashim Morton, who has signed Mr Pattni’s citation, says: “This exaltation of character, which is worthy of emulation, has made positive impact on the lives of your people today and will continue to influence them for a better future”.

Now I’m generally sceptical of pretty much everything I read in the papers these days, but this one had me checking the front page to see if maybe someone was punking me with a fake paper or something.  Surely, this cannot possibly be true, can it?  But wait, there’s more.

Respected South African clergyman Desmond Tutu won the 2010 edition of the award on the Eradication of Disease in Africa category while famous Nigerian author Wole Soyinka clinched the honour in the African Cultural and Traditional Preservation category.

My friend, this is a serious award, no?

Now seeing as how I don’t like to be out of loop on such important matters, I turned to google in search of answers, and lo and behold, this is what I foundThe Excellence Awards Foundation.  It was the third result of ‘About 7,460,000 results (0.36 seconds)’, and I only point that out to show the ease with which this information was found, by me, an untrained, and some might say highly unskilled, wanna-be investigator cum ranting blogger.  The third result on the page, please keep that in mind as I continue…

The Lifetime Africa Achievement Prize goes to an individual who has selflessly devoted themselves to bring about change in the lives of Africans within the last decade. Change that impacts communities and that significantly enhances the lives of the people for a better future.

After research of over 43 individuals from around the world was conducted, by a group of highly learned citizens of Africa, a distinguished list of persons was selected.

The Lifetime Africa Achievement Prize recipients will be honoured in Ghana on December 4th 2010 at the State Banquet Hall, State House.

This is off said site, on the page helpfully titled, “Lifetime Africa Achievement Prize”.  In a very short write up, short enough for even the laziest amongst us to read and comprehend, they clearly state what the award is, who its given to, and when its given out.  This then took me to a page very clearly titled, “2010 Lifetime Africa Achievement Prize Recipients” listing 10 individuals, none of whom was Brother Paul.  That’s okay, right?  He’s the 2012 recipient, no?  No.  From what I can tell, 2010 was the first time this award was given out, and there is absolutely no indication that it will be given out again anytime before 2015, assuming they keep to their 5-year schedule.  There is no 2012 award. 

This is information that I found in 15 minutes, using a geriatric laptop and dodgy Orange broadband, on a Sunday afternoon when I have what feels like a mild hangi (and thus sluggish of thought).  15 minutes.  How then does what is seemingly a blatant fabrication make its way onto Page 20 what claims to be a serious publication? 

Incidentally, the online version doesn’t include the priceless caption in the print edition.  Again, I must quote: 

Preacher hailed for ‘fairness’
The passionately worded citation reads in part:
“Congratulations!  The great continent and all sons and daughters of Africa have seen and value your unwavering pursuit of humanitarianism, fairness, equity and justice for all Kenyans.  And you are in deed an exemplar of morality to Africans; one who the Great Learned Minds of Africa confer with; we honour you.”

The author of this shitty article didn’t read this alleged citation and think to himself, “Hmmm… this sounds a bit suspect, perhaps I should investigate?”  What am I saying?  These buggers seem to think ‘investigate’ is a company that sells gates, or bloody vestiges, whatever the hell vestiges are.  Either the man didnt do his homework, or someone was paid to write (and publish?) this fluffy piece of rubbish propaganda.  What the fuck man? 

I’ll say it again, idiot press! 

In other more entertaining yet equally delusional news, one Alfred is quoted as saying, “The people of Machakos have requested me to be their first Governor because they want someone who is young, corrupt free, energetic, visionary and with the ability to transform the County into an economic and social power house. I have humbly accepted their request.”  That’s right, the man will no longer regale us with tales every Thursday afternoon, he’s off to Masaku.  And I’m going with him. 

I’m moving, people, I’m off to Machakos in February next year, for the elections.  The reason I’m moving?  I have decided to take matters into my own hands this time around, no more hoping that other people will do the right thing and not vote for a genius I don’t care for, no no no, this coming March I am taking a stand.  I’m off to vote AGAINST this one man, the one man who for the longest time I could do nothing about but whine incessantly to anyone who cared to listen, the man who uprooted the lovely rose bushes on Uhuru Highway, this as he attempted to pebble us into Dubai.  I know, the man has said and done far worse, but the stripping of the highway was, to my mind, the scariest thing to happen to this city in a long time.  How is it that someone wakes up and decides to undertake ill-planned and seemingly idiotic public works, at my expense?  Even worse said foolishness is quickly dismissed, after all vegetation has been cleared of course, and the bugger is never held to account, a bugger who has absolutely no business getting involved in the planning, or planting, of said city?  This is our capital by the way, not some rural one kiosk town in the back of beyond.  And he wants to be a governor? 

I’m moving, and if you are currently unsure of whom to throw your (seemingly) useless vote at next year, you’re welcome to join me on my misguided crusade.  Stop laughing, the last time we let buggers decide on their own we ended up with Mututho, and now my local shuts at 11 pm like bloody VoK.  Nkt!


Don’t ask, don’t tell (part 2). 7 things you should never say to a woman.

1.      Is that your hair?
I bought it, therefore it is mine.  End of story.  Listen, you buggers need to get over this shit once and for all.  For as long as there is a little Chinese man somewhere who can turn horse hair, or what looks like horse hair, into the semblance of a hairstyle, then, my friend, there will always be a woman looking to buy it.  Your best bet is to give her enough money to buy real human hair (it actually comes off someone’s head?  How is that not just the creepiest shit you could ever wear?), that way she won’t be walking around looking like a bloody carpet.    

2.      You look nice.
Nice?  NICE?  I’ve just spent the better part of my Saturday in the salon, getting plucked and pruned to within an inch of my life and all you can say is NICE?  (Incidentally, the words in capitals are being screamed at you at that point.)  Gents, nice is a word women use as a backhanded compliment, as in ‘Hey girl, those jeans are sooo nice…’ which in reality means, ‘Those jeans are the shit, lakini you chick, do you really think you should be wearing skinny jeans with thighs like yours?  I don’t think sooo…’  The next time you feel the need to pay her a compliment, try using words like beautiful, sexy, stunning, exquisite even, such like superlatives that you usually reserve for the likes of Beyonce and Heidi ‘screwing the help’ Klum (slight detour, I must do a post on that saga, it’s too good to pass up, no?). 

3.      Your friend is looking nice today…
Its true, my friend is in fact quite hot, possibly hotter than me.  I know that, she knows that, and we both know that you know that, but actually saying it out loud?  Well that’s just foolish man.  I’ll give you some free advice, shut up and save it for your boys, otherwise every time you’re out with your woman and her hot pal (which is very often, seeing as how the hot pal is always lurking around, looking all hot and what not), you will be in trouble if you so much as blink in that direction.  And, just for the record, if your woman asks you if think her pal is hot?  Do not answer, it’s a trick question.  Say yes and you’re a bastard looking to cheat on her, say no and you’re a lying bastard looking to cheat on her.  Either way you’re screwed, and not in a good way.  Free advice.  May not be all that good, but at least its free.

4.      Can you lend me some money?
You know how they say relationships are partnerships, what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours, blah blah blah?  Not so much, apparently.  Turns out that what’s yours is hers and what’s hers is hers.  The minute you utter these six words to your woman, you have just handed her both your balls, on a silver platter no less.  And she knows it.  Even worse, she’s not afraid to use them against your (newly castrated) ass.  Even if all you needed was 100 bob for the papers, she will not only remember, it will count it as a significant debt for the rest of your living days.  If you want to get money from your woman, simply do not use the words ‘lend’ or ‘borrow’.  I know, she does it all the time, but she’s the one with the vagina, no?  You sir, must use words like give and demand, clear and unambiguous language that makes it clear that you have no intention of ever paying it back (because you dont, do you?).  

5.      What’s wrong?
Often asked after a day and a half of silent treatment, usually after you’ve done something uniquely foolish (see part 1).  You have to find out what’s going on, but asking this question will never get you an answer, at least not one that makes sense.  Rather than interrogating her, tell her ‘we need to talk’ and then start off with the following, ‘I feel…’  It doesn’t matter what you say next, as long as you say ‘feel…’ and do NOT say ‘…like having sex’ immediately thereafter.  You can thank me later. 

6.      Does size really matter?
Usually asked after her face does NOT light up at the sight of your business end (yaani, you didn’t get the shock and awe’ reception you were hoping for, perhaps only shock’?).  There is only one answer to this question, she will tell you that she doesn’t really care how big you are (not), and then she’ll say something like, ‘its not the size of the tool that matters, its how you use it’.  And here’s the problem.  Option 1: she’s lying to you, stroking your clearly inadequate ego.  You know she’s lying, she knows she’s lying, and her girls will know she’s lying too when she relays the conversation to them, word for bloody word.  But you’ll feel better, so what the hell, right?  Option 2: she really believes that, because she has never shagged anyone bigger, or smaller, than you, which then means you’re average and therefore have absolutely nothing to worry about.  Hang on, was that a pig that just flew past my window?

7.      Did you come?
If you have to ask, then you dont want to know.  Take that as you will