Made a wrong turn, once or twice,
Dug my way out, blood and fire,
Bad decisions, that's alright,
Welcome to my silly life,

Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood,
Miss 'No way, it's all good',
It didn't slow me down,
Mistaken, always second guessing,
Underestimated, look I'm still around…

There are only seven women in this world that I would happily shag, and Pink is one of them.  Stop looking at me like that, every woman has a list of women she’d like to shag, and any woman who tells you different is lying.  That’s right, we’re all closet lesbians, in our minds at least.  And no, I’m not going to tell you who the other six are, not yet anyhow, I’m saving those stories for slow weeks, not unlike this one.  Strange thing is, when Pink first burst on to the scene with her luminous hair and teeny-bopper tunes, I was not a fan, despite the fact that I was not far from being a teeny-bopper myself, the slick pop tunes held no appeal.  And then she released her sophomore album, slamming her own earlier music, and in the process completely transforming her style and finding her unique (and slightly crazy) voice.  That’s when my love affair with her began.  This woman says whatever she thinks/feels, good and bad, without any of the self-censorship bullshit characteristic of someone trying to manipulate our emotions for their own (often financial) gain.  The fact that she’s a smart cookie (see ‘Dear Mr President’) is simply a delightful bonus.  Like I said, one of seven…

Folks, its time to switch gears.  This searching for a relationship story is becoming a bit of a drag, no?  I mean really, how many times can a girl ruminate on why she doesn’t have a man?  Its time to move the fuck on to something else, something of slightly greater maana, like the price of unga, or the strange tremor in my left leg when I’m walking downhill.

Cue silence…

This is the problem, I have nothing to talk about.  I can’t talk about work, because my job requires some discretion, that and I choose not to bite the hand that’s feeding me.  I can’t talk about my family, because they also prefer discretion, and they can and will beat me if I say anything about them.  I refuse to talk about politics and such like nonsense till December, purely because I’m in denial, trying to ignore all the bullshit noise around me in the hope that one day I’ll wake up and it will be March 5th.  Looks like all I have left is sex, but for some reason I have nothing to say on that most entertaining topic, probably because I’m currently (read reluctantly) practising forced chastity (no more booty call, remember?  I know, not exactly one of my more brilliant ideas…).  Which means I have nothing else to write about?  How strange…

That was Wednesday night.  As you may have noticed, I didn’t post midweek, and for that I sincerely apologise, but when the cow refuses, the bloody cow refuses.  She’s still refusing, seems I’m a dog with a bone this month, my mind refuses to look at anything other than this thing called relationships.  Thing is, I can honestly say that when I started blogging, I never thought I’d become that chick who keeps going on and on about this rubbish.  Do I sound disgusted?  I’m not, well, not entirely.  I’m just tired, I don’t like spending time on something unless it’s fruitful, and, to my mind, the endless questioning has already given me the answers I was seeking, or in some cases hasn’t, to my great surprise.  At this point I’m simply flogging a dead horse into the afterlife, and you know what I think about afterlife flogging.  I’m afraid I have nothing to say on matters relationship right now, not because I now know all there is to know, but because I think some answers can’t be found, or perhaps shouldn’t be found, on a blog, even if the fabulous blog is mine. 

Ah yes, I’m still quite delusional…

Ladies and gentlemen, with your permission, I beg your leave.  I want to turn off my computer for a couple of weeks, get out into the big bad world and see if I’ve actually learnt anything over the past year, or if I need to start asking more questions of myself, different questions.  Knowledge is a funny mistress, the more she gives, the more she demands, and my mistress is currently demanding interaction with others, hopefully wiser than me, or at the very least with a different perspective.  On the up side, I am an infinitely troubled individual, therefore you are guaranteed more tales of foolishness when I get back.  Stop frowning, I won’t be gone for long, only two weeks as usual.  I’ll be back, most probably with a foolish tale, hopefully deviant, on December 9th, 10 in the a.m., GMT +3. 

I’d tell you not to break anything while I’m gone, but we both know you don’t listen to a damn word I say, clearly.  For those that feel so inclined, the ON THE DOWN LOW... page is up, feel free to tell a tale of your own.  I’ve often found that getting shit off your chest is muchos therapeutic (although, if my continued poking around in the dark is any indication, perhaps not, no?), just don’t expect much of any reply, buggers around here tend to be a bit quiet, no?  Well, that and the fact that there are only kendo three people here on any given day, and that’s counting me.  I’m just saying, if you’re looking for adoration of the masses, you might want to go elsewhere, say facebook?

You're so mean, when you talk,
About yourself, you were wrong,
Change the voices in your head,
Make them like you instead,

So complicated,
Look happy, you'll make it,
Filled with so much hatred,
Such a tired game,
It's enough, I've done all I could think of,
Chased down all my demons,
I've seen you do the same…

The song is ‘Fuckin’ Perfect’, and thanks to my dustup with the powers that be I am compelled to state that despite the lack of quotation marks, I am quoting these lyrics verbatim, duly accredited to the recording artist.  I have no intention of using them for any form of personal gain, save emotional, I’m just being an over-enthusiastic fan talking about a good tune, and occasionally streaming (not sharing mind you) them, possibly without a license, but, again, not for any gain, save emotional.  Really.  Slight detour.  You’d think that the fact that I’m usually talking about the song I’m quoting in glowing terms would be an indication of my lack of ill motive, but nooooo… I was slapped with a cease and desist.  Really?  Fair use, anyone?  You’d think I was bloody Pirate Bay or something.  Shame man!  Detour over.  Why this song?  It’s like she says, I’ve done all I can think of…



Do you have a story you're dying to tell?  An undercover tale of activities you can only share if you're on the down low?  A tale of lust, of unrequited desire, of love gone wrong or love finally going right?  Do you want to break the monotony of this blog, and share a happy tale?  Do you really, really want to get something off your chest?

Are you tired of looking for love in all the wrong places?  Tired of spending long nights in dark bars talking to drunk strangers?  Tired of mingling with the wrong crowd?  Tired of endless chats online, with people who can't spell?  Are you tired of meeting people who just don't get it?

Well you've come to the right place.  Here at Kai Nikii?, we like a good story, so please, share yours.

1. Thou shalt not slander anyone, because I don't need to get sued.
2. Thou shalt not post images, because that shit makes the page heavy, and I hate slow loading pages.
3. Thou shalt endeavour to write in clear(-ish) English, or provide translations of any other language used, and that includes sheng, and Kenglish.
4. Thou shalt use a name, any name.  Anonymous is not an option here, unless, of course, you're actually called anonymous, in which case go right ahead (ID verification may be requested though).

I, (not) Alex, do not know any of the people here and therefore will not vouch for their sanity, or lack thereof.  For that reason, I, (not) Alex, shall stay well out of this, do not write me a harsh email to complain, I will not respond.


Still haven't found...

I’m at karaoke listening to a bunch of men sing the most syrupy ballad ever, one that challenges every definition of masculinity I have ever had. And they’re loving it! Go figure. See, all this time I've been thinking you buggers have the emotions of a torn sieve and yet here they are, a bunch of grown ass men crooning away to a Celine Dion song like their lives depend on it... Eh?  When did men get emotions?  Now there’s a bugger singing Bette Midler...

My friend, this is live blogging, yawa! But do I say...

I’ve had a weird week. Random conversations with various characters I barely know have left me convinced that for all our differences, we’re really not all that different.  I know, that doesn’t sound like a dramatic revelation, but it is, especially for someone who has always thought that being an ‘individual’ is more important that fitting in and being part of the crowd.  This ‘human condition’ jive seems to be more real than I thought…

And now the manager just bought me a drink... This night will not end well, karibu I funga my pal, he that is currently chasing a woman with a spectacular ass, and not much else it would seem.  I’m just saying, she wouldn’t have given him a second look if he wasn’t light-skinned, and by light-skinned I mean Indian.  Seems at 2 in the morning, anything goes, which then begs the question, why am I sitting here typing out a post on phone instead of trying to get my ass taken home by a (seemingly) attractive stranger?  She pauses and looks up, scanning the room for prospects, but sees none, the room being crowded as it is with young attractive females in very tight jeans and ankle boots (slight detour, did I miss the fashion memo?  All the girls in here are wearing the same outfit, complete with matching hair…very peculiar…), and only 4 grown men (I refuse to count the boys who look like they finished high school not too long ago, despite their thumb-sucking hotness), of whom 3 are idiots I know better than I’d like, and the last one has absolutely no interest in me. 

Lakini, I must tell you about that one bugger who is immune to my (and I say this in complete jest) charms.  That bugger shot me down, yaani, alinilenga na madharau.  What!!!  I have not felt that small since I was 28 and my brothers friend, he whom I had been (not so) secretly lusting after, introduced me to his friends as his ‘little sister’.  Yes, the ground does in fact open up and swallow you if you pray hard enough, either that or its just the feeling of shrinking till you’re about 2 inches tall that makes you feel like you’ve just sunk to previously unknown depths.  Stop laughing at me, I know you know what I’m talking about, no?  No?  Shit.  Back to the bastard at the bar.  The man not only looked right through me, he then walked off and began chatting up one of the aforementioned young girls dressed in what I suspect is the new Kenya uniform (she did look quite spectacular, though).  I sat there, stunned, for a minute, and then I gathered up my skirts and skulked back to the counter, into the arms of my langa pals, who at that point were rolling on the floor in evil laughter.  Again I ask, what???  Still, the night has picked up somewhat, I was proclaimed ‘one of the boys’ soon thereafter, in honour of my bold and audacious, yet ultimately unsuccessful, attempt, and I’m now currently enjoying the third of what appears to be a never ending stream of free drinks.  I keep saying this, a willingness to humiliate yourself in public will earn you unlimited quantities of tequila.  Feel free to quote me the next time you go down in a blaze of shameless glory…

I must stop doing this, I’m starting to look a bit pathetic now, plus I’m a bit concerned that I can type on the phone, half drunk, at 2:34 am.  If I met me in the bar, doing this, I’d be a bit scared.  Then again, I am me, so what the hell, no?  No.  I will pick this up when I’m sober, and alone.  

Fast forward to a couple of nights later…

This ‘one of the boys’ story is the source of great humour in my life.  Apparently, I think I like a man, or so I’m told, only I don’t get it, because I don’t understand men, clearly.  At best, I figure, I’m a bit of a hybrid, many years spent in the company of mostly men has essentially infused me with certain male characteristics, for instance, the ability to use the word ‘fuck’ as a noun, pronoun, verb, adverb, adjective and conjunction (coarse language is for the most part a male trait and it takes a woman with a very sexy voice to pull it off.  I do not have a very sexy voice, but I make up for it with my brilliant mind, and a variety of hand gestures…).  Back in the day I used to love it, being ‘one of the boys’, I figured life was much easier when I could blend in with my environment, and my environment was very, very male, but eventually it gets a bit old, once you realise that for all the talk, you’ll always pee sitting down, and not on the side of the road.  These days, I’ll sit at the counter and talk dirty with the boys, then I’ll stand up and adjust my boobies, and wander off to chat up a sweet young thing, as girly as I can pull off (which, just for the record, is not much, see earlier incident as reference), then I’ll go back to the boys and give them a most filthy run down of the conversation I’ve just had, complete with hand gestures.  It’s the best of both worlds, no?  Perhaps not.

Some time back, Jackson Biko wrote about women in his Mantalk column (One of the Boys), I guess I should say women like me, except that I don’t think what he wrote was entirely accurate.  He said, and I quote,And that’s the one limitation to being One of the Boys; for the longest time she has the enviable privilege of knowing the uncensored thinking of a man, privy to such dirty laundry and the mannerism of men that when she outgrows that role – and they usually do – she goes into a relationship with so much baggage that it takes years of ‘exorcism’ for it not to spill over into her new relationship.”  Thing is, I think he has it backwards, its the baggage that drives a woman to become one of the boys, not the other way around.  Any time you meet a woman who is aggressively avoiding her femininity (and I do agree that a woman who is seen to be ‘one of the boys’ is in some ways a bit butch), there’s a story buried there, it could be as simple as basic rebellion or as complex as daddy issues.  More often than not, these women are slightly fucked up individuals (as we all are, no?), and the drama that ensues when she tries to find a man has nothing to do with her friends and everything to do with her (as is the case with all of us, no?). 

I know you’re sitting there thinking, ‘Nkt!  She’s defending herself, the foolish cow…’ but I’m not, simply because, despite what my idiot friends tell me, I do not consider myself ‘one of the boys’, and I know now that I never was.  See what these men don’t, and probably can’t, tell me, is that I will never truly be one of them.  No really, never.  We can spend a long evening watching football and discussing the merits of 3D porn (don’t ask), but when its time to go home, they will see me to my car and make sure I get home safe, because I’m a girl.  They are only too happy to throw drinks my way, and happily take the drinks I throw right back at them, but they will strap me down in my chair if they think I’m too drunk to be making eyes at a stranger, or if the stranger is too drunk to be making eyes at me.  They will call me up in the middle of the day for my professional opinion, that which they claim to respect greatly, then turn around and accuse me of making ‘emotional’ (read female), and not professional, decisions when I tell them I turned down a job because I didn’t share the client’s vision. 

I used to think it was chauvinist of them to constantly treat me like a girl, and I often complained about what I thought were double standards, until one day it finally clicked, for all their talk, they can never forget that I’m female.  Thing is, when a man treats you like a woman, a competent woman, but a woman nonetheless, turns out he’s showing you respect.  I like that I’m good enough friends with my male friends to be treated as an equal, albeit an equal who occasionally insists on having girly conversations about feelings and such like rubbish, but at the same time they still treat me with the respect accorded to a lady…well, perhaps lady is too strong a word, let’s use woman instead.  I used to think that fitting in with them meant I had to muzzle the female in me, but I learnt, through them, that a large part of the reason I was part of the group was because I’m female.  They like that I have a different perspective, that I reason differently (I would say more clearly, but I’m a cocky female so…), that I show them the other side of the equation, and that I look better in a skirt than they ever will. 

So what does this, a grown man singing Bette Midler’s ‘Wind beneath my wings’, my humiliating rejection at the hands of a stranger and my mboys, all have in common?  It’s the human condition.  We’re all out here looking for the same things, love, respect, meaning, maybe even gratification, who knows?  We’re not that different, you and I, except for the troubling fact that my spelling improves when I’m under the influence of greater spirits.  

Hang on, I should have written that bugger a note instead, no?  No, that would just be odd.

I have run, I have crawled,
I have scaled these city walls, these city walls,
Only to be with you,
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for…

Not to offend the diehard U2 fans, and I consider myself one of the many, but the cover by The Chimes absolutely kicks ass.  I’m just saying, this song was meant to be sung by a black woman, and from what Ive read about it, I think Bono and Co. would agree. 


Are you the one, for Ms K?

Now I am a self-confessed email junkie, I like nothing better than to receive a well crafted missive from a stranger, excited by the thought of new perspectives being shared, ever hopeful for an entertaining story.  Of course, being one of only three email lovers left in the world, my inbox is more often than not idle, despite my ardent pleading with the strangers that grace these pages, every morning I check my mail, only to find…nothing.  Not even spam. 

And then I get this:

Hello Alex,

I hope you're okay.

I'll go straight to the point. I need to pimp my dating life. Outside the Mingle and internet dating, what other ideas might you have that I can try for dating normal men in Nairobi?

If you suggest dating sites, which specific ones would you recommend? I have tried that and yielded a multitude of loonies. Bars are not my ideal kind of place for a pick up and since I don't go to church either, well that's not an option for me. Most business forums I attend seem too serious and almost all the men usually have a really thick wedding ring deeply slicing through their fat fingers.

I know you could be in more or less the same dilemma yet I'm still asking. Where do we get to meet the good men in Nairobi? Have you thought of starting a dating site? Maybe it could help us.

I like your blog, it is so real, painfully so. Yet somehow, I tend to think that you may get to meet some very interesting characters (men) out of this because some of the comments I see therein are so well thought out.

Thanks for the help.

Ms K

I haven’t edited anything, all I’ve left out is the lovely lady’s name.

You know how I spend a lot of time rambling on about whatever nonsense is on my mind, sharing my often flawed theories on relationships, and all that appertains, nonsense like that?  Well, every so often someone comes along and points out the (none too small) holes in my theories.  Case in point, this email.  See I’m always talking about the many good men out here, good men we often ignore, choosing instead to chase after illusions of knights in shining armour and fairytales, but the thing is, when put to task to identify these men, I’m left at a complete loss.  I am, in fact, blowing smoke, and not the good kind, out my own ass, and then up your (collective) ass. 

See my reply:

Hi Ms K,

How are you this evening?  Good, I hope, despite the foul weather.

Now this email of yours has me a bit stumped.  I've been asking myself the exact same question the last couple of days.  Thing is, I have no idea where these men can be met.  I know a couple of good men, but they're all friends I've known for ages, all happily married/taken.  The men I've been meeting lately, on the other hand, are not good men, but then again I only get to meet new men when I go out to the bar, because that's the only place I seem to go these days (so sad...).  

I'm not helping am I?  Sorry, let me try this again.  

I've recently concluded that the best way to meet men is through your friends, a pal of your pal and such like, like The Mingle, only with people you know, preferably without alcohol involved.      

Can I use your email for the next post on Sunday?  I'd like to put this question to the masses, see if we can get ideas, possibly from men themselves.  Incidentally, the guys you read commenting are interesting chaps, but I don't know a single one of them in person, I talk to a couple of them on email, but that's it.  For all the talk you see, it’s simply that, talk, but I think it’s because they aren't interested in me, specifically.  But they do seem to be looking.  What I'm saying is that the dating site/blog idea may actually work.  Again, I want to float it to the rest of the crowd, see what the reaction is.  Many heads and what not, no?  

Regarding dating sites, I tried dating.co.ke (I think), one whose name I can't remember (it was only 2 weeks, and they were bad), metrodate and badoo.  Badoo looked interesting, but at that point I was tired and gave up, it might be worth a try.  Metro was interesting because of the format, I made some good friends on that one, crap dates though (ha!), but I have to admit, I probably didn't pick very well.  The dating one is a no go zone, despite the fact that I met an amazing man there (he was a fluke).  Truth is, I'm not sure meeting men online is a good idea any more, not unless you treat it simply as an introduction and get offline as soon as possible/safe.  

I'm sorry, I'm really not helping, but I will.  Give me a couple of days to do some research, fingers crossed a solution shall present itself.

Take care, talk soon.


The reason I’ve put up my reply as well?  Transparency.  I figure if a generous stranger is willing to let me use her words, then I should be willing to use mine as well, because at the end of the day, I’m in the same boat she is, no?  Perhaps not, I’m starting to think my problems are of my own making, but that’s a sad and pathetic story for another day. 

First things first, there’s a poll, so go vote.  I know, us Kenyans have little to no trust left in the electoral process, but here at Kai Nikii?, we believe in basic math, so there shall be no Nithi-type counting of the onetena hundredvariety.  What are you voting on?  Matters renovation.  I’ve been thinking of adding more pages to the blog, an idea inspired, in part, by a gentleman blogger whom I like to read constantly refusing to tell his more personal cum intimate stories on his blog.  If you’ve been reading for a while now, you’ve probably seen comments from other bloggers saying the same, that they’re not comfortable telling their stories, ati because they’re not undercover like the some of us deviants.  Hence, ON THE DOWN LOW…  That’s the new page I want to add, for anyone who has a story to tell, and I mean anyone.  Vote, tell me if you think it’s a good idea.  Another page I’m considering, now convinced by the email from Ms K, is THE PERSONALS, because you know I love the personals so damn much.  I figure, if there’s a woman reading this blog, and she’s looking to meet a guy, and there’s a man reading this blog, and he’s looking to meet a girl, well then, why not meet here?  You buggers seemingly loved the post about the gem dude, some of you perhaps a bit too much, so why not spin it into our own little classifieds section?  All I’m saying is if a ‘commentator’ happens to suggest that he/she is looking for…whatever he/she is looking for, and someone reading said comment feels inclined to make an approach, why not?  Stop looking at me like that, if you’re reading a post about relationships, odds are either you’re looking for one, or you’re in one, and perhaps looking for another. Alternatively, maybe you just like to read my masterful wordplay.  No?  Didn’t think so.  Either way, there’s a poll, express your opinion on this most flimsy idea.

Which brings me to the real point of today’s post.  I, and other singles like me (well, not entirely like me, I’d hope they’re more…umm…focused?), want to know, where exactly are the normal/sane/good men, and women for that matter, to be found?  I realise talking about ‘good’ is somewhat complicated, especially seeing as only last week I was insisting that the definition is specific to the individual, but perhaps that also needs to be part of the conversation, why not tell us what you think a good man or woman is.  Ladies, if you’re looking, tell us how you’re going about your search, is the search working?  Share, give us the skinny, the good, the bad and the downright hideous.  If you’ve already found your good man, what’s he like, where did you find him, how did you find him, what’s your story?  Again, share…  Gentlemen, I’ll be needing your help on this one too.  Do you consider yourself a good man, or at the very least a normal one?  Are you looking for a good woman, or at the very least normal?  Do you even have any problems finding said woman?  What is your definition of a good woman?  Where do you think you’ll find her, if you haven’t, and if you have, where did you find her? 

If nothing else, I need someone, anyone, to answer this one question, where are good men, and women, found?  If you are a good man, or woman, stand up and be counted.  If you are not, well, stand up and be counted too, if only so we know to avoid you, next time.  If you don’t know what to say, phone a friend and steal someone else’s bright ideas.  And if you think this is a (possibly inane) conversation that doesn’t need to be had, stand up too and tell us why, sceptics and cynics are always welcome in this house. 

Hang on…come back here.  Before you walk away without saying anything, know that there will be no other post forthcoming until Ms K gets what she came here for, even if it takes all month.  That’s right, I’m making like the po-po and going on a go-slow.  I will now proceed to jam my own frequency.  Start typing my lovelies…


Definition of a good man.

This is my definition of what makes a man a good man. 


I have no bloody clue.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way….

It occurs to me that for all my talk of good men out here, I’ve never actually described them, have I?  Then again, one could argue that my tragic comedy of (and I say this in jest) love life is perhaps proof that I don’t know what a good man is, no?  If I did, I suspect I would have found one by now, and therefore would not be sitting here talking to complete strangers.  That said, I have never let my ignorance come in the way of a good story, and I’m sure as hell not going to let it stop me now.  Incidentally, I’ve written about good men before (Man!  Oh man…), quite well I thought, but I’m delusional so perhaps it bears repeating. 

When I was a young and innocent lass in college, a good man was a man who was:
     a. Honest (lying to me was not an option.  Unfortunately, as it turns out, it was...)
     b. Faithful (cheating was not an option, ever, until he did, and then I did, and then it all went downhill from there)
     c. Hot (because what girl wants to be with a boy who looks like the back of a bus?)
     d. Generous (especially with his money, no?)
     e. Kind and caring (because I was a sensitive wanna-be artist, with trust issues)
     f. Intelligent (a brilliant student like me could only date another brilliant student, standards and what not)
Mind you, the list is in order of priorities.  What?  I was young and foolish, for a 19 year old that’s quite deep, no?  Perhaps not.  I had a couple of boyfriends and a few pathetic crushes, I got my heart (pseudo) broken and my ass bitch slapped for good measure, and I grew up.

Fast forward to my late 20’s and a good man was a man who was:
     a. Kind (because the last guy I dated was a cruel bastard)
     b. Intelligent (I finally realised I really like to have good conversations)
     c. Ambitious and adventurous (I thought I was going to see the world)
     d. Independent (read rebellious, or slightly anarchist)
     e. Generous (with his time, and money, see a.)
     f. Mature (because I was tired of dealing with ‘these boys’)
You can imagine my surprise when the good man I ended up with was 3 years younger than me; smart as hell, but completely averse to reading anything that didn’t have (a picture of) naked women in it; broke as fuck; and slightly sadistic for good measure.  Oh yes, he was also a bit (very) conservative.  Strange thing is, when it was good, it was ridiculously good, so good I think we were doomed to fail, and fail we did, ridiculously well, but that story has already been told.

Fast forward to my early 30’s, fresh from the debacle that was that guy, and the list was revised accordingly, now a good man was one who was:
     a. Employed (he had an income and could support himself, and was willing to support me, if need be)
     b. Sexy (because I realised that sex was a very good thing to have, often, and well)
     c. A.O.B. (any other bastard, other than the ex)
So that didn’t go very well, no doubt because the list was disturbingly light on substance, no?  I fell for men who, while nice to look at and well endowed (pocket-wise, and other), were boring as hell, and narcissist drama queens to boot.  Yes, there was more to the men than these three attributes, but I wasn’t around long enough to see it, I was the woman on the rebound, looking to hide my past with cosmetic men, only it doesn’t matter how much crap you plaster on top of them, eventually the cracks always come through to the surface, no?

The point to all this?  I think the definition of ‘a good man’ is highly subjective, because it’s based on your own definition of good at that particular point, it all comes down to who you are and where you are (in your life).  When we’re looking for partners, we tend to look for mirror images of ourselves, people who share our views and complement our varied choices in life, however fucked up those choices may be. 

Which brings us to me, today, older and wiser; old enough to know not to judge a man by his cover, because covers can be, and often are, faked, and wise enough to know that I’m actually quite clueless (see earlier posts for sad confirmation of said fact).  What makes a good man?  Turns out it’s the stuff that makes up his character.
     a. Honesty, to himself.
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s this, when you stop bullshitting yourself, you will not tolerate it from others.  Honesty to self, then to others.  Put differently, if the man is deluded enough to think he’s the best thing since sliced bread, yaani he can’t see straight, then it is highly unlikely he will be able, or willing, to be straight with me.
     b. Respect.
Self respect is key, respect for others is mandatory.  I refuse to expound further, some things cannot be up for discussion, either you get it, or you don’t.
     c. Compassion
Kindness, empathy, altruism, the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, to genuinely care for someone other than yourself, that’s the textbook definition of ‘being good’, no?  Its practically impossible to pull off constantly (unless you’re Jesus or such like), and extremely rare to find, but this is the one instance where you do get points for effort, no?
     d. Intelligence
Its not just about book smarts, its about the ability to reason, to question, to seek out learning, to hunger for more than what you know.  The thing about a great intellect is that they’re humble enough to realise that for everything they know, they still don’t know everything, and they never will, and therefore they keep learning.

That’s it, my (current) definition of a good man.  I know, there’s nothing on the list about how the man looks or such like nonsense, is there?  Its as much a surprise to me as it is to you (you disbelieving buggers, don’t think I can’t see you frowning at your screens right now…).  All this time I’ve been looking for abstract concepts and unknown quantities, when all along I’ve been missing the point.  The reason the list is only about character?  Its simple, in my mind being a good man, or a good woman for that matter, it has nothing to do with the ‘what’ and everything to do with the ‘who’.  As one Mr Matlack says in his article What the heck is a “good” man anyhow?’, ‘good’ is aspirational, its what we try to be, fail most times, but still we try.  We (knowingly or unknowingly) demand these characteristics from the other halves we seek.  Now I’m not saying I’m all these things, far from it, hell, the one compassionate bone in my body has only just been located, its still proving notoriously hard to reach.  I’m not a good woman, is all I’m saying, not entirely at least, but I try to be, fail most times, but still…

When it comes down to it, the definition is simply an expression of who you think you are and therefore who you think you deserve.  The question I need you to ask yourselves is not who do you deserve, but who are you trying to be?  That’s the answer you’re looking for when you ask, what makes your good man/woman? 

Turns out that this question vexes men even more than it does women.  Read The Good Men Project for a male perspective, or Madame Noir for a woman’s point of view (the comments on this one will get you thinking).


Morning Wood!

You might not want to read this one in the office. 

I’m in the mood for lovin’,
We’ll be touchin’, we’ll be huggin’,
I’m in the mood for lovin’,
We’ll get into…

Mr Thicke will be my undoing one of these days…  The song is ‘Its in the morning’, featuring one of Snoop’s most dodgy raps ever, and for a man who’s high most of the time, that’s saying something.  The song is off his ‘Sex Therapy’ album, an album that is very accurately titled and absolutely brilliant.  Don’t listen to it when your mother is in the car, is all I’m saying, but definitely play it for your mama, or man, as the case may be.    

It’s in the morning, sex in the morning…

Do I even need to put in a disclaimer?  Fine, for the benefit of the newbies in the house today, welcome to the sewer.  Kindly remove all valuables (read upright, I mean uptight, all uptight morals) and leave your inhibitions by the door.  Don’t worry, you’ll pick them up on your way out, assuming you don’t get lost in the morass.  If you are offended by the words ‘dick’ or ‘penis’, leave now.  I will throw in frequent, but never gratuitous, references to (possibly deviant) sexual acts, and I will find a convoluted way of using the words stiff, hard, rod, stick and shag, in one sentence.  Stop blushing… I told you not to read it at work, what if your boss walks past right now?  You just looked up and scanned the room, didn’t you?  Now you look even guiltier, you idiot, do you not know how to watch porn at your desk?  You just chuckled, didn’t you, nasty little pervert you... 

I originally set out to write a post about what men want, but after a quick google and getting very many sex related results, I quickly realised that post would be quite short.  Turns out men want sex, and lots of it.  Who knew?  Sure, they want other things too, like love and such like nonsense, but why would I want to write about something I clearly know nothing about?  Why not write about something much more useful, like why men love having sex in the morning so damn much, and how to get them to stop, because that’s something I know more about, no?  Turns out not so much.

I once dated a guy who gave the description ‘morning person’ a whole new meaning.  This bugger would wake up at 5 in the a.m., every morning, and I mean every single morning, raring to go, and when I say go, I mean go.  He’d be up at an ungodly hour, when the world was still dark and the birds were still fast asleep, fresh as a daisy, and then he would insist on waking me up for what he called ‘a morning work-out’, yaani a loose hour or so of rousing sex.  You know how every so often you read one of those Aunt Tabby sex columns, and there’s a  mama complaining about how her man insists on having sex first thing when she just wants to sleep a bit more?  I always used to read them and think to myself, ‘Nkt!  That silly cow doesn’t know how good she has it.  Ati a man who wants to shag you all the time and you’re bitching?  Why?’  Karma, my friends, she is a bitch. 

The first time the man woke me up I thought, ‘Hubba hubba…’ and eagerly rolled over (it was the morning after the first night before), and the next morning he woke me up I thought, ‘I can get used to this…’, but on the third morning I thought to myself, ‘What the hell… does this man never sleep?’  After another weekend spent with the man, getting next to no sleep, because we would sleep late and he would wake us up ridiculously early, I sat him down for a little chat.  I patiently tried to explain how different our body clocks were, and how I couldn’t go back to sleep once I’m up, no matter how tired I am, and why I needed to stop (to quote Katt Williams) ‘waking up before Jesus’ if I was to be suitably functional later that same day.  His response was, ‘Well, why don’t you go to bed earlier?’ to which I pointed out that we had been getting to bed early, and not sleeping.  He agreed, grinning, and not remotely sympathetic.  Finally, we struck a compromise, he wouldn’t wake me up before 6 in the a.m., and he didn’t for a couple of weeks, then he conveniently forgot our agreement and reverted to type.  After about a month, I learnt how to engage in foreplay while still half asleep, earning myself an extra twenty minutes of sleep.  What?  Don’t look at me like that, he knew and he didn’t mind, hell, I suspect he liked that he got to do whatever he wanted with me, without interference from my demanding ass.  That last bit could be misconstrued to mean very many things, no?  Ah well…  I never thought I would ever be forced to say these words, but there is such a thing as the wrong time for sex, and for me that time is 5 in the fucking a.m., yes? 

Gentlemen, what is it about that morning hard-on that makes it so bloody urgent?  Is it that you dream about sex, or is it an automatic response, your dick getting hard is your cue to get up, so to speak?  Now because I hate to remain an ignorant idiot, I thought to do some reading, this after a troubling conversation last Thursday night, with a man who sought to convince me that his ‘majestically hard cock’ in the morning is the best thing in the world, and must not be wasted.  Soon after that disclosure, he invited me to his house for breakfast the following morning.  It was 9 o’clock, in the evening, in a bar, when he made this offer.  I politely declined.  Moving on swiftly…  According to the scientists on the internet, morning wood, or nocturnal penile tumescence (NPT) for the more scientific amongst us, is “the spontaneous occurrence of an erection of the penis during sleep or when waking up. All men without physiological erectile dysfunction experience this phenomenon, usually three to five times during the night. It typically happens during REM sleep.” (Wikipedia).  Although there is some disagreement on how exactly it happens, consensus seems to be that NPT is the body’s way of giving the dick a work-out (insert own crude joke here…  Actually someone’s already done it for you, 5 insane explanations for stuff your body does every day).  And it gets better, according to Why guys rise and, well, rise in the morning, all males get them, even male babies in utero, read it if you don’t believe me.  On a more serious note, Man up about health states that if a man is not getting a regular dose of morning wood, there may be cause for concern, so gentlemen, don’t take your wood for granted. 

Thing is, after reading, I’ve now come to the somewhat startling conclusion that a man’s urge to have a shag in the morning has nothing to do with the presence of a (preferably) naked woman in his bed, he’s simply being an opportunistic bugger, making hay while the sun is shining, or perhaps isn’t, as in my case.  Turns out, ‘majestic breakfast’ guy was spot on, the stiffie in the morning really is the best stiffie a man will have all day, its super hard and ramrod straight like a weapon, which then explains his great urge to lay it on an unsuspecting female. 

Which then brings us to the tricky subject of morning sex (with someone other than yourself, gentlemen).  It is said that women generally aren’t morning sex types, something about our hormones being at their lowest in the morning, while yours are at their peak, we are biologically discordant (morning sex tips).  Then again, there are other geniuses telling us that having sex in the morning is good for our health, and it makes our hair shiny (why morning sex is good for you)…  Shiny hair?  Say it with me…wow!  Either way, if a man wants a shag in the morning, and the woman doesn’t, as is allegedly often the case, then the man may have to employ some persuasion to get his way (persuasion here does not mean rubbing his dick against her ass), but on the up side, the woman is already (preferably) naked, so it shouldn’t be too hard to convince her.  I’m just saying, the hardest part is getting her naked, and you already did that last night, no?  No?  Oh my… 

For the longest time I was that chick that doesn’t like to get freaky in the morning.  Up until Mr ‘morning workout’, I can honestly say I had never had morning sex worth a damn, in fact, I used to actively avoid it, convinced that I am not a morning person (which I’m not) and therefore a shag in the morning was not something I wanted, or needed.  As it turns out, I just hadn’t shagged the right morning person!  Despite my frustration with the early wake up call, I grew to love it when he’d pull me close, beginning what was surprisingly intimate sex for two people who’d just spent the night together.  Morning sex has its advantages, from a hedonist point of view.  It’s more laid back and less frantic, seeing as you’re both just getting up and in no hurry to get off.  It allows you to savour the journey, as well as the destination, and as an added plus, for the voyeurs who like to see what they’re doing, you get to enjoy the visual too, in the not too harsh light of day (assuming you get to do it when the sun is actually up).  It’s like afternoon sex, only without the seduction preamble, and with the curtains closed.  Good, no? 

The moral of the tale is this, if a man could turn this cranky woman into a morning glory devotee, then there is no reason why you can’t do the same to your (seemingly) reluctant bedmate.  Ladies and gentlemen, morning sex really is the difference between a good day and a great day.
It’s in the morning I wanna touch,
It’s in the morning I wanna love you,
It’s in the morning no interruptions,
Sex in the morning… 

On an unrelated note, I must do a post on afternoon sex now, and I have the perfect song too 


Blogging 201: Isn't she lovely?

I hate it when I get a random song stuck in my head, even worse when said song is not something useful like the national anthem, or sexy like ‘Let’s get it on…’.  My sister once had the KCB tune stuck in her head for weeks, she’d hum it at the oddest times, often unaware, which was a bit of a problem seeing as how she was working for Barclays at the time, can you say awkward?  Today’s soundtrack has been lodged firmly in my brain since the Sunday before last when I heard it on CapitalFM in the morning.  There I was minding my own business, when the song came on, the distinctive harmonica slowly pulling me away from the paper I was previously engrossed in, sucking me in with Mr Wonder’s most excellent voice.  Before I knew it I had my hands in the air, swaying back and forth like I was at a revival…

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear,
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee,

In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife,
In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?

The song is ‘Seasons of Love’, off the soundtrack for the musical ‘Rent’, and apparently now known to all as an AIDS anthem, at least according to google.  I am willing to bet that there are a few blank stares right now, but listen to it first before you write me off.  If the first 33 seconds don’t ring a bell and get you all melancholic, then lenga this one, it’s not for you.  This is one of those sing-along numbers that I will seldom admit to loving in public, but you watch me sing in the confines of my house, I even play air harmonica, if there’s such a thing. 

I’ve been doing this blogging thing for a year today.  That’s right, 12 long months (minus the odd 2 weeks here and there), five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes (that’s American for 525,600 by the way), that’s the number of minutes in a Gregorian non-leap year.  (And that’s a completely useless bit of trivia that may one day earn you a date.  You can thank me later.)  In that time, I have written 91 posts, on boxing to Whitney and everything in between, including a memorable post about wanking, and the one about Jaaaayyyysssuuuussss.  Approximately 1350 people have visited this site, but that number must be discounted by 200, those are the unlucky bastards who’ve landed here after googling ‘naked whores’, ‘hot 49 year olds’ and ‘Nairobi bitchez (really?)’ only to find Dunia Wiki Hii.  Insert evil laughter here…  You have left me 409 comments, not including the 50 or so spam comments I’ve deleted, comments ranging from the calm and thoughtfully understated ‘this is an interesting point of view’ to the downright insane typing ovation, and not forgetting the always classic acceptance speech.  The blog has a whopping sum total of 5 followers (including 1 hidden).  Clearly these numbers are by no means astounding, but for a little blog that started off with not a single soul in the audience, not even my relatives (who just for the record are still MIA, save for one sister, who I suspect checks on me and my grammar every so often…), I think its pretty impressive, no?  Perhaps not.  The problem with these statistics is that they don’t show what the blog and its little community of deviants is about, do they? 

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty five thousand journeys to plan,
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a life of a woman or a man?

In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried,
In the bridges he burned, or the way that she died, 

Is it just me or has this year been muchos dramatic?  That’s the problem with blogging about my life and obsessively analysing every little detail, sometimes it starts to feel like I’m walking around with an open wound, naked, in acid rain.  It’s a bit much, no?  Don’t worry, you’re allowed to agree.  I’ve been happy, sad, angry, depressed, scared, excited, frustrated, randy, frigid, hung-over, high, melancholic, optimistic…maybe optimistic is a bit of an overstatement…I think the only thing I haven’t been is pregnant.  I’ve chronicled pretty much every single fucking emotion I’ve had, or haven’t had, and you, my lovelies, have graciously sat through it all.  Give yourselves a hand, that act of kindness alone should have earned you direct entry into heaven by now, but if it doesn’t, you can rest pretty in the knowledge that we shall burn together, pale chini.  Hmmm… that sounded much more heart-warming in my head.  Moving swiftly along. 

In as much as the never ending dredging can get overwhelming, I have to admit this one thing, that ‘getting it all out’ racket actually works.  I have never felt so calm and clear-headed before, its like I got myself a new pair of glasses, with the right prescription, and now I can finally see what’s going on.  Well, kinda, if I was truly better, I wouldn’t need the specs at all, would I?  I know I’m always bitching about the self-help crap idiots keep trying to sell us, but it turns out that talking about the shit going on in your head is a good thing.  I just gagged a little writing that, but there it is, my singular attempt at humble pie.  I’m not saying go for therapy or anything like that, just talk to someone, anyone, even yourself.  Look how well it worked for me, am I not the sanest, most eloquent blogger you know?  No?  Not buying it?  Ah well... 

So an anniversary post is supposed to be a combination of a pat on the back for a job well done, a thanksgiving ode to all that have gotten you to that point and a shout out to your most outstanding mafans, and a promise for the future.  This post shall be none of those. 

While I would love to engage in some self stroking of the egotistical variety, because a little self-stroking never hurts, it would appear that the posts I’m most proud of are the worst read.  No really, worst.  With the exception of July, which was a strange conflation of introspection and zeitgeist, almost every other post that I’ve written looking inward is, for the most part, barely read.  But that’s a good thing, I like that the instances where I have, to my mind, revealed most about myself remain ignored, hidden almost.  For that reason, no back-slapping, I am not going to talk about those babies.  Similarly, talking about the posts you folks like would be pointless as well, because you already like them, no?  My solution, everybody clap for yourself.  You good?  Let’s move on.

As for the giving of many thanks, I hate it when other bloggers do it and forget to mention me, even though they usually don’t know of my existence, I feel left out, like there’s the A crowd, then there’s lil’ ol’ me.  I know, I got issues, but that’s why I have a blog, no?  That said, I must show gratitude, lest you think me a mannerless ingrate.  I thank you kindly, each and every one of you who stops by every so often to hear what I have to say, especially you lovelies on the feed who come in immediately I post (its such a trip, every time it happens I stand up and roar, ‘I…am…Spartacus!’  That was TMI…).  To all the anonymous strangers, I see you, I thank you, and I don’t mind that you choose not to say anything, I do the same thing myself, all the time.  To those who take the time to comment, I thank you, you are very much appreciated, your feedback and stories (ah…the stories…) are often the fuel to this the little blog that could, even when your comments are a bit of nonsense about a knob, or the link between Ocampo and the colour of tarmac.  Thank you to the many bloggers who graciously let me stalk them, occasionally laying siege to their houses, their stories, or therein lack of (I could name names, but I won’t), slake my thirst for a good tale, some stories admittedly more than others (I’m just saying, we all have bad days, no?  Like this one, for instance.).  Slight detour, being the egotistical bastards they are, bloggers no doubt will be upset I didn’t list each and everyone of them, but that’s why you’re on my profile, no?  Look at them, they’re still pouting, big babies…  Detour over.  Last, and definitely least, surely I must thank the geniuses at Google, for the dodgy research they enable (long may your algorithms prosper!), and for Blogger, the most anti-social blog publishing platform in the history of blogs (some days even I can’t comment, its brilliant!).   

The promise?  On second thoughts, I think that one I will do.  I promise to keep sharing my tales of batshit insane men with you, because you sadistic buggers love it when I meet these strange men.  I promise to keep talking about things we don’t normally talk about, including bad sex, and maybe good sex.  I promise to keep throwing stones at the idiot politicians and press (purely for my own benefit I realise, but at least this way, when I get busted by Mzalendo, you get to say you were here when the shit went down).  I promise to piss you off every so often, just because.  I promise to make you laugh, even if you’re laughing at me.  And I promise to keep talking about random songs until you finally give in and play the damn things, because I am nothing if not persistent, no? 

To this end, I give you a BOGOF.  I’m going to play myself out to the excellent sounds of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Isn’t she lovely’, a song he wrote for his daughter, but I’ve stolen it for my bastard baby of a blog (she’s clearly female, the temperamental cow!), and for you, my lovelies…

I had to delete the lyrics to the second track, as well as delete it from my playlist (just in case), because apparently I have infringed on Mr Wonders copyrights.  Who knew talking about a song would cause this much trouble?  I wait to see what will happen next, but if you find me gone on Monday, now you know why.  Meanwhile, Blogger support, now that youre here, care to sort out the many issues with the comments?  Just a thought.