My mind is a sewer. And, apparently, so is yours.

You buggers worry me sometimes, actually all the time, but I only think about it some of the time, because I have a life, kinda…  For some reason, during the two weeks I was off trying to earn a living, trying being the key word here, random strangers took to trawling through my archive, and in particular through my sewer.  ‘Hmm…’ I ask myself, ‘why now?’  Now I’m going to tell you a little secret, especially you newbie bloggers hoping to make a name for yourself using a bit of mild yet gratuitous titillation, posts about sex generally aren’t well read, and when they are, they’ll cause you more grief than you can handle.  Don’t let the likes of Doc’s blog fool you, not too many people care to read about your sex life, or their own for that matter, and I would know, no?  Which is how I can tell when you’ve been reading my sewer tales, because a sudden spike in those stats is quite unusual, but in a very good way.  See, I like my sewer, I really like my sewer.  Really.  And I like to know, or hear, that other’s like it too.  Really like it.  Too.  And to that end, I give you a tale.

A week ago, a lovely man asked me to tell him my fantasies.  Now you know I like to have that particular conversation, and I often feel quite strongly about the need to talk through what it is you want to do, before you do it, but this man had me stumped.  For real, I had nothing to say to him.  See, most of the time I can cheat my way through it, pulling up one or two sexy memories from my (limited) past, talking about tasting this and feeling that.  My filthy mind combined with my occasionally filthy mouth never fails to excite, and if it does, there's always a warm hand strategically placed on thigh (always distracts the poor bastard long enough for me to get away with something suitably hot sounding, but ultimately nonsensical).  As much as I am loathe to admit this, I have become a bit, umm, cocky, and lazy, when it comes to seduction, secure in my (allegedly) vast sexual knowledge, confident that I shall meet any man's freakiness quotient, with ease.  These days, again admitting in loath, I dial it in.  This gentleman, however, he was having none of that.  Ladies and gentlemen, this bugger took me to school, and then some, and all in my head.  He listened to my little tales of lust, and then smiled an evil smile, and then sent me on what I can only describe as a scavenger hunt, in the sewer.  By the time I got back to him, I was feeling suitably chastised.  I thought I'd seen and read everything out there worth thinking about, but noooo... oh dear god no.  Oh my!   That evil smile he had, it was because, to the likes of him, I am but a mere initiate in the ways of kink, a novice in the art of pleasure.  Hell, to him, I am a fucking virgin...

Stop laughing, virgin is always relative, even in the sewer.  Now I'm laughing.  This is what we'll do, let's all have a quick laugh, because this 35 year old woman claiming virginity is worth a few chuckles. Have you got your 7 laughs in (a la Katt Williams)?  Good.  Let's continue.

As I was saying, I am faced with the prospect of a man who not only knows way more than I do, he appears to be interested in teaching me, free personalised coaching and everything.  But there's a catch, because there's always a catch when it comes to shagging a new man.  I am expected to do some self study beforehand, get myself up to speed, learn the different uses of candles, for example, because it will surprise you what you can do with such random items (well, it surprised me, but apparently I am an ignorant idiot).  A couple of months back I talked about the first time you shag someone, waxing endlessly (such as I do) about the importance of anticipation and fantasising.  “That anticipation is not perverted thinking, it’s a huge part of the seduction process, it’s your mind preparing you for what’s to come. Think of it as the lowering of your inhibition drawbridge, welcoming the invader to storm your castle and penetrate your inner sanctum…”  As fate would have it, the man is of similar mind when it comes to anticipation.  He gets off on the conversation.  He is slowly but surely inserting himself into my head, using my own (infuriatingly OCD) curiosity against me.  He gets the mind fuck.  And you know what the scariest part is?  I am not only open to it, I am itching to try something different (within reason, obviously.  I am, after all, former PCEA, how far can I really go, no?  Don't answer that...).

Which brings me to the point of today's trip into the sewer.

All blushing flowers and such like, kindly exit stage left, if you haven’t already, the next post should be more to your genteel taste (although, given how often I swear, perhaps not). The rest of you, kindly cloak yourselves in the complimentary overcoats by the door, next to the gumboots.  Ladies and gentlemen, today we’re off to the treatment plant, the reservoir of all filth, the dirty, dirty dungeon of the sewer.  We’re going…wait for it…up your ass.  Oh, to see your face right now…  Can you hear my evil laughter?  Relax, I’m just fucking with you.  Even I don’t have the balls to touch anal sex, but only because I think it’s a topic best left to our gay brethren, who better to wax lyrical than a man who knows the in’s and out’s, intimately?  Ahem...  Today we’re headed up, not down, to the other end of your sex.  Your head, more to the point, the stuff inside your head.  I’m talking about fantasies, lovely little hot, sordid, steamy, kinky, downright peculiar fantasies…

Aaaaahhhh… I’m having one right now, and its good…

What?  Stop looking at me like that.  Don’t even try to pretend you don’t have fantasies.  In all my years of poking around the filthy recesses of people’s minds, I am yet to meet someone who doesn’t harbour some sort of fantasy, no matter how seemingly mild.  And just to be clear, I’m talking about sexual fantasies, like the one you have about one day receiving the Nobel for physics, for your ground-breaking research into the fluid mechanics of ejaculate.  Don’t worry, we all engage in similar research too, only the rest of us have the good sense to not conduct our research in the presence of others.  I’m just saying, asking your woman, or man, to watch how far you can squirt, time and again, is not advisable, not if you plan on getting laid again in the near future, by the same party.  Free advice, take it or leave it.

As always, I went off to google, home of all things informative, and apparently also spies giving all my information to Obama and co.  Slight detour, that predictive search thing has taken on all new levels of menace.  These buggers have my search history running back many years, which in turn means someone somewhere is currently perplexed at my fondness for erotica featuring vampires (don’t ask).  The day I get arrested for doing strange things on the internet, know that it won't be because I called my prezzo(s) idiots.  Detour over.  First up, the always reliable Wikipedia, they who delight in making even the simplest topic frustratingly hard to comprehend (although this time they've thrown in a couple of paintings of naked people, some doing all manner of freaky stuff, so they're forgiven for being obtuse.  What?  I'm just saying...).  They define fantasy as, “a mental image or pattern of thought that stirs a person's sexuality and can create or enhance sexual arousal. A sexual fantasy resides entirely in a person's mind and can be created by the person's imagination, mental recollection or thought.”   Sounds simple enough, at least until you scroll down a little further. “Fantasies are frequently used to escape real-life sexual restraints by imagining dangerous or illegal scenarios, such as rape, castration, or kidnapping. They allow people to imagine themselves in roles they do not normally have, such as power, innocence and guilt.”  Rape and castration?  What the...  Why would someone fantasise about that shit?  Turns out, they do, and oh how they do...

On almost every list of top female fantasies I found, domination was pretty much at the top of the list, with numerous women (black and white, I checked to make sure, because I thought it might be a white girl thing, wanting to call him master and what not...) claiming to fantasise about being ravaged by a strong powerful man, the amount of force involved ranging from simply being grabbed and bent over a table, through to being chained to a wall and molested with foreign objects.  Don’t take my word for it, read it for yourselves: Top Ten Female Fantasies, Lovepanky.com  and AskMen.  Reading through the lists, the one thing that seems to come through is that women, despite our alleged love for love and romance, are kinky little creatures, thinking about shagging two or more men, at the same time, and perhaps shagging a couple of women too for good measure, and making the odd sex tape.  I would just like to point out at this time that my lifelong obsession with strip clubs is, in fact, quite normal.  It would appear that I am not the only woman fascinated by other naked women.  Useless information, but there you have it.

Not to be outdone, the men have their own lists too, and they will surprise you, because they are almost identical: Top Ten Male Fantasies, Lovepanky.com  and Men Explained, and as always the lovely AskMen has handy tips for you buggers, just because, What She Thinks Of Your Fantasies.  Apparently, we kinda lust for the same things.  Men want threesomes with two women, and so do women.  Men want to have sex in exotic locations, preferably public, and women want to be watched having sex, possibly in public locations.  Men want to watch another man shag their woman, women want to shag another man with their man.  Men want to be dominated, and dominate, women want exactly the same thing.  Frankly, the only difference I can see in the two lists is men's fantasy for women they shouldn't have, from their friend's mothers to their neighbour's teenage daughters.  Us women we don’t have those fantasies, because we prefer to lust after men we can never have, like Idris.

And just for the record, I didn’t find any list that had castration as a possible fantasy, which leads me to believe that the Wikipedia page was written by Nancy Friday and such like geniuses, they who claim that all we want is pain and humiliation, brought on by our incessant guilt.  You don’t know who Nancy is?  Keep it that way, her's was a bunch of bullshit second only to Freud, because any woman who claims that women often orgasm during rape should be taken out back and shot in the ass(hole), repeatedly, bloody nkt!  Incidentally, because rape is not a frivolous issue, and because it comes up disturbingly often whenever fantasies are discussed, I've put up links to various arguments regarding rape fantasies in the research section, for those of you who may have thought about it, and then wondered why you did.  Stop frowning, I'm just telling you what's out there, read it and make your own judgements.

Now for all my reading thus far, I still hadn’t answered that most basic question, why we fantasise about what we fantasise about.  For that I went to my pet psych site, Psychology Today.  Yes, I have a pet site for matters psych, don't you?  No?  Ah well...  In what cannot possibly be coincidence, these buggers managed to tie in my random ramblings over the past 6 months into one handy little article. Folks, remember the conversation we had about attachment theory? Guess where it all ends up?  That's right, in your bedroom.  Ignore my evil laughter.  An Inside Look at Sexual Fantasies posits that, “people’s attachment styles would relate to the nature of their sexual fantasies. People high in anxious attachment were more likely to have sexual fantasies reflecting emotional intimacy, being comforted and supported, and having affection expressed toward them. The participants high in avoidant attachment had sexual fantasies with themes of aggression and emotional distancing.”  The short, and possibly oversimplified, explanation is this.  In as much as your fantasies are flights of fancy in your head, they're also useful pointers to where your head is at, and perhaps where it wants to go.  (Keep in mind that all this could very well be a load of scientific bollocks, like how they told us salt was bad for us, and now they say its actually harmless, useless buggers.)  I know, this is a bit too intense for the sewer, but you know I like to take you down the odd rabbit hole every now and then.  Read it, if only so you can figure out why every time you feel down, you dream about being spanked, or spanking.  Let's get back to happier things...

I started off with a tale about a man who has me wading through the recesses of my mind, and the internet, looking to see if I will finally make like Star Trek and boldly go where I have never gone before.  From all I've read on other people's fantasies, we all crave something new once in a while, and my urge to shake things up a bit is only natural.  I've also realised that a lot of what we consider kinky is nowhere near actual kinkiness, we've just been restrained for too long, is all, and its about time we do something to correct the situation.  Do you think your fantasies are nasty little secrets?  I hate to break it to you, but they're not, because we all have the same ones too.  In fact, odds are the person sitting across from you right now had the same fantasy about shagging his neighbour, on the front lawn, with his wife watching, just this morning.  No really, ask him...  I figure, why not let go of the fear, guilt and/or shame, if any, and just enjoy?  No really, get into your sewer and embrace the filth, wallow in your (mental) sex.  You don't have to act on your fantasies, I'm of the school of thought that some fantasies are best left in your head, which is why I shall not be making plans to shag an entire football team (minus subs) any time soon.  Embrace your sexy filth, then figure out where your line is, then if you feel so inclined, share your sexy filth with another sexy filth(y), or two... 

My people, I'm disturbingly proud to discover that, almost halfway through my life, I still get excited about learning new stuff, in and out of bed.  Hell, its fucking brilliant, is what it is.  I like that I still get to meet people who turn my mind on, with random books by an Algerian philosopher and a Nigerian woman, or an Afghan with a knack for description so clear its almost garish, or a sexy poet who writes like he's in my head, or an ageing rocker with a surprising sense of humour, or a hilarious stand up comic who makes me feel sane for asking all the questions I keep asking about serikali.  

And I like that I can still meet a man who teaches me a new way to come, and by come, I mean come...



Reke ngwire ati nowe, nowe
Nowee tu nyendete
Wendo waku no uhe, uhe
Tene na teene...

Harry Kimani is a sexy man.  Yes, I said it, and no, I'm not taking it back.  He's not pretty, but the man is so damn sexy, walalala...  And if that's not enough, he has real skill.  He's also rumoured to have some substance issues, but he's a musician, I'd be surprised if he didn’t, no?  Now because I am feeling somewhat frustrated today by the greedy politicians, idiot press and hyperventilating social media types, I thought to play a love song, because I need to use the word 'haiya' in a context other than 'what the fuck man?', if only so I don’t slap someone.  For those of you who do not speaka da Kuyo, don't worry, translations will be provided, on request.  As is always the case with the Kenyan tracks, the lyrics are courtesy of Ghafla!, and they've posted the video as well, so you can go watch this sexy, sexy man, in a waterfall.  Bless their kind souls.

Now, I must say something about this laptop story, because I'm starting to think they may actually try to pull it off, the geniuses they are.  Haiya?  What exactly is the plan here?  Are they going to get these kids some kiddie laptops, with basic functions, big buttons and colourful screens, or are they giving them MacBooks and such like fancy gadgetry?  Because if its the latter, then I'll have you know, I will have a 6 year old child come January.  I'm just saying, mama needs her an apple.  Or three.  Triplets...good plan, no?  Seriously though, what's the plan?  You have teachers who, for the most part, have no access to computers, some of whom (I dare say) are not entirely computer literate, and they're expected to teach these kids what exactly?  And what does a child in Standard One, 6 or 7 years old, do with a laptop, pray tell?  I'm all for reading at an early age, but I don't think Wikipedia is the way to go here.  And how will my most genius government ensure that these free laptops, a. get to intended recipients, without being diverted to some fat cats' 'next generation computer college', and b. stay with intended recipients, without baba/mama watoto selling it off to buy something completely frivolous like, say, food?  And let's not even talk about the procurement process, I'm still foaming at the mouth over my 7 Billion plus worth of nonsense election thingimajigis.  I know I'm always sceptical, especially when it comes to government, but could someone please tell me how this plan will work?  Anyone?

And speaking of government, do we have one yet?  I mean a complete one, with ministers and PS/secretaries/random flunkies, ambassadors, parastatal heads, chiefs, commission chairmen, police honchos, assistant somethings...you know, government?  I only ask because I don’t know, because I’ve been trying very hard not to read the papers, because the idiot press have sunk to new lows, and I'm tired of giving them my peni mbili.  Of course, now that I have to go online for my headlines, I'm now giving said peni mbili to the geniuses at Orange, also known as Telkom bloody Kenya, home of the most pleasant and efficient customer care, they who you often feel the need to talk to a couple of times a week, because your (and I say this in jest) broadband is no longer, umm, broad.  I have digressed.   Government?  Come to think of it, does my city have a government either?  Haiya...

Incidentally, even as I take shots at the idiot press, even I have to admit they seem to be looking for other stories to tell, from the Standard and their never ending series on youth and unemployment, to the East African's analysis of government spending, through to the Saturday Nation's sports archives.  But despite this, they still dedicate what looks like the bulk of their space to nonsense politics.  Why, pray tell, is there a story about Raila on the front page today?  They're busy telling me about the government's plan to tax basic items like bread and, ahem, newspapers, talking about taxing the poor to pay for allegedly frivolous laptops and greedy MP's, without bothering to ask any real questions about poverty, and wealth.  Why is it I have to stumble upon this, Secrecy Savannah: Is Kenya being Shaped into Africa’s Flagship Tax Haven? , in an obscure website, instead within the pages of that which claims to inform me?   And its not just world economy/conspiracy type stories being ignored by our journos (they still haven't picked up on the drones in Africa story, despite the fact that the Americans really are watching us), Review – Kenya Special talks about Kenyan music from the 70's and 80's, now being re-released to new audiences, in Africa, and this coming from a man in London or thereabouts.  Or how about this one, Experts Weekly – What Africa Agriculture Needs, and here they've interviewed a Stephen Muchiri, CEO of the Eastern Africa Farmers Federation (EAFF), a Kenyan expert?  All I'm asking is this, why aren't our media houses telling us these stories, instead of endlessly speculating on why Mutula died, and which of his relatives will run for his seat?  Say it with me...idiot press.

I detoured again.  This was supposed to be about the news making headlines, only by my count, there's not much to talk about, is there?  Ah yes, the croissant saga.  I take back what I said about idiot press, seems they're taking their cues from us, raia.  Now don’t get me wrong, I abhor racism, and I feel very strongly about bad service, but a bugger not getting his many croissants?  At how many hundred shillings a pop?  Get the fuck out...  No really, that's what he was told, to get the fuck out.  Haiya!   Listen, us natives have been facing some form of discrimination or the other in high end establishments for years, and yet we keep going back to the same establishments, giving them more and more of our money.  Here's a thought, just don't go to places that don't value your custom.   Stop whining on the internet and put your money where your mouth is.  The day people stop ringa-ing about going for lunch at that and such like restaurants, with overpriced coffee and miniscule snacks, and all because its the place to be seen, what with all the wazungus and shit, that's when I'll take their concerns about racism seriously.  Until then, I have slightly more pressing issues.

Which brings me back to my man Harry, he of the sexy, sexy chest fame...

Matuku makwa mothe, mothe
Umuthi ruciu na ooke
Ngoro irauga njuke, njuke
Njuke hari we..eeee

Haiya haiya haiya haiya...

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go tend to my sewer, because if I don't post some filth this week, I fear I might be lynched.

Sunday Morning...

I know, I know... In my defence, its been a hectic couple of weeks, what with computer malfunctions and vanishing cloud storage. And its cold. No really, its so cold my brain can't process more than one thought at a go, and even then, the only thought being processed is that its bloody cold. Its cold. What I'm trying to say, very clumsily, is that I am most sorry for leaving you hanging in such a rude manner. Normally, I try to give you a heads up when I'm going off on one of my walkabouts, but this one was not intentional, it was simply a case of life, and Microsoft, getting in the way blogging. Forgive me? You didn't notice I was gone, did you? No you did not just shake your head... Here I am prostrate at your feet and you don't really give two shits, do you? Stop shaking your head. You buggers are no good for a girl's ego. Ah well, no one ever said I would find love on the internet. No wait, I think I said that myself, a while back, no? Issues. 

So, otherwise?

Sorry, I've always wanted to ask you that, just because. Moving on swiftly...

There's a lot to talk about, bitch over, laugh at, cry over, read, listen to... I have no idea where to start. While I get into the mood, so to speak, how about I clear the clutter in my head with a bit of a loose chat, to make way for more (ahem) useful shit? Yes? Don't worry, I'm doing more than one post today, with any luck I'll manage to stick in something for everyone. Well, everyone who missed me. You didn't really think I'd let that story slide so easily, did you? I was taking roll call, my lovelies, so you know I know who didn't show up, no? Points have been deducted, is all I'm saying...

I like Sunday mornings. I know I've said this before, but I really, really like Sunday mornings. Really. I like that the world outside my window is quiet for a change, because when you live on ground floor it's almost never quiet outside, not even at 2 am when the drunk neighbours crawl home, often insisting on engaging in a very loud recap of the night's activities, but that's a story for another day. On Sunday mornings there's no traffic blaring past in a rush to get into the city, morning radio turned up loud, too loud, perhaps looking to drown out the voices in their heads wondering why they haven't shot their boss yet. The parents next door aren't screaming at their kids to get their asses moving, 'or else...', and there are no kids screaming at each other in joy, such as they do on Saturday morning, once its clicks that they don't have to go anywhere for at least two days. On Sunday the domestic supervisors (read house helps) aren't chatting noisily at the outdoor tap not so conveniently located right next to what passes for my balcony (its like 2 feet wide, and half a foot off the ground. I call it 'the terrace', makes it sound posh, no? Perhaps not...). This the one time of the week I'm up before everyone else, and because I have a malicious streak in me, about yea wide (hands far, far apart), I feel the need to wake my neighbours up with a good tune, at 8 am. What? These buggers wake me up at 5:30 every other day, its only right that I should return the favour, no? Yes, I am laughing my evil laugh.

With that in mind, I got it into my head to play you some Sunday music, and because we can never agree on anything, I'm putting up 3 songs, rock, reggae (lite) and soul. Chaguo ni lako, and if you're unhappy with my selection, feel free to stick in a link your favourite track.

Sunday morning, rain is falling,
Steal some covers, share some skin,
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable,
You twist to fit the mould that I am in...

Maroon 5 are good people. Good, good people. I've already professed love for them, so I shall not belabour the point (that's a first, no?), except to give you the slightly embarrassing tale tied to this particular track, aptly titled 'Sunday Morning'. Back in 2011 when I was online dating, this song was my pseudonym, this after having little to no success with 'Alexxx' (you can see why, no? No? Think about it, it will come to you...). I was 'sundaymorningwoman', a name I thought was very witty, until I realised no one got it. At all. See, in my delusion, I pictured tens of fellow Maroon 5 lovers, flocking to me to bond over this song. 'Ha!' I scoff. They all thought it had something to do with 'Easy' by 'The Commodores', which in turn meant that they thought I was easy, which in turn meant they thought I was just looking for a random shag. True story. The lesson to this tale? Don't bother with wit when you're dating online, it will be lost on the horny masses therein. No really, even those who claim to get it, don't, they're just trying to seduce your ass using shameless flattery, and perhaps cheap alcohol.

That may be all I need,
In darkness she is all I see,
Come and rest your bones with me,
Driving slow on Sunday morning, And I never want to leave...

The good thing about a great track, however, no amount of foolishness (mine or someone else's) can ever defile it in your memory, and thus it remains on my list of ten best ever.

And then there's the Queen, she who is disturbingly versatile. If you have never listened to her Dana Owens jazz albums, please do, she will blow you away, and then some. 'Weekend Love' is from the mid 90's I think (I was in high school when it came out), back when they started doing R&B and Reggae duets, kina 'Slow and Sexy' (the one time Shabba Ranks actually pulled off sexiness) and such like jams. This song will forever remind me of a man who was only seen on weekends, by mutual agreement. Those were good weekends...

If you've been misled
by anything I said,
Didn't mean to turn you on,
The vibe was oh so strong,
You've got things to do
and I have got things too,
So I'll catch you on the weekend,
Mondays to Fridays OUT I don't see you then...

Tell me this song hasn't got you smiling...  Not even the sexy papa, Mr Rebel? Shame man!

The last track is a salaams, done in the style of 'Yours for the asking', to all my fellow geriatric geezers out here, yaani those of us who remember having all of one radio station in English.  Ningependa kusema nashukuru sana penzi lake, mwambie I miss you so much, darling, don't forget me.  Tafadhali mchezee karuimbo cha SOS band... I know, I'm old.  But if you remember this, then so are you.  

Happy Sunday, my lovelies.

Meanwhile, I'm going to try and figure out what the hell is wrong with my windows, because my house looks a bit iffy, no?  Where's my bloody font, you bloody technology...  


A quiet time...

So I’m talking to this lovely gentleman earlier in the evening, and he makes the passing remark that once you pass 35 and you’re single, going out becomes a lot more complicated; most, if not all, of your friends are attached, odds are married with kids, playing happy families and such like couple nonsense.  You no longer have a plan for every hour of the weekend, he said, and I agreed.  If you’re lucky you may have a plan once a month, but only for the daylight hours of the weekend, before the kids need to be taken home and put to bed.  Now people, I got no babies, real or imagined.  I have nowhere to be by 8 pm.  I have no reason to get up at the crack of dawn.  And as much as I despair at the death of my social life, thanks to other people’s marital status, I absolutely love that I am loose like a langa.  A langa with no plan, but loose nonetheless.  It’s brilliant!  Well, maybe not so much.  I want my single friends back.  I want people I can while away an afternoon with, secure in the knowledge that the only plan for later that evening is going dancing in some suitably crowded establishment of (ill?) repute. 


I need new friends, ideally long of tooth, like myself, but lacking in plan, like myself.

In a conversation with my mother, not long after said conversation with said gentleman, she not so innocently pointed out that I have no business attending other people’s weddings when I am not married myself, this after I told her I couldn’t go visit her next Saturday, because I have to go for a former workmate’s wedding.  She laughed as she uttered this proclamation, but then she felt the need to add, ‘I’m serious…’ after the laughter.  And she was.  She expounded.  At length.  I told her to stop talking shit (not in those exact words, I told her ‘wacha kunichokoza madam!’  Much more polite, no?  Probably not.), and then I went on to distract her with a bit of bullshit about her Jubilee government and their silly antics, hoping to distract her (she voted 6-piece in the last election, for the prezzo(s) and co., and thanks to her brilliance, her governor is now an alleged pharmacist with feminist leanings, in the loosest sense of the word feminist.  Can you say divine justice?).  The woman, my mother, was not to be derailed from her Saturday night mission, unfortunately, and she pressed on with her attack on my singleness, repeating that I have no business at a wedding, in a church no less, without a husband at my side.  Then she told me to make sure I don’t work too hard and made me promise to eat a vegetable soon, and then she rang off, smiling smugly no doubt, proud of her none too subtle hints at grandbabies.

And that was my Saturday night.  Exciting no?  No.

Ah fuck it!  Who says I have to go out every weekend to be happy and fulfilled?  Who says a night spent with Steven Soderbergh and a bottle of wine is a bad thing?  The man is a genius, and the wine is Chilean, also genius.  I don’t care what my mother says, I don’t need a husband to be part of this society.  Or do I?  I love my mother, but she has the frightening ability to make me think about crap that I don’t need to be thinking about.  Damn that woman, damn her!  No, I shall remain focused!  I shall not be distracted by her quest for yet another child named after her good self.  I’m all good.  I am, right?  So help me, if you are not nodding right now I will find you and I will slap you… 

I still need new friends though, friends who are loose on a Sato, and not looking to funga, because those ones are always trouble, they’re the ones who insist on going to bloody Westlands at 2 in the morning, and then they dump you at the door as they follow the nearest thing in a short skirt, or a tight shirt.  Trust me, do not go clubbing with those types, it never ends well.  How it ends is with you dropping off a strange girl in some remote part of the city centre, because your idiot pal took the other one home, and the other one was the one who allegedly had their cab fare in her purse (really?).  True story.  I really need new friends…

Earlier this week a (new-ish) friend told me I needed to get away from the blog, get away from Alex and her workaholic tendencies (his words), get back into the world, so to speak.  He meant well, I hope, he was thinking more along the lines of finding myself another hobby, preferably one that does not involve talking to strangers.  Thing is, I don’t think he realises what its like to be a single 30 something in this city, a discerning single 30 something.  The thing about being in your 30’s, you no longer feel the need to chase the party, preferring to go out only when you are moved by the spirit(s), going out to places where real conversations are had, where the music has a melody, where the pictures on the wall are more art than neon beer ad (or where there are no pictures at all), where the people sitting at the counter aren’t nursing Pilsners (no offence).  At my age, I go out to enjoy the company of other people, and not to get my drunk on, because I get my drunk on way better in my house, with my old school jams and my (almost) premium alcohol.  I’m just saying, these days, going out is even more of a social activity than it was in my 20’s, in the sense that the quality of the company is as important, if not more so, as the drink in my hand.  I’m guessing the younglings reading this are looking at me with one eye, suspicious.  My dear young ones, the time will come when being (seen) at the hottest bar is no longer enough.  For real.  Live it up while you can, in 5 years you will sound like me.  Insert evil laughter here… 

On a completely unrelated note, I’m listening to Johnny Gill’s ‘Provocative’ tonight, an album that should be required listening to anyone who claims to love R&B.

Hush, don’t say a word just come on in, my baby,
Your body language explains it all, girl you need love,
It’s been a hard day for you and me,
But now we’re free, enjoy a summer’s evening…

Now the work is over,
Let the tension fade,
Now it’s a quiet time for loving,
A quiet time to play…

Ah Mr Gill, you are a lovely, lovely man  ‘A Quiet time To Play’ is the kind of song you want playing on that mellow evening when all is right in your world, kinda, and lust is on your mind, kinda.  I shall say no more, because if you don’t feel me on this, then you are clearly in the wrong place.  Did I mention there’s no point to this post?  I didn’t?  My bad.  Ladies and gentlemen, there is absolutely no point to this post.  None.   


This one is about a hungry 50 year old...

Our birthday is the one time of the year I’m supposed to be filled with happiness and joy, waxing lyrical about our lovely republic and all that appertains.  Thing is, I’m not feeling very optimistic this year.  This year I’m feeling positively…bleh!  So we’re turning 50, then what?  Bah humbug!  I am feeling positively melancholic about my country this year, although in fairness to the motherland, this has more to do with the powers that be, or be not as the case may be, than with her and all her 50 year old fineness, all buxom and what not.  So I will suck it up and find a ray of sunshine in the the gloom that is our current idiot MP’s/langa gova/half-assed AU proclamation BS malaise and shine a light on our more redeeming features as a nation. 

I know I should play you a Kenyan track today, but I’ve been listening to Hugh Masekela this past week and I can’t help but play ’Marketplace’ for you, in keeping with our new found Pan African loyalties (I am resisting the urge to Nkt! someone).  This man is one of the sexiest men to blow a horn this side of the equator.  He is also the consumate performer, the first time I watched him, he was on stage for close to three hours.  It turned out, however, that he was high as a kite, on what looked like a cigarette, but wasn’t, which explains why he went around after the show and hugged the entire audience.  For real.  Ah Bra Hugh, you are a good man!

I see her floating lazily
through the market like a butterfly
I wont forget the day came shining in
Just like the dawn bringing in the rays for that sunshine in Congo...

I give you this year’s list of the 10 things I love about this patch of earth we call home, and because I haven’t had lunch yet, this list may be a bit short on meaningful content, but you try blogging on an empty stomach, and/or mind, see if you can do better…

1.      Molo Lamb
Of course the lists starts with food, just be glad I didn’t stick the sausages on the list again (they are still quite excellent).  Now I’m not sure where the lamb chops I ate last night were from, but because every restaurant I’ve been to claims their lamb is from Molo, I’m going to assume my local butcher sources his from there as well.  In my head, all lamb is Molo lamb, and I will have no discussion on this matter.  What we can discuss is how succulent that meat is; how is it that meat from such a little creature has so much lovely, meaty flavour?  Seriously, how does a wee little thing like that pack such a punch?  What’s that?  You’re an animal rights type, are you?  Oops.  Hey, I don’t kill them, I just eat them, and they are so good…

2.      Gibsons AA Coffee
I’ve been drinking coffee since I was a child, thanks to my father who believed that whatever was good enough for him was good enough for his baby girl.  Slight detour, that early injection of caffeine helps explain very many things, no?  I’m just saying, this is probably why I’m a little OCD, I’ve been high all my life.  Detour over.  I was saying, I’ve been drinking coffee for a long time, and I have tried damn near every brand on our shelves, from Kahawa No.1 to bloody Blue Mountain, and let me tell you, Gibsons has blown me away.  I stayed away from it for a couple of years, because, in truth, the packaging is a little dodgy, but once the price of Dormans Arabica crossed 1000 bob, I gave in, because I am only willing to spend so much to feed my addiction(s).  And how glad I am I gave in to my cheaper instincts.  This coffee is the shit!  Try it, if you don’t like it, write me and I will replace it with whatever swill you prefer.

3.      Exotica’s Masala Chips
Forgive me, but I am really hungry.  These are the original masala chips.  Lenga all that rubbish with tomato sauce and garam masala, and make your way to Westlands immediately (I’m hoping they’re still there, haven’t been in a couple of months).  I have tried to replicate these lovelies at home, with no success.  I have tried to bribe the restaurant to give me the recipe, with no success (perhaps if I had offered more than a fifty?).  I’m about to offer them my right boob (that’s the good one).  I’m not kidding.  Screw Coca Cola and their secret formula, this is the only formula I want to know.  Because Exo(tica) is here, and has been for as long as I can remember, that makes them Kenyan, despite the possible expatriation of their (damn near extortionate) profits.

4.      Thika Superhighway
It’s a running joke that you can always spot a Kenyan who’s just landed in a foreign country by the way they gaze at a spaghetti junction, and the unscarred tarmac (free of potholes), and the trains.  Up until 2 years ago, overpasses and underpasses, sijui tunnels and what not, these were things unseen in our part of the world, but these days we’re all so blasé, talking about how you take exit 11 on the highway to get to Safari Park.  Wacheni kuringa, you know you are in complete awe that a road could be so wide, with street lights and lines and everything…

5.      Murithi Mutiga, Fr Gabriel Dolan, Maddo, Tony Mochama and Jackson Biko.
My love affair with the papers seems to be coming to an end, unfortunately, seems I can no longer put up with the never ending obsession with idiot politicians, and the (and I use this term most loosely) editors seeming aversion to spell/grammar check.  That said, I still find myself buying the paper once the weekend rolls around, because a quiet morning just isn’t the same without them.  Mr Mutiga has worked his way into my heart, slowly and steadily, and considering he took the place of Mutuma it has been no easy task.  The tipping point was when he took on Massie whatshisface, anyone who calls that genius out on his BS earns my undying love.  Fr Dolan on the other hand, he should have been on the list last year, because he has always spoken truth to me.  He’s not Kenyan, but with his uncanny ability to speak truth to power, and not call them bad names, he has earned his citizenship, and then some.  And then there’s Maddo.  Do I even need to explain?  And the last 2 gentlemen?  They’ve made getting pissed off each week something to look forward to, and oh how well they push my buttons.  Granted, half the time I worry about Mr Mochama’s love for vodka, and Russia, and Mr Biko has not yet been forgiven for his troubling take on online dating (4 days and he wrote it off?  Come on man…), but despite my reservations, these buggers get me to willingly part with my hard earned money, every weekend.  That deserves a spot on my list, no? 

6.      #KoT
You have to love us Kenyans, our ability to adopt new technology is nothing short of amazing.  Granted, the powers that be can’t seem to tell a bomb detector from a golf ball locator, or figure out how to work the traffic lights at a roundabout, but we, the people, we know things.  Kenyans on Twitter have managed to transform our previously backwater country from hapless minnows to social media heavy weights, pummelling any and all who dare to cross their path.  Now if only they could figure out how to turn it off and get back to the business of living, because no matter how many times you tweet Kenya Power (no longer lighting), my friend, the power will still be off when you’re done.  Now you know.

7.      Victor Wanyama, McDonald Mariga and Dennis Oliech, and all the other ball players out there making a name for themselves.
I’ve gotten used to seeing our athletes trounce their paler competitors (stop frowning, I’m allowed to be racist when it comes to athletics, they do it all the time, talking about our natural ability and such like, because the natives don’t train, do they?  They just get up and run…).  I’ve gotten used to hearing our national anthem being played in arenas whose names I can’t pronounce, time and time again.  But that night when Mariga strode onto the pitch, at Stamford Bridge no less, that was the first time I ever stood up to salute a TV screen, because in all my years, never did I think I would see a Kenyan boy take to the field in a Champions League tie, as a player.  Oliech shoulder to shoulder with Ronaldo?  And Mr Wanyama, oh lovely Victor, running rings around the bloody midgets…  Understand that this isn’t just a football thing, it’s about seeing one of your own reaching heights previously thought unreachable.  It’s like seeing King David feted by Sebastian Coe, or Jason Dunford in the same pool as Michael Phelps, or Kenya beating the All Blacks in Wellington.  Speaking of which…

8.      Kenya 7’s
I’ve learnt to lower my expectations when it comes to the rugby boys, because these gentlemen have been known to be quite special, often losing concentration halfway through the match, which wouldn’t be a problem except for the fact that the game is kinda fast, and those second 7 minutes of meltdown can be quite painful to watch.  But this season, in Wellington?  I bow down.  Messer’s Ambaka and Co., you are superstars in my book, for now, forever.  Now if we could just get KRU to stop their silly bickering long enough for our boys to win the World Cup, that would be most helpful. 

9.      ...

Would you believe I can’t think of two more things?  What kind of amateur list has only 8 items?  Help me out here, please.  Remind me what makes my, our, country such a lovely place to live.

Now because I am a firm believer in the celebration of birthdays, I refuse to let this one slide without sharing two of the best pieces I read last week.  These lovely gentlemen got me thinking about the past we love to hate and the future we hate to interrogate.  Dreams Of My Kenya, 50 Years On, Oyunga Pala’s take on how far we’ve come, and still have to go, is poignant, while Gathara’s The Change Merry-Go-Round is unflinching.  Both are hopeful.  I could say more, but in doing so I would run the risk of over selling that which I have no business selling to begin with. 

Happy 50th my lovelies.