The truth, the whole truth...

Myth no 1:  You can’t meet a good man (or woman) in the bar.

Says who?  The geniuses who frequent plays, churches, libraries and such like in an attempt to get a serious man?  Please!  Where do you think they were last night?  Why do you think they’re swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane?  Its not because they’re moved by the hallelujahs you’re singing, they’re still high, seeing double.  Where better to meet a man than in the bar, he is under the influence of great spirits and therefore more likely to act like the real idiot he is.  Better the devil you know and such like…

Myth no 2:  Women don’t date broke guys.

Damn right we don’t.  Gents, dating involves money, broke men have no money, ergo we don’t date broke men.  It’s not exactly rocket science is it? 

Myth no 3:  Women don’t date nice guys.

Oh yes we do, we love nice guys.  Only if they’re rich though…

 

Myth no 4:  Men aren’t only interested in looks, they want brains too.

What for?  To play football with?  Maybe sauté with garlic a la Hannibal?  Men wouldn’t know a brain if it hit them on the head with a shovel.  When I meet the idiot who started that vicious rumour I will castrate him, and then I’ll send his parts to his (allegedly) brainy wife!  Twit!  Ladies, your brain comes a distant, distant second to the size of your ass, or boobs, so distant in fact it comes third in a two horse race.

Myth no 5:  Men hate weaves.

Really?  Then why do all the whores on K-street have them?  If men didn’t fantasise about long luscious (blonde) locks then the purveyors of fleshy delights wouldn’t waste their hard-earned cash on dyed horse hair.   

Myth no 6:  All men cheat.

If you strictly limit cheating to the exchange of (lower) bodily fluids and what not, then this myth holds no water whatsoever.

Myth no 7:  Bald men have high testosterone levels and are therefore greater lovers.

No to the testosterone, yes to the greatness.  Without hair to comb they have time for more pleasurable pursuits don’t they?

Myth no 8:  Kao’s are great lovers.

Yes they are.  When they’re bald.

Myth no 8:  Beautiful women are crap in bed.

Not true, its just that she doesn’t like to sleep with ugly people like you, you’re a bit of a turn off.  But stick a mirror above your bed and watch her go...

Myth no 9:  I know what I’m talking about. 

Or not.

The confessional

I was reliably informed that my ode to Whitney did not go down too well, I believe the exact words were “…write another one, then I’ll read!”  At first I dismissed the man as a soulless twit in need of counselling, but then I looked at the week’s stats and I realised perhaps not.  On first glance it would appear that you buggers are interested in only 2 things, my crap dates and my friends’ troubled sex lives, but when one someone else unsuspectingly pointed out the holes in the buddy post (he’s unconvinced, we’re working it out), that got me looking at the stats in a completely different light.  The stories you like most seem to be the ones where I’m simply telling it like it is, no drum banging agendas and what not.   

To be honest, I don’t make a conscious decision on what to write about, often I sit down with a cup of tea and start typing, eventually one of the ideas I put down takes on a life of its own and next thing I know I’m on spell check.  Sometimes, I’ll like an idea but nothing I do makes it work so it ends up in the ‘why wont you work dammit?’ folder, next to the long suffering post on Heavy D.  Other times, I won’t particularly like an idea, but it bullies me into submission and finally ends up here, like sexist therapy.  And once in a (very rare) while, the story writes itself long before I sit down, as was the case with MAD.  The reason I’m telling you this?  Sometimes I get it wrong, some days it wont be your cup of tea, or mine for that matter, but on other days I hit the spot, I strike a chord no?  Unfortunately, my mind is hazy at the best of times and its worse when I actually want it to do something, so as much as I’d love to give you what you like every time I sit down, I cant, but the good thing is I’m learning as I go along, and the most important thing I’ve learnt is that you will forgive me many things for as long as I don’t try to bullshit you.  You buggers can spot my bullshit from a mile off no?

I sat down to write Wednesday’s post, but instead I’m here writing you a love letter of sorts.  I blame the rain, sudden changes in weather always get me feeling a little melancholic (see No disturb sign).  Who’d have thought the met department would actually get it right huh?  I digress…  I greatly appreciate you all stopping by each week, perhaps more than you know, it helps that most of you are comfortable enough in my house to tell me when I get it not quite right, even when you say it by saying nothing at all.  Now I could be a stubborn fool and insist on writing (what I consider) brilliant pieces on Al Green and pointy-shoed men, or I could just give you what you want.  I’m proposing a compromise, every so often I’ll tell you what’s going on in my tragic comedy of a life, and in return you’ll stick around when I choose to veer off into my own little world of randomness.  Agreed?  Good. 

I’m off to the sewer now, see you soon…

Damn you, Whitney, damn you!

“And then I met you darlin’, and you smiled at me, it was such a pretty smile…”

It’s a sad day when I select my music from stand up comedy.  That’s where I stumbled upon this Lenny Williams track, one of Steve Harvey‘s sets in ‘The Original Kings of Comedy’ to be precise.  That’s redeemed me slightly, hasn’t it?  No?  Ah well…  As always, a disclaimer must be given, today’s post is all about music, if that’s not your thing come back next week, by then I’m sure I’ll have a bad date/love/sex story for you.  Or not.

I first heard this track back in 01, at least I assume I did, truth is I can’t remember having heard it before July last year.  In Kings, Harvey does a bit about how crappy music is ‘these days’.  I put that in quotes because that was a decade ago, so if you’re currently shaking your head in disbelief and counting back, yes, you really are that old.  This song was his example of what real music sounds like, lyrics that make sense, lyrics that don’t include either shoot, bitch, drunk or horny, or all of them together in the case of gangsta rap.  In retrospect, that’s probably why I don’t remember having heard it before, I watched Kings when I was in campus and back then anything that wasn’t Joe, Fugees or Matchbox 20 didn’t really stand a chance.  This despite my ‘Late Date’ roots, shame man!  I blame the pressure of my peers… 

Fast forward 10 years and I’m watching Kings again and I was in shock at the brilliance of the song, ‘I must have it!’ I gasped at the TV (really) after listening to a minute or so, and off I went in search of this most excellent number.  Incidentally, my pet torrent site shut down ‘voluntarily’.  Bastards!  Where the hell am I supposed to get my bootleg mix tapes now?  Selfish bastards!  Moving on swiftly…  After 2 weeks of trawling through the dark and scary corners of the internet, I found it, all 7 minutes plus of it.

Now I realise you buggers feel nothing for my tunes, and that’s ok, this isn’t some military boot camp, you can do whatever you damn well please in my house, as long as you don’t break shit, or steal from me.  However, if you choose not to listen to this track, you won’t get to hear the brilliant monologue at 3:30, “…I watched television until television went off…”, right after he does his trademark “oh oh oh oh oh ooohhh…”, that which R Kelly has seemingly made his own.  You’ll never hear Lenny sing about her smile, her pretty smile.  Most important though, if you don’t listen then you won‘t have the foggiest clue what I’m on about here.  Although, perhaps I’m being presumptuous in thinking you usually do.  Perhaps. 

Thing is, only after listening, really listening, to this track, did I finally understand why the crowd reacted the way they did.  Assuming you’ve watched Kings, you know that when the song starts playing, people get up like there’s been a mass electrocution, yes?  Grown ass men and women screaming and hollering, jumping up and down like it’s a bloody crusade and they’re testifying!  Now the intro is so deceptive, you’d never guess how brilliant the song is, because it starts off like a nondescript 70’s song, slow and simple.  Then 25 seconds in, “Girl you know I, I, I, I love you, no matter what you do…”  What the?  My reaction was, ‘Who is this man and when can I have his baby?‘  I figure any song that has “I, I, I, I…” cannot possibly be a crap song, I’m just saying…  From the minute Lenny starts singing you sit up and notice, by the time he gives the lecture halfway through you’re already hooked.  Hell, at 6 minutes, I was crooning like R Kelly, on my knees, arms outstretched and shit!

I’m dithering by the way. 

I sat down intending to write about Whitney and her spectacular self-destruct, but what I want to say should probably not be said right now, speaking ill of the dead and what not.  Besides, it’s not like I knew the woman is it?  I don’t get to talk shit about someone I’ve never met.  Unless of course they’re politicians, in which case the more shit I talk the better, but that’s beside the point.  I have no opinion to offer on how she lived her life, instead I’m going to tell you how she was always a part of mine. 

Growing up in the 80’s, certain musicians became the soundtrack to my generation, especially those of us whose only entertainment was VoK/KBC, and our parents’ old Skeeter Davis and Boney M records.  The likes of MJ, Prince, Alexander O’Neal, Anita Baker, Luther, Madonna, SOS Band, Billy Ocean, Pointer Sisters, Kool and the Gang… I’m sure I’ve left out many others, probably more deserving, and for that no doubt I will be corrected.  Then came Ms Whitney Houston...  For some reason, the pre-MTV musicians tended to look like the back of a bus, think Ike and Tina, after a fight, it was not pretty.  Whitney waltzed in looking like the black Princess Di, only without the castle, or the strange looking husband, or the even stranger looking mistress.  I dont know about you, but it was her smile that did for me, she had the smile (come on, it was the 80‘s, good teeth were rare back then and you know it). Plus she had a stunning collection of (what we eventually found out was) fake hair.  But it was mostly the smile.

Thanks to my TV/radio addiction growing up, I knew the words to “Saving all my love” before I even sat my first national exam, well before I understood what love she was referring to.  The fact that I was singing a mistress‘s song to her married lover was completely beyond me, in retrospect probably a good thing no?  By the time she was (not quite) dancing with a shadow on a wall in “I’m your baby tonight”, my hormones were on the ascendancy, I was that hot chick on the motorcycle with the triangular curly bob.  Then came ‘The Bodyguard’ and the combination of Kevin Costner and “I have nothing” had me convinced I could have a career if not as a singer (can’t hold a note to save my life), perhaps as an actress, or a bodyguard.  Or a stalker.  Oh my, Whitney made me a stalker.  This makes so much sense now.  Actually, what she really made me was bloody murderous, that “I will always love you” song drove me up the wall! Country songs should just remain country songs.   

With the “Exhale/Shoop” song, brown lipstick became my obsession, that and short hair, courtesy of Angela Basset.  Its in ‘Waiting to Exhale’ that I first heard Whitney (in character) say ‘fuck‘, and, contrary to threats from mother and pastor alike, she didn’t immediately burst into flames.  I tell you it changed my life.  We slowly drifted apart after that, there was the brief reunion for “My love is your love” but it wasn’t the same, I was all grown up, I’d moved on to Alanis, Sheryl Crow, such like rocker chicks.  I suspect there was also some bitterness on my part, I blamed her for Bobby’s demise, the man hadn’t done a decent song since the brilliant Teddy Riley album, crying shame man!

When I left campus and started working at some backstreet operation (almost literally), I discovered bootleg music from a strange place called the internet, this was back in the day when we all had the same music, and everyone had at least one Donell Jones album on their computer.  I was working with a nerdy IT fellow who just happened to be an aspiring DJ, and he gave me Whitney’s first album, “Whitney”.  Sweet Jesus!  The songs I’d sung when I was a youngling, a barely teen and so naïve, suddenly took on new meaning, I finally got it.   See I always knew she could sing like no other, but I never understood what she was singing about, how could I?  I was too young.  Listening to her first album as an adult, a woman, it felt like coming full circle.  It felt like coming home.  When she sings “You give good love”, and she sings the hell out of that song, not only do I know what she means, I feel it.  15 odd years later, I fell in love with Whitney all over again.

The plan was to put up songs from her early albums, before the smack and ganja, back when her voice was so clear you could hear her lungs contract.  Unfortunately, after being subjected to non-stop ‘Remembering Whitney’ on radio for the past week, I think not.  I’m starting to develop a nervous tic in my left eye brought on by “The greatest love of all”, even typing it has me twitching.  Hence Lenny Williams.  What’s the link between the two?  Nothing.  Yet.  I figure, many years down the line, when some comedian is doing a set on good music from back in the day, it’s her music that he’ll be playing to illustrate his point.  And this time, I’ll be the geriatric idiot shouting and hollering, jumping up and down, testifying…

“Girl you know I, I, I, I love you…”

Hey buddy!

Men and women can never be ‘just friends’.  I know, I know, you’ve heard this line so many times...  Hands up all those who don’t agree?  Thought so.  Apart from the one guy right at the back in the purple skinny jeans, waving his hands like he’s at a Sauti Sol concert, the rest of you are all female. 

Slight detour, I went for a show last week, Aaron Rimbui featuring amongst others the boys of Sauti Sol, and I have 3 things to say:

1. Those young girls masquerading as groupies best stay well away from me because the next time I will slap all their sandak-wearing asses.  Miss Thangs, next time show up early enough to get yourself a seat near the fucking exit so you don’t have to keep bothering me during the climax of a bloody song because your adolescent bladders are malfunctioning. 
2. Those boys can actually sing!  The last time I heard/watched them the sound was crap so I wrote them off.  I now eat my words and bow down.  Lakini, that small one in the very tight clothes, boss you might want to reconsider your wardrobe choices.  Then again I’m not the target audience am I?
3. Mr Rimbui and his very very brilliant band, the storyteller extraordinaire Chizi, and Eric ‘he that has owned my heart since Beats of the Season 95’ Wainana, those men know how to put on a show.  They took those younglings to school… 
4. (Bonus no?) If you’re a fan of jazz and love a good band, but cant stand the B&W yuppies with dogs nonsense, make a point of going for ‘All That Jazz’ at the Museum next time it rolls around, but be sure to get there early because the hall is not that big and the parking can only hold 5 cars, plus a tuk tuk.  That’s the public service announcement for today. 

Where was I?  Ah yes, the women (and the skinny jeans guy) were insisting that men and women can be ‘just friends’.  Folks, I hate to break it to you, but we cant, not really.  Yes, you’ll be close, and you’ll even be friends, real friends, but never for one minute assume that you’re completely platonic.  You’re just not shagging.  Yet. 

Let me make my case then I’ll leave you to decide.

When you first meet someone the attraction is physical no?  That’s okay, it’s how we’re built, there’s no shame in it.  Drawn together by that initial frission, you tentatively start to get to know each other and that’s when one of two things will happen, either the person turns out to be a bit of a twit and the spark is hastily extinguished, or they turn out to be really funny, smart, even sexier than imagined (…………insert individual fixation here) and the spark starts a little fire.  Now at this point you’re not friends, you’re nothing but raging hormones eager to touch each other, that is until you find out she’s your brother’s new chick, or you BFF’s hot new catch.  That most tempting prospect has turned out to be completely unavailable, cue hasty stamping out of fire…  Spark now dead, you shrug it off and proceed to become friends.  End of story yes? 

Fast forward to 2 years down the line, your friend has just broken up with the source of said unavailability.  He comes to your house in search of a hot meal, a cold beer and possibly a warm body.  (The men are laughing as they read this, I’m right aren’t I?)  And you, being the supportive good friend you are, feed him and water him, hug him tight to your bosom, same bosom conveniently swathed in that red lace bra you save for special nights (complete with matching thong) that you just happened to slip on when he called to say he’s coming over.  (Now the women are laughing too.)  As he pours out his sorrows you gently rub his back, then his neck, then his face, and then before you know it he’s rubbing you.  The following morning you wake up and gasp ‘what have we done?’, and the next thing you know you’ve been shagging like rabbits for 2 weeks straight. 

Still think the spark is dead? 

Today’s musical number is the appropriately titled ‘Friends Don’t Let Friends’, and no, it is not an ode to designated drivers, far from it.  I am yet to meet a person who’s listened to this song and did not have a wistful look in their eye and a knowing smile on their face.  I will pay good(ish) money to anyone who can prove otherwise…  This is the dirty little secret of friendships between men and women.  Lust.  He wants to shag you, and you want to shag him.  Admit it.  The only thing that’s stopping you is circumstances, call it conscience or morality or simply the cost of the bloody repercussions.  The minute that loophole is found, shagville here we come… 

Now I’m not saying all friendships will end up in the sack if given the chance, there’s usually more to it isn’t there?  Some people will worry about the relationship saying, ‘I don’t want to ruin a great friendship’, although I have a sneaky suspicion what they really mean is ‘I’m not sure the sex will be that good, I don’t think it’s worth the hassle’, or ‘lakini you have some very creepy stalker tendencies, I don’t think I can handle’, and such like.  If we’ve been friends for a while, I know the good and the bad, odds are I’m bound to be cautious before getting into anything no?  Some of us worry we wont match up to the legendary tales of lovers past.  From what my fellas tell me, this is of particular concern to them.  Ladies, while you were sitting there telling him about your ex who was skilled in the ways of pleasuring a woman, he was sitting there wondering ‘That little shit?  Shit!’  That’s what’s going through his mind when you’re busy snuggling on the sofa that fateful evening.  Women on the other hand are such delusional creatures that we not only believe we’ll be better than all your exes, we’ll show you why.  What you men forget, of course, is that you told us everything we need to know and us females, we take notes.  That story about the girl who rode you like so and blew your mind, burned in my memory my friend... 

Still not convinced are you?  Then listen to my tale...

Many years ago, I was convinced that I was living proof that it was possible to have platonic friendships with men, my closest friends were all men, and none of them were ever my lovers.  ‘See,’ I’d scoff, ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about, you pathetic pseudo experts in the Saturday magazine.  Ha ha!’  So what happened?  I found myself single after many years with one dude, and suddenly my fellas were transformed into a veritable buffet of easy pickings, I was spoilt for choice.  Who better to dettol my knees than my hot friend from college, or my hotter friend from the bar, no?  No.  They all knocked me back, one by one, until finally I stopped asking (begging actually, but let’s not split hairs...), convinced that none of these men had even the vaguest lustful urges towards me.  Suffice to say there was great shame (on my part, obviously) for a while, but because they’re foolish men there was no awkwardness, it was swept quietly under the rug.  When I eventually got better, having stopped propositioning the poor bastards, I knew that these men were ‘real friends’, true gentlemen! 

Then I started dating again (sort of…) and it was like a ‘TO LET’ sign was hanging outside my door, the same men who turned me down before were filing applications for my spare room.  ‘But you killed my vibe you punk, si you said we’re pals?’ I’d ask, to which said punk would respond ‘Babes, you know I’ve always wanted your ass?  Come on, si we’re pals…’  Confused?  I was.  According to these geniuses, taking advantage of me when I was down and pathetic would have been wrong, and slightly disgusting, but once I was back on my feet then I was fair game, and low hanging fruit.  Eh?  There I was convinced these men wouldnt shag me if I was the last woman on earth and in reality they were simply fattening the calf in anticipation of ’good times’.  Men!  Don’t worry, I knocked them back too, then the following day we’d have a good laugh about it and move on, luckily we’ve known each other too long to be sidetracked by such like foolishness.  It also helps that we all know where each other’s skeletons are buried no?  Blackmail my friends, second only to research...

Now I’ve known some of these men my entire adult life, if this isn’t friendship then I clearly don’t know what is.  That said, the speed with which I went from looking at them as ‘Good man!’ to ‘I want to lick whipped cream off your bare chest’ was scary, to say the least.  I thought, having known them as long as I had, that I was long past the ‘hubba hubba’ drooling stage of when we first met.  Clearly not.  Clearly, all I did was file them under ‘Things to do…’, and apparently they did the same. 

This new reality hasn’t made these friendships any less meaningful, but it means that when I’m looking for a shoulder to cry on these days, I pick the least sexy one, who fortunately for me is also the brightest, but only just (don’t tell him I said that…).  And when they come to cry on mine (I’m conveniently assuming I’m not the least sexy one myself, of course), I take them up the road to the local.  Better safe than sorry no?

There’s no moral to this tale, not much point to it either I suspect.  I started off expecting to give the many reasons why friends are the perfect rebound shag, only now I’ve managed to convince myself otherwise.  Surely this must take great skill, I’ve talked myself out of shit instead of talking you into it.  It’s a good thing I’m not a suicide counsellor no?


POSTSCRIPT
One woman's take on her male friends
A he says/she says take on platonic friendship between the sexes

 

 

 

M.A.D.

I’m trying to sign up for twitter and its proving to be a challenge, seeing as how I don’t get it, at all.  You’re probably wondering why a technophobe such as myself would be interested in getting on that bus, more so since it left the station ages ago no?  Its simple, I want to stalk someone.  Yes, I’m a stalker and I’m proud of it, only I call it research.  Who am I stalking?  Three people.  No 1: A client who owes me money, foolish punk says he’s broke then I stumble upon pictures of said man in Malindi, with many small girls, the following day.  Nkt!  No 2: Shaka Ssali, that man excites me in ways that are not right, I shall say no more.  No 3: An almost stalker who’s taken to calling me at 11.00 pm every other night, ‘just to say hi’, I figure fight fire with fire. 

Back to twitter though, there I am trying to figure out the Russian that is the sign up page (no really, it was in Russian, I have no idea why) and what do I see under find friends?  The profile of a slightly very dysfunctional man that I once tried to date, tried and failed.  This man…  I had to pause for a minute to shudder…  This man is certifiable, off his rocker, few eggs short of a dozen, MAD! 

I’m itching to tell this story, but to tell it I have to ji-expose.  Ah screw it!  It’s not like I killed someone is it?  This is too good to keep to myself, kama mbaya mbaya! 

I met this fellow on the internet, internet dating to be precise.  Don’t look so horrified, it’s perfectly respectable.  Or not.  It should be called internet sex-ing, that’s all most of those bastards are looking for, a chips/sausage funga, online style!  That you are so lazy you can’t even be bothered to leave your house/office to go look for sex is troubling.  But that’s a story for another day, moving on swiftly…  One fine morning I get a message from a random guy, he says he’s read my profile and, ‘Out of all the ones I’ve seen, yours is the most intelligent.  I’m impressed,’ he says with not an ounce of levity, ‘when can we chat?’ he asks presumptuously.  Eh?  My first instinct was to block his punk ass and move on (you can do that online, just click ignore and a person vanishes, it’s lovely!), but I didn’t ignore the man, instead I decided to check him out first.  Sweet Jesus! 

For those of you who’ve never delved into the world of internet dating, let me give you a brief description, the lay of the land as it were.  Simply put, you create a profile.  You describe yourself in as much or as little detail as you want, you describe who or what you’re looking for, put up a picture if you feel so led.  There’s a brief section on bio data that you do have to fill in, age, star sign (eh?), height, weight, etc, but apart from that you pretty much have a blank page to play with.  Now most men don’t say too much on their profiles, they’ll put up a picture of themselves, real or imagined, usually in or next to a car or at their desks in the office, and then they’ll give a generic description like ‘Am a humble, god-fearing man lookin for a god-fearing woman ready to settle and build a home.’  Or the always reliable ‘Am married with 2 kids, lookin for a lady to have fun times with.’  Or my favourite ‘Am a good lookin, sexy, lovin, prince charmin.  Am lookin to share my love with a african princess.’  Please note that the grammar is theirs, not mine, apparently when you are ‘lookin’ for a partner online, the word ‘I’ and the letter ‘g’ are optional, as is spell check.  Apparently. 

Given that this is what I’d been dealing with on a daily basis for a couple of months, Mr Impressed’s profile was a complete shock.  This genius had not only filled in every bloody section there was to be filled, he’d posted several pictures of himself.  What!  Where do I start?  So the profile picture: he’s sitting on a sofa, one arm stretched across the back, leaning forward with what can only be described as a ‘come closer little red riding hood so you can see my teeth’ leering grin on his face and the most scary ‘crazy eyes’ glare I had ever seen.  Folks, I jumped back in fear, it looked like he was about to leap out of the screen and bite me.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying anything about how hot (or not) he was, its just that picture was creepy.  His profile?  It was very long and not particularly useful.  First, he went out of his way to mention his very very wealthy family/lifestyle, repeatedly, all the while saying he’s not interested in gold-diggers.  Say it with me… Eh?  Then, the man talks about how he drinks at Palacina, sijui Mercury, holidays in Europe, blah blah blah, because us non-gold-digger women really care about that shit don’t we?   But what got me was his interests, there was a section for favourite music (really) and you know me and my love for a good tune, that was usually the first one I’d read.  This man had listed every artist and band that has released a song in the last decade, that list was like a page long, and it was alphabetical.  What the fuck?

At that point I stopped reading his profile, and typed out a reply to his (not so) charming message, ‘You have an interesting profile, but I don’t do chat, how about email?’ knowing full well men don’t do email so he wouldn’t reply.  Two minutes later, he replies, ‘Email is so last century, you need to get with the program.  So tell me about yourself, what’s your name?’  Now 2 things came to mind when I read that message.  One, ‘so last century’?  Are you a 16 year old white girl?  Two, is this idiot trying to seduce me or recruit me into his cult? 

I’m going to fast forward through this saga, give you the highlights and spare you the agony.  A couple of days later he finally got round to email, sort of, he found me on g-talk/chat/whatever the hell its called, and off we went, chatting, or trying to, he had a habit of wandering off mid sentence, very strange.  Because he had his full name on his email address, I did what any normal person does, I proceeded to google him (research my friends…) and what I found was troubling.  There was the Linkedin profile that had him running kendo 67 businesses, none of which I'd heard of or seemed to have any other employees, and he was CEO of all of them; the myspace page that had him frolicking with random white women discussing poetry and shit; some random sites for diaspora types in England; and all these profiles had the same creepy picture and almost identical info, down to the alphabetical lists.  I am not making this shit up!  This is the man who told me he has to ‘make love’ (his words, not mine) to a woman before he can date her, for bonding you see, it’s very important.  The same man, who when I asked if he’d really read Anna Karenina (it was on his list of books, at the top, alphabetical no?), he replied ‘Definitely, I have it on my kindle on the bedside table, maybe one of these days you’ll get to read it…’  Did you just cringe?  I did too.  Creepy no?  This is the man who asked me if I was going to kiss him on our first date, because ‘if you don’t then I’ll take it to mean that you’re not interested and I’ll move on.  So will you kiss me?’ he asks.  Eh?  Can you say delusional?

Long story short(er), I met the man one week later, had two drinks, and one was water, and that story died there.  My biggest problem was that he claimed to be mid 30’s, but he looked mid 20’s, and sounded like it too.  His vibe was all ‘me and my friends did this’ and ‘my daddy did that’ and on and on, and all the while he was staring at my bosom and licking his lips, not like LL Cool J, more like Heath Ledger‘s Joker.  Creepy!  That was the longest 2 hours of my life.  So why did I agree to meet him?  Curiosity mainly.  Hang on, I’m not being fair to the man, once I got past the initial bullshit, he seemed kind of interesting, in a ‘if I poke it here I wonder what will happen’ way.   To be completely honest, at that point I’d talked to enough of those crazy internet dudes to know that it’s better to just meet them as soon as possible and dismiss them forthwith, or be dismissed.  I went, I saw, then I dismissed, although in fairness I think he dismissed me too.  I may have made a crack that perhaps was not taken too kindly.  Perhaps.  That and the fact that I didn’t look quite as much like Halle Berry as I may have led him to believe. 

One week later, I’m back on the dating site, checking out the fresh meat, and I come across a profile that looks somewhat similar to Mr Impressed, only without the elaborate lists.  This guy had named himself ‘Fun Fuck Buddy’, which I thought was brilliant, finally someone coming out and saying what everyone else was trying not to no?  Now Mr FFB described himself as a recent divorcee looking for a freaky lady to get down with, no strings, no bullshit, must be clean (don’t think about that too hard...).  What tweaked my interest though was a line he used, something along the lines of ‘I have no time for gold diggers, but anything else I can live with’.  See Mr Impressed used exactly that line on his profile, and while chatting with me, repeatedly.  I did a quick search for Mr Impressed's profile but it was gone, so I assumed he creatively repackaged himself in an attempt to attract a more appropriate female.  ‘Crazy bugger!’ I thought, and moved on to other more sane idiots, or not unfortunately.

What does all this have to do with twitter?  Guess who was at the top of that recommended list of friends I should follow?  That’s right, none other than Mr Impressed.  Apparently the geniuses at twitter sync your account with your gmail, bila asking, but that’s a fight for another day.  Mr Impressed is now DJ Impressed, his profile picture has him in the DJ pose, arms crossed like so, complete with big ass headphones, but no decks.  One can only assume that his many companies and such like didn’t quite pan out the way he’d hoped.  Listen carefully, if you ever meet a fellow with crazy eyes, a leering grin and an ever changing career profile ranging from venture capitalist to DJ, run away.  No questions, just run.  That man is absofuckinglutely mad!

Now I realise I have exposed myself to all manner of insults and ridicule, but this is for the greater good, I must tell you my foolish tales of foolish men.  That’s why it’s called Mutually Assured Destruction.  M.A.D. 

Legalize what exactly?

There can be no surprise that I’ve chosen to write about this.  It’s like these people bait me with their foolishness…  I know it’s not the end of the year, but I think we need to give an honorary Kai Nikii? Foolish Plans Award to our mayor.  Your Worshipness, Most Excellent Georgie, I bow down to your genius.  Tell me sir, what stroke of brilliance led you to come up with this most amazing plan?  Was it that trip to Amsterdam that got you thinking, and if so, is weed next? 

For any of you lost right now, clearly you’re not living in or around Kenya right now so let me fill you in.  Our genius mayor is proposing to legalise prostitution in Nairobi and now everyone plus their mother has their hypocritical panties in a bunch.  Turns out that for a city obsessed with sex, we prefer to do it undercover, and then tell everyone about it on morning radio.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The story came out last week with Georgie the Great announcing to the world (a bunch of NGO types) that the plan to harmonise by-laws concerning prostitution was in the works.  I wasn’t there personally, but from the write up I assume the press conference, if any, went something like this:

Georgie:          We plan to make prostitution legal in the capital.

Idiot press:       Eh?  Why? 

Georgie:          Because male and female commercial sex workers are facing harassment from police and clients alike, they need protection... 

Idiot press:       Protection?  Like condoms?

Georgie:          These men and women are approached by groups of three who then bundle them into vehicles…

Idiot press:       So you plan to protect them personally?

Georgie:          The council shall offer security, once the laws are harmonised.

Idiot press:       Like the security given to hawkers…

Georgie:          Eh?

Not very coherent I know, but that’s what the article read like.  There's a reason I call them idiots...

For the past week we’ve had an unending stream of unsolicited statements and letters to the editor rejecting this most brilliant plan wholesale.  Our new finance minister, he of the rat eating fame, told us in no uncertain terms that he does not want any monies from ‘this kind of business‘.  So you’ll eat rats but wont bank a whore’s cheque?  The Archdeacon of Kerugoya says the church will take on such immoralities ‘head on’.  Do I even need to insert the joke here?  James from Dar claims that perverted sex was the ‘in-thing’ in Sodom and Gomorrah, and like those doomed cities, we too are on the brink of ‘divine judgement’, yaani we’re about to become a lot more salty.  A self proclaimed ‘youth’ called Jane was ‘dismayed‘ that we are ‘aping the west‘ and ‘destroying our African values‘, while Martin says prostitution was ‘unheard of in Africa‘ and this proposal is ‘sickening‘.  Really?  The white man invented whores?  Actually, they might be on to something there, the white man is the one who came and stopped us from shagging each other like bunnies, therefore…

You’re probably expecting me to come out in support of said ‘vice’ no?  And I would, except that I’m convinced the illegality of the profession is what makes it so enticing.  It’s a classic forbidden fruit scenario, its what makes it both guilt-laden, for the moralist in you, and guilt-free, for the capitalist also in you, it‘s a win-win for both sides.  I say live and let live, there’s bigger fish to fry, and crucify.  Last time I checked the idiot stealing my taxes wasn’t a prostitute, at least not that kind anyway.   

I think we’re all missing the point, and the story, here.  Instead of getting hysterical over the oldest profession, which in case you hadn’t noticed is not going anywhere any time soon, we need to focus more closely on what Georgie was saying.  Did anyone else pick up on his choice of words?  The male and female commercial sex workers.  Male and female?  Male? 

Is there something you’d like to share with the group Georgie?

Goodbye Yesterday...

“Stayed just a little too long, now its time for me to move on…”

I’m the kind of idiot who uses words like closure and such like claptrap, I often feel the need to have everything wrapped up nice and neat.  It goes without saying that I don’t like loose ends, unfinished business drives me mad.  You’d think with such OCD type behaviour I’d be good at endings, but if you’ve been reading this blog you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m not.  If anything, I read like one long episode of unfinished business don’t I?  But it’s a new year, and I’m going to do things different.  First up, I need to wrap up a pending matter with Disappearing Dude.

Incidentally, the reason I specifically ask you to play the track sometimes is not because I’m assuming you haven't heard it before, it’s simply that in these particular instances, the song says more than I do, and often says it much better.  Think of it as the sugar to my tea.  With this in mind, kindly press play on the Dionne Farris track.  If you’ve never heard this song before shame on you, slap yourself.  If you don’t like this song, slap yourself, twice.  In fact, if you answered affirmative to either question, or god forbid both, just keep slapping yourself for the duration of the song. 

Disappearing dude, if you recall, is the man who clearly wasn’t feeling my ass and meanwhile I was acting a complete fool.  I stopped acting like said fool, pretty much immediately I finished writing that post, and slowly began disengaging, subconsciously I guess, because I didn’t realise it then.  I only realised I was done when I finally snapped one evening in mid December and told him off for his rude behaviour (he was acting like more of a twit than usual).  Turns out, being rude is the one thing I will not tolerate, stupid I can live with but rude is a complete no-no, who knew?  So I told him off, and then I sat back and waited for the apology, and I’m still waiting.  Ha!  To be honest, I was initially slightly bothered, make that very bothered, that he hadn’t sent me so much as a text, but after about a week it began to sink in that he wasn’t going to call.  Really.  And neither was I.  Really.  And now, having not spoken to or seen the idiot in almost two months, I figure I’m finally free and clear of that little obsession.  That means its time to wrap it up, new year and all that jazz remember?

In my experience, farewells typically go one of two ways, it can either be the bitter ‘Screw you bitch!’ complete with broken glass and character assassinations in the bar and such like, or it can be the bittersweet ‘I guess I’ll see you next lifetime’ hippie experience with flowers and promises of ‘always be friends’ and such like bullshit.  Thing is, this one doesn’t seem to be either.  Am I pissed with the man?  Not really, more disappointed than anything else to be honest, he turned out to be a spectacular idiot, surprising because he’s one of the smartest men I have ever met, and that’s saying something.  So if I’m not mad, am I sad?  Not really, I didn’t know him long enough to be grievously harmed by his demise (don’t worry, I didn’t kill him, it’s just a figure of speech), at best I’d describe the feeling as mildly melancholic.  The only thing I can say about him is I wish he was a better man.  No, that’s not it.  I wish he could take his head out from up his ass and see that he can be a better man. 

Ok.  So maybe there’s some anger, just a little.  Moving on swiftly…

My thing is I’m a fixer, I collect broken people, and then I try to fix them.  I don’t mean to, I just do, it’s a bit of an addiction.  Perhaps it’s the artist in me (I’m referring to my day job, not what I call writing, I’m not that delusional, yet…), but I’m drawn to flawed characters, I get down with the tortured souls, I live for good angst.  At least I used to.  A couple of years ago, a dysfunctional idiot like disappearing dude would have kept me busy for at least two years before I finally gave up.  This man, however, seems to have broken this camel’s back, because I can’t do it any more, I don’t want to.  As much as the man intrigues me to no end, I no longer want to be the one who ‘sees the potential’ when he is completely oblivious to mine, I have no interest in learning to accommodate his peculiar habits while casting my own aside, I have no time or patience to wait for him to come around when I’m already here.  After fixing several men, lovers and friends, I’m hanging up my fixing boots.  Life is too short and there’s not enough of me to go around any more.

Mr D, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I spent half the time we knew each other acting like an insane cow, that’s not me at all, you know that don’t you?  I’m sorry I refused to read the writing on the proverbial wall, I’m female, us girls can be thick like that sometimes.  I’m sorry I can’t stick around long enough to see you become the brilliant man you will be, once you finally get round to burying that little shit of an idiot you’re carrying around that is.  I’m sorry, but I can’t fix you, but that’s a good thing, because you don’t want me to.  I know that you’ll forgive me, because for all your foolishness, you’re still a good man, aren’t you?  

Well that was depressing.  

I think I’m killing my own buzz.  Yes, I’m drinking, aren’t you?  What?  I know its 2.00 in the afternoon, but it’s my day off, I can do whatever I want.  I’m lying, it’s not my day off, but I needed company for this conversation so I roped in my friend John (his name is Jack, but when you’ve known him as long as I have…). 

What we often forget about farewells is that they’re also beginnings.  Its taken me three months of trawling through the swamp that is my mind and the desert that is my subconscious, subjecting all of you to my scary and somewhat disturbing issues in the process, for me to get to this my brand new day, and it is a beautiful brand new day.  See for fixers like me, we need to have something to work on otherwise we’ll go mad, and in my wading through the muck I’ve found the most fabulously flawed creature I could ever have imagined, completely fucked up and totally resistant to change.  Finally, I’ve met my match, the Moriarty to my Sherlock, this crazy bitch will keep me busy for a long long time.  ‘Who is it?’ you ask.  ‘Who do you think?’ she laughs.

“They say I’m hopeless…”

Ladies and gentlemen, a toast: To fond farewells, happy beginnings and an afternoon with John… 

Dunia wiki hii...

When I was a kid I used to love Dunia Wiki Hii, strange I know but I was a strange kid.  That half hour of the weeks news all wrapped up concisely for my digestion was just lovely, even better it was mostly international news which they had nyima’d me all week because they were busy telling me about Mtukufu Rais’ latest gabion building exploits.  Now for any of you struggling to comprehend what I’m on about, just stop reading and move on, you’re too young for today’s post.  I’m not sure if Dunia still runs, last time I checked it had been bumped off, but my obsession for weekly round ups persists to this day.  Only these days I’ve become so cynical with how the world works that I inevitably go looking for the ‘man bites dog’ type stories, I figure if I have to be subjected to the rubbish that passes for news, I might as well get some entertainment out of it no?  And with that in mind…

Am I the only one who reads the paper these days and thinks ‘Are you on crack?’  Does anyone else think that maybe the media has completely lost it?  I’m sorry but charging me 50 bob to read about some genius ‘stepping aside’ doesn’t seem like a fair exchange, or am I just being cheap?  These days reading the paper leaves me more confused than I was to begin with.  Quick question, when someone ‘steps aside’, does that mean they’ve quit or have they gone on leave, were they fired or put on suspension?  And why on earth won’t the idiot writer of said article tell me this in plain English?  These buggers are on crack. 

I’ve been fuming about this all week and now finally I have to vent.  Apologies to any and all I may offend…

Monday’s Nation had a picture of Billy on the front page.  Nothing unusual about that right?  My problem is with the caption next to the picture.  The man is quoted as saying, “Pray for us and pray for this country.  God willing, later this year there will be a man at state house who can say ‘Praise God!’”  There was no smiley after this quote, or an LOL, or a question mark, or even a mild ‘ati what?’.  People, it was not an attempt at humour, or sarcasm, or even satire, this is what passes as headline news these days.  Eh?  Now I’m not interested in the man’s politics, or anyone else’s for that matter, if you want to have an election debate go somewhere else, I have slightly more serious problems to deal with.  What I am interested in however is Billy’s purported religion, a religion allegedly shared by millions in this country.  How is it that a man ‘suspected’ of truly evil shit can get himself quoted on the front page of my daily, mouthing off about God and prayer?  And how is it that none of the many believers in this town have anything to say about this?  How is it that this man is not only welcomed into a church, he’s given a microphone and invited to speak?  And no one walks out?  Really? 

In other news, this time in the Saturday Nation, it appears that one Sonko was apparently also in said church on said Sunday.  He too was given a chance to speak to the masses therein, at which time he narrated his experiences in prison, the prison that at that time was also accommodating the future pastor/owner of this very same church.  Again I quote, “We were with him in remand.  But God works in his own ways.  He is now a preacher.  I left and went on to become a member of parliament.”  And again I ask, eh?  I’m all for redemption but this is bordering on the absurd, if it wasn’t so tragic it would be funny. 

By now you know that I am not even remotely religious, but come the fuck on…  Can the believers out here please stand up and be counted?

Kai ni kii?

Sex(ist) Therapy

“Just let me love you, lay right here, I’ll be your fantasy…”

In case the title of the song, and post, isn’t clear enough for you, here’s a hint, Mr Thicke is not talking about love in the hearts and flowers sense…  You can see where this is going cant you?  I have to put in a disclaimer here.  Ladies and gentlemen, please take off your shoes, hike up your skirts and roll up your trousers, we are taking a walk into the sewer.  Really.  If you’re feeling fragile today, leave, now. 

Still here?  Fine, you’ve been warned.

The next man who tells me his woman is a crap lay is going to get slapped.  I’m serious, I will beat you.  I’m fed up with all you whiny bastards going on and on about how your woman isn’t interested in sex, how she locks you out of the bedroom when you get home drunk, how she never initiates shit, how she keeps turning down your requests for a threesome… enough! 

Long ago when the fellas first started coming to cry on my shoulder, moaning about their respective women’s sexual shortcomings, I’d be all ‘Aaawww, poor baby, maybe you just need to talk to her and tell her how you feel…’  Yes, I’d actually say that, thinking, in my (foolish) female brain, that this was exactly what the poor idiots needed to hear.  Not my most brilliant plan I know.  When I realised that they kept coming back with the same griping rubbish, it occurred to me that perhaps I needed to change tack, so then it became, ‘Woiyee pole, maybe you should show her what you like, she probably has no clue.  Why don’t you try Priscilla Pornchick 10?  It’s tastefully done and very educational…’  That even more brilliant approach got me into more discussions about porn than I care to remember.  Fast forward to now, the feelings approach has been well written off, and the sex aunt approach (a la Gertrude whatsherface, who just for the record strikes me as a bit of a nutter) has proven to be a dark road that’s no longer safe to wander alone at night.  What next?  The fellas are still whining and I’m at the limit of my patience.  It doesn’t help that their crises are inevitably discussed over a drink, or 10, at this rate my liver can’t hold out much longer.  

A couple of weeks ago I had the (mis)fortune of having an excellent drink with a truly lovely lady, she’s stunning and smart and very funny, goofy funny, she knows how to laugh at herself, when she's not laughing at me that is.  So why (mis)fortune?  Well, while she was waxing lyrical about how happy she is and how great things are with her man, I was recalling a conversation had with that same man, only two days prior.  You guessed it, he's not waxing quite as lyrical, I believe his exact phrase was ‘I’m just bored’.  Bored how?  He says he doesn’t get as excited by Ms Lovely as he used to, ‘there’s no va va voom anymore’ he said.  I’m not sure what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure it was a snide remark related to his crappy French accent, but I digress.  Back to the excellent drink, I didn’t say anything regarding her man’s ambivalence to Ms Lovely, partly because I had no idea how to even bring it up, but mainly because Mr Man is one of the fellas so I’m bound by the (and I say this with great shame) code.  Can you say conundrum?   

Slight detour, so this code, where exactly is it written?  Because every time one of these idiots does something foolish its thrown in my face, ’You can’t say anything to anyone, it’s the code!’ he says.  Eh?  If anyone reading this has a copy of this fictional tome, please send it to me, I'll pay good-ish money.  If you have a copy of the girl’s code, send me that as well, we’ll work out a BOGOF deal no?  Moving on swiftly...

Now Ms Lovely and I are friends, but we’re not so close that we share tips on where to buy lube and such like, so its entirely possible that her waxing lyrical about all things man related had nothing to do with their allegedly boring sex life, perhaps she’s also bored, who knows right?  Only I don’t think that’s very likely.  In my experience, women unhappy with their sex lives are only too eager to discuss it, this in an attempt to fix it, because we know that if the sex is not good, odds are the man won’t be in much better condition no?  When a woman doesn’t feel the need to say anything, even after a bottle of wine (or three), there’s nothing to be said, trust me, hence my assumption that Ms Lovely is not experiencing the same level of dissatisfaction as her man, at least not yet.  But this means that she isn’t feeling her man’s pain, so to speak, doesn’t it?  Is she is genuinely oblivious to her man’s sex starved-ness, or general kinkiness, or serious perversions?  How can that possibly be?  How can one half of a couple bemoan the lack of excitement while the other half is dancing through the proverbial flowers with glee? 

Call me naïve, but I’ve always thought that by the time you’re settling down with someone, possibly for the rest of your life, that there’s some sort of basic connection, an understanding.  I assume the (possibly never in the) future Mr Alex will know me well enough to know, for example, that I like to be tied up and gagged (its just an example, I have no urge to be tied up.  Really.), basic fundamentals like that surely must be agreed upon well before any aisle walking is done no?  For two people who’ve been together for more than six years to not be speaking the same language, especially about sex, what the fuck (pun partly intended) is going on?  

You know what?  I blame Mr Man, my friend the deviant.  From what his woman says, and doesn’t say, it would appear that with her he has changed his ways from the kinky whore he used to be in campus (he always tells the story of a girl who liked to lick his ass, literally, and he liked it…) and is now the hot chocolate type, which Ms Lovely seems to like, very much.  But has he really changed?  If the couple of hours spent crying into his beer are anything to go by, perhaps not.  And why doesn’t he just tell Ms Lovely that he’s not satisfied?  It would appear that in a successful attempt to get himself the future mother of his children, he has also successfully managed to screw himself (pun completely intended), he spent so much time convincing her and her clan that he’s a good little boy, good enough for such a good little girl, that now he can’t get so much as a light spanking.  He’s miserable.  And it’s only a matter of time before she is as well.

My point?  Gentlemen, if you’re a nasty freaky bastard who likes to do it on the kitchen floor and then you go out and get yourself a nice girl, well bred and suitably mannered, a good church-going woman who only drinks one cider a month and wears a bra to bed because she’s worried about igniting too much ‘passions’, if this is the woman you choose, you can’t come running back to me complaining that she doesn’t light your fire.  What did you think was going to happen?  That’s like going to a showroom and buying a flashy 2-door coupé and then coming back one week later complaining that it doesn’t have enough boot space for carrying thaara (Napier grass).  You think? 

If you are a dyed-in-the-wool nasty freaky bastard, you need to make that disclosure before you say ‘I do’, because once you’re hitched, all you’ll keep hearing from then on is ‘I don’t!’  Besides, for all you know your bra-wearing-to-bed girl might be as bored as you are, and even if she isn’t, I’m willing to bet all my (un)considerable resources that she’s willing to try something new, if only to make you happy, but you’ll never know if you don’t ask.  See what you idiots don’t realise is that us women want to make you happy, especially in bed, because we know that a satisfied man is half our problems solved, and once you figure out what foreplay means that’s the other half sorted as well.  I’m just saying…  Of course there’s a possibility that your woman will slap you when you ask her for something freaky, but if you encounter rejection it’s only because you’re not selling it right.  Research my friends, that’s the key.

Playing happy families seems to demand some sort of stability, and because of this we select partners based less on chemistry and more on biology (reproduction instead of electricity).  Although, given that the sexy ones are always crazy, perhaps its for the best, at least until the sane ones get less repressed (I’m still banging my ‘Better sex for all’ drum).  Thing is, if you picked her, or him for that matter ladies (last time I checked some of you are just as unhappy as my idiot fellas), if you pick someone for qualities other than their bedroom skills, then you made that bed.  Shut the fuck up and lie in it.  If you can’t, then fix it, go see crazy Gertrude if need be.  And if that doesn’t work?  Then perhaps you’ll be needing to make another bed.  Take that as you may.  

 

On the off chance you’re one of the token few who actually plays the soundtrack, you’ve been listening to the sexiest white man in R&B today.  Worse still, he has one of the sexiest (almost) black women.  Check out the video to ‘Love and War’ if you don’t believe me.  The reason I put this particular song up, apart from the obvious?  This bugger writes to and about his Mrs; when he says ‘it’s your body…’ he’s talking to her.  A song this bloody sexy?  About his Mrs?  Fuck me!  That we should all have it this good no?

This is my new approach for the whiny bastards.  The next time one of you geniuses comes to me with ‘the cow has refused’ tales of frustration, I will slap you, twice, in quick succession.  If it’s as bad as you say it is, then that should be the most excitement you’ve had in a while.  How’s that for therapy?