This one is about a very hot 49 year old...

So for the last couple of months it’s been twice a week, a (somewhat) serious post on Wednesday evening or thereabouts, and a Sunday morning rant that more often than not is me simply blowing off some steam and giving voice to the random issues that have been bothering me.  Thing is, with my work schedule being what it is, I have to revise that plan, which means that my Sunday rant will now appear during the week instead.  The reason I’m telling you this is because, on average (according to the dodgy stats from google), the rants are nowhere near as popular as the rest of my nonsense.  For those of you hoping for my eloquent brilliance, or lack thereof, come back Sunday morning, 10.00 am, GMT +3.  For the rest of you, to quote Jeff ‘karigasha’ Koinange, “What a week!  And it’s only Wednesday…”

We turned 49 last weekend and I must say that we are looking pretty damn good for someone about to hit half a century.  I know, I’m usually bitching about idiot politicians and illiterate journalists, but every so often I sit back, look around and smile.  For all our problems, real and imagined, we are a disgustingly beautiful nation (really, it’s disgusting how hot we are…) and don’t let anyone, including me, tell you otherwise.  We keep taking a licking and we keep on kicking.  Or is it the other way around?  Hmmm…  Ah well, that’s a story for another day, no?  Today we’re celebrating our birthday and for your listening pleasure, because I like you, I give you three Reddykyulass skits off Eric Wainaina’s Sawa Sawa album, because even when “Natheeng is no ronga wakeeng…” we still find a way to laugh about it, don’t we? 

This is my completely random list of ten things I love about this country of ours, because you know I love me a good list.

1.      Farmers Choice Premium Pork Sausages.

This has to be number one on the list, on any list.  I don’t know what illegal shit they put in these lovely little pieces of culinary genius, and I don’t want to know so don’t tell me, but they are the best thing to come out of Uplands since Bata Bullets.  I have a sneaky suspicion that if it wasn’t for illegal drugs, these sausages would the single most trafficked item out of JKIA.

2.      Kenyan Coffee, and Tea, and Beer (or so I'm told...).

We may not make a single malt worth a damn and our wine may taste like piss, but dammit if our coffee and tea, and beer apparently, are not the best thing ever.  On the list of contraband items being smuggled, these are right below the sausages, or above if you consider that very few are willing to be stopped by a scary cop with a big dog, in a strange country where cavity searches of ‘The Africans’ is recommended screening procedure.  I’m just saying…

3.      Kenyan Indians.

They brought us tikka and chapos, and as if that wasn’t enough, they threw in samosas.  Not uniquely Kenyan I know, but if it wasn’t for them our coffee dates would be coffee and… bread?  Enough said!

 4.      Kenyan Men, and Matatu Drivers.

And now you’re sitting there wondering, ‘how did this crazy cow lump us together?’  Thing is, Kenyan men are the most frustrating strain of the species.  Charming, attractive and funny on one hand, and erratic, greedy and devious on the other.  Don’t be fooled, these buggers are ma3 drivers, in a better car, or suit.  They will promise to get you where you want to go, very fast, often using (somewhat) illegal panya routes, and with utmost disregard for your comfort or safety.  And then they drop you off a kilometre or two from your destination, running off to find another customer.  Do you see the link now?

5.      Kenyan Women.

If the men are a strain like no other, then the women are the mother of all strains.  These women will use you, and abuse you, and then make you pay them for the privilege of being in their highly valuable (and delusional?) company.  And then they’ll abuse you again, just.  They still look good though, don’t they?

6.      Sunny Bindra, Charles Onyango-Obbo, Gado and Mutuma Mathiu.

These four men are the reason I spend my hard earned money buying the papers each week.  In their different styles, they speak to a vision for this country that others can only point at silently, if at all.  They expose our foolishness, highlight our brilliance and, best of all, remind us that for all our differences, we really are stuck together, for better or worse.  I know, Bwana Obbo isn’t ours, but in my capacity as most delusional I have just granted him forced citizenship, so there!

7.      Vivian Cheruiyot and Samuel Wanjiru, Paul Tergat and Tegla Lorupe, and all the other brilliant athletes we always forget to remember.

Ah Vivian…  Long may she run, the little pocket dynamo she is.  She is living proof that no matter what some idiot wazungus try to pull by rigging random elections, sheer brilliance cannot and will not be denied.  That she can rock a pretty frock is just a bonus.  And Sammy, the late and great, he’s proof that crazy, or absent, parents need not be an obstacle to success, and that you are your own worst enemy, unfortunately.  Tergat and Tegla?  Class acts like them are all we need to sell Brand Kenya, lenga all those pictures of random lions and shit.  They are dignity personified. 

8.      Tom Mboya Street.

This street is a law unto itself, no?  If we had to locate the heartbeat of Nairobi City, this would be it.  From Old Nation down to Haile Selassie, this street, nay, avenue is a pulsating sea of humanity, 24/7.  It has bars and churches; tiny shops and huge supermarkets and hawkers, always many, many hawkers; banks and loan sharks and a loose kukopesha store; hotels and lodgos and I suspect a ho house, or two; and more counterfeit shit than the whole of Shanghai.  And then, there are the ma3’s…

9.      December Sunshine.

I know, the sun shines the world over, but there’s something about the first days of sunshine in December here, as we’re getting out of the November gloom, that never fails to get me smiling.  The skies are blue and the grass is green, and once Jamhuri Day hits, the country goes on collective holiday, which means, for those of us stuck in the city, less traffic and happier pubs.  Bliss.

10.      Wazua.co.ke.

Someone pimped me out on one of their forums and in the process opened my eyes to another world, literally.  They call themselves (I’m not making this up) ‘The Virtual Republic of Wazua’, and in one particular forum, spent more time than I thought possible discussing torn underwear, in detail (the bit with the C-string had me in tears, absolutely brilliant!).  If that’s not Kenyan, then I don’t know what is.  And just so they don’t accuse me of ignoring their (other) brilliance, this is the place to go if you’re looking for information on damn near any biashara, or if you’re stuck somewhere on what used to be North Airport Road trying to get to the Eastern Bypass (it was 2009 and ‘Wazuans’ got me to Mihango, well, almost, via a random discussion, but that’s a story for another day).  Bwana ‘Jus Blazin’, I thank you, whoever you are, its not every day you get a complete stranger saying nice things about you, but I guess that’s also a Kenyan thing, yes?

I know, it’s not a very elaborate list, but that’s why there’s a comment section down below, no?  Just don’t talk shit about the sausages, that will not be tolerated…

The first rule of pimpin'...

Only a rock band can name a greatest hits album, ‘Films About Ghosts’, and it sells, well.  These wazungus are special!  Thing is, listening to this album I realised, for the umpteenth time, that there is so much music I have never heard, or heard about.  Before this, the only Counting Crows songs I knew well were ‘A Long December’ and ‘Mr Jones’, and even then my interest was largely motivated by the lead singer’s dreadlocks.  Then I listened to this compilation and I felt great shame, this band really is quite brilliant, and by quite I mean very.  But all this has nothing to do with today’s rant, today it’s about one particular track, ‘Friend of the Devil’, their cover of a Grateful Dead classic.  I know, I’m usually the one bitching about covers, but this one could possibly be better than the original (cue irate Dead fans…).   If I had to describe a man, this man, with only one song, this would be it, it captures him better than any 1000 words I put down ever will.  But seeing as how you all don’t play the soundtrack, you useless buggers, write I must.

“Set out runnin' but I take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine,
If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight…”

Over the last couple of months I’ve been having conversations with a devil.  He’s not actually The Devil, obviously, contrary to public opinion I do not have a hotline to hell.  Yet.  But he is an evil, evil man, a semi-devil.  Really.  I smell sulphur when I see his name in my inbox, and it probably doesn’t help that he likes to do the “Bwaahaahaahaahaa…” evil laugh thingi.  This of course begs the obvious question, why am I talking to this man?  Well, because he’s an honest evil man, as honest as a seemingly amoral being can be that is.  Perhaps honest is the wrong word here, forthright may be more appropriate.  And what’s he so forthright about?  His whoring ways of course, this man is a self-confessed dog.  No really, he calls himself a dog, this isn’t an ‘all men are dogs’ rant.  Simply put, the man has no qualms screwing around, for no reason other than because he can.  You heard me, because he can.  He makes no apologies for his actions, and despite my constant prodding, apparently feels no remorse.  He is a superbly flawed character.  Goes without saying that he fascinates me to no end…

On the surface of things, a man such as my semi-devil is a truly amoral creature with no hope for redemption.  He screws around, sometimes recklessly, and then he brags about it, and even worse, some of us applaud, usually undercover though.  But that’s only one side to the man, he’s also a professional man, practically a workaholic, and he’s a man who cares deeply for his family, such as it is.  Getting to know a bit of the man behind the blog has forced me to redraw the image I had of him, flesh it out, add some character to the character, so to speak, and now I struggle to write him off as a bad, bad man.  The worst thing I can say about him is that he’s a bit of an idiot, obsessed with ass, with issues from here to Timbuktu.  That and he has a bit of a temper, his short fuse makes my Susan look like an amateur, suffice to say most conversations consist of shouting at each other for a couple of days and then agreeing to disagree.  Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t particularly care for his lifestyle, to be honest some days I’m not quite sure I get what he’s about, but I’m old and cynical enough to know to look below the surface before condemning someone offhand, you just never know, do you?   

“Ran into the devil, babe, he loaned me twenty bills
I spent the night in Utah in a cave up in the hills…”

Thing is, after talking to all manner of idiots, I’ve learnt not to buy the perfect image a lot of us keep trying to sell.  Some of these smartly dressed, good job holding, god fearing, pillar of society types are not very good people, some of them will cheat, steal and kill just to get ahead, all the while hiding their filthy natures under their designer suits, with matching iPad purses.  For others, it’s simply a case of wearing a mask to hide the pain and dysfunction in their lives, convinced that if they fake it long enough, then one day they’ll make it, no?  And once in a (long) while you’ll come across the unique souls that actually are as good, or bad, as they appear to be, people who can’t be bothered to bullshit you, or themselves.  ‘Where am I going with this?’ you ask, confused.  Honesty, that’s the point I’m struggling to make.  More to the point, living an honest life.  Does that sound suitably pious?  Fret not, I can safely assure you that I am many things, but I am not pious, not even when I’m delusional.    

My definition of living an honest life is living true to who, or what, you are, its about honesty to self, because its only by doing that that can you be honest with others.  You don’t see tigers running around trying to be zebras, eating grass and what not, just because they have stripes too?  No.  A tiger will be a tiger no matter what, and it makes no apologies for eating the zebra (I know, tigers and zebras live on different continents, but let’s not split hairs, I’m trying to make a point here).  Similarly, if you’re a whoring bastard (and this applies to both sexes), then what business do you have acting like a saint, or vice versa?  I figure there’s more than enough space on this crowded planet for all types.  If your pleasure is random sex and partying then so be it, that’s why man made Las Vegas, and Westlands.  If you’re a strict morals and values type, knock yourself out, heaven on earth awaits you, and failing that, there are many churches on Ngong Road that will fit the bill, right?  All I’m saying is, don’t waste your, and everyone else’s, time pretending to be something you’re not.  To quote Katt Williams, “The first rule of pimpin’ is a pimp don’t lie!”   Yes, I just quoted a man with a better perm than mine, deal with it.

“I ran down to the levee but the devil caught me there
He took my twenty dollar bill and vanished in the air…”

My question is this, is it better to be a Hugh (or Harriet) Hefner, openly living a life of grand excess and debauchery, this while earning your living, taking care of your family (if any), contributing to society and what not; or to be a seemingly mild mannered ‘Alex’, but with a hidden Hefner alter ego, quietly going about your business in accordance with all that’s expected of you, but every so often donning your disguise and letting your bad side run riot?  Does conforming to society’s ideals all the while concealing your own non-conformist nature make you a hypocrite, or are you simply being a pragmatic bugger who knows that showing your true self will inevitably make your life that much harder, hence the decision to hide that which is considered wrong?  This goes further than being a langa bastard, it applies to all of us who for one reason or another don’t fit into society’s mould.  Senior bachelor/spinster, atheist, homosexual, polygamist, divorcee, there’s countless people who don’t, or don’t want to, or simply can’t, subscribe to the narrow definition we’re constantly being bullied into, but rather than have to constantly fight (for the right to party in Doc’s case…), we choose to pretend, or conceal.  It’s easier, no?  Thing is, by hiding who we really are, aren’t we perpetuating the myth that we’re all the same, all ‘normal’, thereby making it even harder to be our true selves?  It’s a negative feedback mechanism, isn’t it?

“Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night,
The first one's named Sweet Anne Marie, and she's my hearts delight.
The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff's on my trail,
And if he catches up with me, I'll spend my life in jail…”

Using this twisted logic, my biggest gripe with my semi-devil seems to be the semi part, I don’t understand why he insists on going the katikati yao route, I say if you’re going to be a dog, be a dog, a real dog, otherwise you’re just a goat with sharp teeth.  You know what happens to goats?  They get slaughtered and eaten, and then their heads are boiled for soup.  That never happens to a dog, not around these parts anyway.  Listen, it’s not like the decision to be one or the other is irreversible, you’re allowed to change your mind, and ways, whenever you so desire.  We all know crazy buggers who whored their way through their 20’s and now in their 40’s are ‘model citizens’, similarly I know people who were suitably ‘upright’ for the first half of their lives and are now spending the second half as close to horizontal as possible, being amateur whores and loving it.  Bora you don’t kill anyone, shida iko wapi?  All I’m saying is, the last time I checked, being a good person is not synonymous with living like a monk.  

I’m well aware that next to no one will agree with me here, and that’s okay, I’m not trying to convince anyone.  The reason I wrote this is simply because my semi-devil has been known to stage sit-ins here every so often.  This is an explanation, and a warning.  For all his flaws, and he has several, as we all do, the man is honest, for the most part, about who and what he is, and that has earned him my grudging respect.  If you have a problem with him and his ilk, leave it here, or don’t go there.  Trust me, its much worse than it looks, but damn it if he doesn’t get you laughing…

 

“Got a wife in Chino, babe, and one in Cherokee
The first one says she's got my child, but it don't look like me…”

I wanna...

"Let me take off all your clothes,
Disconnect the phone so nobody knows..."

This is a salacious tale of lust and (mild) perversion.  Now that we’ve got that out of the way…

I had one of the most fabulous ‘not a date’ dates of my adult life a couple of weeks ago, and I can’t talk about it.  I want to talk about it, I’m itching to give you all the gory details, but because it’s not only my story to tell, I can’t, or is it won’t?  You have to give me credit here, I’m finally learning not to tempt fate.  Folks, this is one gift horse I will not be looking in the mouth.  That said, I’m bloody frustrated with this situation.  Just this once I’d love to talk about time spent with a man that didn’t end with me pissed off or disappointed.  But noooo… this was ‘not a date’, and thus cannot be treated as such.  It was just one of those nights when the planets were aligned and the gods were smiling down on me saying, “Throw her a bone(r), she looks like she could use a good shag, don’t you think?”

In case that intro didn’t scare you off and you’re sitting there thinking that I’m about to start an eloquent rant about dating and shit, you might want to take a closer look at today’s track, the make-out and/or get laid anthem of the first half of the 90’s, at least for those of us who had just finished coming into our hormones aided, no doubt, by the landing of MTV on our shores, courtesy of KTN.  Slight detour, if you remember watching this video and blushing furiously (as much as us black folk can…) because your mother just walked into the room, know that your ass is as geriatric as mine.  For some reason, my mother would always appear just as the chorus was starting, very creepy!  And the subsequent embarrassment of having to explain what they were saying, and why, and why ‘did I like things like that?’ (said with a disgusted sneer) practically scarred me for life.  To this day, whenever something even remotely sexual comes on screen, I look over my shoulder, just in case…   Further detour, didn’t that lead singer dude have the most delicious looking hair?  He looked like a wella ad, all bouffant and shit, he was so dreamy.  Last detour, I googled in search of the video and, as always, found out shit I didn’t need to know.  Turns out, half the idiots on the internet think the song is crap (they just don’t get it, bloody philistines…), and the other half felt the need to tell me that CMB sampled Betty Wright (look her up, its worth it), among others, and by sampled I mean borrowed somewhat heavily, allegedly.  Hell, at one point I was half expecting to find a random connection to Lady bloody Gaga, just to spite me.  Damn this internet! Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?     

Moving on swiftly…

Now, contrary to my tales of the local and such like nonsense, I’m not much of a people person, which is to say I’m somewhat anti-social.  I don’t like crowds, half the time I don’t even like people (present company excluded, of course).  Most of my weekends are spent in quiet solitude, the only exceptions being my family every so often, and the fellas derailing me on a random Saturday night.  But the thing about living alone, and being a loner, is this: sometimes, every once in a while, you long for company, you crave real live interaction, as opposed to talking to faceless buggers like you (whom I am very fond of, she said, not wanting to scare off her lovely audience of fifteen or so…).  Sometimes, you simply yearn for another person’s presence, their touch.  This isn’t about pining for a certain someone, it’s about pining for a certain something.  Being single, sometimes you miss being in a relationship.  Having someone to talk to when you’ve had a bad day, to share a cognac with when you’ve had a bloody good day.  Someone to share a meal with once in a while when you’re tired of cooking for one and eating in front of the TV.  Someone to make you a cuppa (plus a biscuit) at ten, or get you a blanket to cover your feet on a cold night.  Someone to snuggle up next to, just because you can.  Someone you can undress slowly as you make out on the carpet, because you can’t be bothered to stumble into the bedroom…

I got a call late in the afternoon, he was driving past and wanted to stop by and I was only too happy to see him, I was in need of pleasant company and pointless distraction.  Someone to talk to me for a couple of hours, make me laugh, make me think, force me to unwind and lay my burdens down, if only for a couple of hours.  Someone to talk to about life and love and everything in between.  Someone to sit back with and watch the cars go by, listening to New Jack Swing and reminiscing on an almost forgotten youth.  Someone to share my deepest fears and most petty issues with, because he knows me well enough to distinguish between the two, and he’s comfortable doing the same.  Someone with whom I can have mind-bending conversations about anything and everything under the sun.  Someone who tells me about his life and times, laughing at his little foibles, shrugging off his not so little mistakes, admitting to forgotten passions and revelling in past glories.  Someone who willingly acknowledges his weaknesses, allowing me to acknowledge mine.  Someone who knows what I’m thinking, sometimes before I do, but still waits patiently for me to form the thought and voice it, minutes later.  Someone who looks at me and sees me, and smiles because he’s glad to be there, at that moment, with me, as I am with him.  Someone who knows to top up my glass of wine, his hand lingering on my arm for a moment, before he opens another beer.

Someone who’s craving that touch just as much as I am… 

Someone to kiss me goodbye at the door, or hello, as he shuts the door, still inside.  Someone to nuzzle that spot on my neck, as he slides the shirt off my arms.  Someone to slip his hand up my vest, stroking my back, and then my front.  Someone to push me up against the wall, mouth teasing me as his fingers work their way down, gently opening me up.  Someone to lead me to the bedroom, undressing me slowly as he does, sliding the jeans past my hips, as he eases me down onto the bed to pull them off, one leg at a time.  Someone to strip for me, slowly, his breath quickening as I take him in hand, eager to taste him.  Someone to lift me up only a few minutes later, urgency overtaking him as he pulls me onto his lap, his hands on my hips, his lips on me as I match his rhythm.  Someone to lean back onto the bed as his pleasure overcomes him, pulling me down on top of him.  Someone to laugh with, coming down from the high.  Someone who refuses to let me get up, pulling me close to him, whispering, let’s do it again…

"Girl you make me feel real good

We can do it 'til we both wake up..."

Hello my lovelies.  So what do you say, can you put up with my nonsense for another 6 months?  Come on, let’s do it again…

With your permission...

I had a free day last week (yes, it’s that bad…) and apart from occasionally rolling over to prevent bedsores, I did next to nothing and it was just lovely.  Instead of working, I spent my time trawling through the many Kenyan blogs in search of the magic formula that will transform my visitor stats from the slow heartbeat they are currently (mostly flat with random spikes every two days, from spammers in Russia no less) to something resembling the equalizer pattern of house music (Apparently these days its called trance.  Eh?).  Don’t freak out, I’m not looking to get commercial on your ass with Kiwi ads and what not, I’m simply trying to figure this blogging saga out.  See I’m a bit of a Type A personality, we compete even when there’s no reason to, it’s our OCD kicking in; ‘Must do better!’ is the mantra always running through our subconscious (courtesy of crazy parents no doubt), but I digress.  I’m not looking for fame et al, I just want world domination is all, and I’m still 365,413 off the mark by my count. 

Slight detour, the phrase world domination always reminds me of ‘Pinky and the brain’.  Now those were mice with a brilliant (flawed) plan… 

I was saying, so I’m sitting there reading all these blogs wondering, eh?  Half of the time I had no idea what they were talking about (either too deep or not deep enough), and the rest of the time I was mentally correcting misspelled words and absent punctuation (my bete noir as a French speaking friend would call it, pet peeve to the rest of us…).  And that’s when it finally hit me, I’m one of the older (oldest?) bloggers out here right now.  Turns out, most of the buggers I’ve been reading are but tender younglings, yet to hit their 30’s.  Damn you bastards, damn you!  Ha!  When did I get so old?  In my head, I’m still a 25 year old, fumbling around in the dark trying to get my bearings, and then I read geniuses moaning about turning 21.  21?  Sweet Jesus!  At that age, Tupac is as remote to you as Elvis was to me when I was growing up.   

When did I get so old? 

With this realisation, however, came a calm.  I’ve realised that I don’t have to struggle to be heard in this din, I’ll never be heard, at least not by the masses, because the masses do not want to, or cannot, hear what I have to say.  It’s simply a different market, no?  I remember what it was like to be in my 20’s, I had no time for old folks, no interest in their experiences and their boring tales of ‘when I was a young man…’, I was a brash little thing with only one thing on my mind… you guessed it… world domination, and I wasn’t about to stop and listen to some old geezer tell me otherwise.  Well, the joke’s on me now, isn’t it?  I’m the old geezer, screaming to the world, ‘The end is nigh!’ and being resolutely ignored.  And it’s a bloody relief.  See, the thing they never tell you about getting older is how much easier life gets.  Well, sort of.  You no longer have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, unlike Atlas, you can shrug it off.  And the world doesn’t end.  In fact, it keeps spinning along on its axis, blissfully ignorant of the tectonic shift in your mindset.  It doesn’t give two shits about you and your petty dramas, neither, for that matter, do most of the people in it.  In my 30’s I’ve realised that not only does the world not revolve around me, I actually like it that way, because that means I’m free to do whatever (and whomever?) I like without the paralysing fear of what other people think. 

Don’t get me wrong, its not that I feel nothing for the people around me, I’ve just learnt to focus on the people around me who matter.  The rest?  For as long as I do no harm as I go about my business, I’m good.  I know, it’s a very insular way of thinking, ignoring the rest is tantamount to selfishness, or heartlessness.  ‘Where’s your sense of humanity?’ you wail, offended by my caustic attitude.  ‘Right here,’ I reply calmly, pointing at my chest.  My heart, you idiot, not my boobs, useless deviant bugger…  Thing is, I can’t change the whole world, and I’m done trying to.  These days, I’m only interested in changing this minute little part of the world I inhabit.  If, through my labours, I can make my life, and that of the few people I come into contact with, better, then that’s good enough for me, because I live in the delusional hope that they will do the same, and then those they touch will do the same, and on and on…  Pay it forward, that’s my mantra these days.  Simplistic?  Probably, but perhaps simplicity is what we need more of, no? 

This is not what I sat down to write about, I sat down to write about blogging, this was supposed to be ‘Blogging 301: lessons learned after 6 months of rambling aimlessly.’  But as with all things mental, I took a tangent, and now I have no idea how to get back to where I wanted to be.  And thus we get to the point of this meandering post.  Have you ever had one of those days when everything that could possibly go wrong, does?  That’s the kind of month I’m having, and then some.  Nothing too serious mind you, just that my professional and personal lives seem to have conspired to screw me over, simultaneously.  If it’s not the deluge of work I’m drowning under, like a Nairobi street with blocked storm drains (insert bitchy cat sound here…), then it’s the peculiar men who seem to delight in waltzing in and out of my life, knocking me for six in the process.  When it rains it pours, no?  I’m still kicking though, so I guess I’ll live to see another month, and in the meantime I’ll have to be content with the reassuring knowledge that with time this too shall pass, and it will pass, even if I have to drag it out the door on its shitty little ass. 

That’s my way of apologising, by the way, for my tardiness in posting the last couple of weeks.  I know this isn’t a prison with strict rules and shit, but I have a thing for order, seeing as how I’m such an OCD idiot.  I like a schedule (and a good list too, but that’s a story for another day), and I specifically like to keep a schedule here, because this is pretty much the only thing in my life right now that I can control, the rest of my time being spent acquiescing to irrational demands for my time from my crazy clients, and my mother (bless her, she’s driving me mad this week…).  The last four months I’ve been posting twice a week, every week, without fail (I was late the one time, but I had a good single malt excuse, no?).  Some days its rambling nonsense, some days its rambling nonsense with purpose (yaani, I’ve decided to bang a drum, kinda like today…), but on all days it’s a not too serious, upside-down look at my life, and yours by association.  But this month… bleh…  The cow has refused!  I think the problem is that I had told myself I’d take this month off to recharge and reboot, and then I didn’t, and now I’m feeling like it’s the first week of school in January; you’re excited to be there, but you don’t really feel like doing much of anything. 

Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, naomba leave.  I’m taking a couple of weeks off, two weeks to be precise.  I’m not going anywhere, unfortunately, odds are I’ll still be lurking around, making a nuisance of myself in other people’s houses, just, I figure if I’m older then I get to say whatever the fuck I want, no?  Ha!  That felt good…  I’ll be back on Wednesday 30th May, 10:00 pm, GMT +3.  Really.  The post is already scheduled, and it’s muchos filthy, but in a good way.  Or not.

Be good, don’t break anything while I’m away.

POSTSCRIPT

You think maybe you could use this time to read some of the more neglected pieces of brilliance in my archive?  I mean really, you just lenga’d the zebra saga, completely, and it was very educational!  Shame man…

Play like a woman, win like a man.

I know, sounds like a self-help book doesn’t it?  Fear not, I’m too delusional to write anything quite that serious, or helpful for that matter.  Folks, may I present:  THE Kai Nikii? CLUELESS MEN’S HANDBOOK FOR GETTING A WOMAN.  ANY WOMAN.  REALLY. 

Catchy title, no?  No?  Moving on swiftly… 

Women.  We vex you don’t we?  We say one thing and then turn around and do the exact opposite, and then we give you hell when you ask us why.  I know, its bloody frustrating, but what can you do, right?  Gentlemen, because I am a kind and generous person, and because it’s a sunny Friday morning and I’m in a good mood, I’m going to give you a few tips about the games women play, and how to beat them at it, and to make it easier to comprehend, I’m going to make like the PM and go all football metaphor on your ass(es).  Forgive me for taking the name of the beautiful game in vain, but needs must and such like nonsense.

Now before you step out onto the pitch you might want to get yourselves in shape, a couple of sprints, a jog or two, maybe a push up here and a lunging squat there.  The aim is not to firm up your biceps, glutes and others, although that’s a much appreciated bonus given that your rippling muscles leave them drooling when you step out in your sleeveless tunic and ass gripping shorts (remember the kit Cameroon wore to that Afcon in Mali?  Sweet!), you also need to build up your stamina so you can last 90 minutes and more without collapsing like the geriatric England back 4 at the last World Cup (and the one before that, and the one before that…).  Its not KBL festival of darts, is all I’m saying, your ability to drink like a fish and still shoot straight will only get you so far, you have to put in the work if you want results.  Think Stoichkov, not Romario.

1. This game is one of endurance and persistence, if you can’t outwit them (and you probably can’t), then outlast them.  They’ll eventually get tired and lie down.

Assuming that you have trained like there’s no tomorrow and have now qualified to play in a real game, you then get to walk on to the pitch, if you’re lucky in a magnificent cathedral like the Bernabeu, or, as is more likely, a little bowl like City Stadium.  No matter though, the rules of the game are the same; you score, you win.  No, I’m not being blonde, this game is slightly different from football.  In football you play as a team, looking to score the most goals, yes?  Not in this game, here only the bugger who scores, scores.  Teamwork is only useful in as far as it gets you to the goal mouth, then you’re on your own.  If you have visions of being a nondescript sweeper cleaning up at the back for the rest of your life, my friend, you will be alone for a long, long time.  Even Baresi came forward every so often, and scored, no?

2. You have to take a shot, yourself, eventually. 

There you are, you and yours on one side, and a bunch of women on the other.  What?  You thought you were playing each other?  Noooo…  What fun would that be?  You’re playing against a bunch of vicious women, extremely devious and deceptively small, but with one or two defenders who look like they ate their children for breakfast.  These women play like Italians, professional fouls from start to finish, this as they smile sweetly at the ref they bought two weeks ago.  Please note that before the game starts one hand is tied behind your back, and then said hand is loosely tied to your boot for good measure, just in case.  Not to worry though, these ladies won’t be using their hands either, they just got their nails did…

3. The game is stacked against you, adapt or die (alone).

So the game is about to kick off and you notice some commotion on the opposite end.  What’s this, the goal posts are being uprooted?  And now they’re carrying in a new set…  What the hell?  Not to worry, one goal is the same as the other, right?  The ref blows the whistle and you’re off, running down the pitch with fluid well thought out passes, all German like, tap, run, tap, run… in a couple of minutes you’re right outside the box.  The ladies, however, are quite nonplussed, standing on either side of the goal, chatting.  Confused you look to the ref and he waves play on, so you swing in a cross to your star striker, he that always claims to score.  He leaps up and swivels his body, raising his right boot to meet the pin-point Beckam-esque cross.  Thwack!  He bicycle-kicks the ball over his head, flash bastard, and it’s headed into the top right hand corner.  The crowd is hushed watching the trajectory.  The ladies are hushed watching the trajectory.  The team is hushed watching the trajectory.  Then at the last minute, the ladies on the right give the goal posts a little shove to the left and the ball whistles just past the upright.  That’s right gents, the goal posts are on rollers.

4. The goal posts can and will be shifted at any moment, deal with it.  

You run to ref crying foul but he walks away, unmoved.  Play on, he says.  You shrug and get back into position, you figure that with your skills, its only a matter of time before you score, law of averages and all.  The ladies get their goal kick, and their keeper, a voluptuous little thing clad in a skimpy outfit better suited to beach volleyball, promptly kicks the ball right back to you, winking saucily as she does so.  You miss the ball completely as a result of such blatant overtures, at which point their striker, a nippy little thing who bears some resemblance to Marta snaps up the ball and takes off down the wing, making a beeline for your goal.  You start to chase after her, but you quickly get distracted by the sight of her ample ass jiggling in her Sepp Blatter inspired booty shorts as she sprints ahead of you, and before you know it the rest of your team mates are right there beside you, watching her go.  Ah, the beautiful game…  She shoots, but your goalkeeper, the only other person with his eye on the ball makes a fantastic Casillas type save.  So fantastic in fact, that Marta walks up to him and kisses him, a hot, nasty, ‘we are about to get busy’ kiss, grabbing his head in one hand and his ass in the other.  You know the kiss I mean, no?  No?  We must talk about that, later.  He passes out in a delirious fog of lust (Casillas again?), and they both leave with the medics, having just scored their own goals. 

5. Keep your eye on the ball, if you want to score.

Game restarts but this time the ladies have come to play.  They’re in an aggressive 2-3-5 formation, they’re out to score.  They quickly pass the ball forward, flowing towards your goal like a wave, tap, tap, tap, tap… you can barely keep up.  You slide in to tackle the winger, but she skips over you lightly and continues her run down the flank, leaving you on the grass with skid marks on your ass.  She plays the ball into the box and your defender heads it away over the crossbar.  Corner.  The lights go out, then come back on a few seconds later.  In front of you now is the all star team.  Yep, they switched players, all of them.  Where before you had Wangeci, the unassuming intern from accounts with a thick Nyeri accent, you now have Maryanne, the ’accounts assistant’ with a bosom to die, luscious locks down to her pert little ass, and an American accent (with faint traces of Nyeri).  Again you run to the ref crying foul, and again he walks away unmoved, checking his mpesa balance to confirm the cash is in.  They take the corner, Maryanne rubs her boobs against your defender’s back and he turns to her, inadvertently heading the ball into his own net.  He shoots, she scores.  The lights go out again, and when they come back on, Maryanne is gone and Wangeci is back, only now Wangeci has his number.

6. Substitutions will be made, often, with no warning. 

When the game restarts, you manage to steal the ball away from their midfield as they gossip about your number 7, the one with the very tight shorts on, who runs like a girl and squeals each time you touch his hair, the one you suspect is really playing for the ladies team.  You sprint down the field, heading straight for the centre, that way they cant shift the goal on you again.  As you huff and puff towards the goal, you notice the voluptuous goalkeeper standing in the corner with your star striker, having an intimate chat.  Incensed at not being taken seriously, you continue charging forward, ignoring the screams of your better placed, and more talented, team mates, this goal is yours.  At the edge of the box you chip the last defender and watch as the ball floats towards the goal mouth, dipping…  The goalkeeper looks up in shock at the unexpected attack.  Dipping…  Your other star striker, the one who spends most of his time wandering around aimlessly contemplating a new hair cut, lurches forward to try and poach it, but it flies just over his head, dipping…  It looks like its going in and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.  Dipping…  And it’s in.  The crowd goes wild…  You are now a superstar.

7. Skip the bullshit and go straight for goal.  They won’t see you coming, and by the time they do, it will be too late.

Game tied at one all, the remaining players are forced to go to penalties, this after a boring extra time where all they do is walk from one end of the pitch to another, sipping on a clear liquid that looks like water, but isn’t.  Being that they’re all Africans, the penalty shoot out is nothing if not dramatic, if for no other reason than they’re all quite plastered.  After each player has taken a shot, and missed, the game is still tied at 1-1.   Being that they’re all drunk Africans, they then decide that they are tired and resort to taking body shots, last man standing wins, and thus loses.  Remember those defenders who looked like they’d eaten their children?  Turns out baby fat is an excellent stomach lining, soaks up alcohol like a sponge.

8. When all else fails, try tequila.  Or not.

There are days I worry for my sanity, and if you’re reading this then I worry for yours too.