Say it with me...what the...?

I’ve been meaning to put this song up for ages, but for some reason the posts never quite fit.  Not that this one does, but given that I’m about to have a bit of a rant, I thought to play you a lovely soothing song, a love song no less, because it’s Sunday.  ‘Too Far From Home’ is, to my mind, Eric ‘he that has owned my heart since Beats of the Season ‘95’ (I really should abbreviate that, no?) Wainaina’s finest moment.  Its not his most profound lyrically, although it is very poetic, and yes, the nyatiti is excellent, and his voice is as close to perfect as I’ve ever heard it, but there’s something else…

Hata vile nilikuwa mchaji Mungu,

Sina sali itakayoweza kuniokoa,

Upendo wako ni mfoko,

Umenifanya nizame,

Umenibeba,

Niongoze nikufuate…

It’s been one of those months, no?

IEBC

Now I’m a cheap Kikuyu woman, fond of discounts and clearance ‘everything must go’ sales, constantly watching my peni mbili.  I like to think of myself as a fiscally prudent woman (not so much, but I’m having a bit of a rant, so just let that one slide, yes?).  So you can imagine my surprise when my countrymen collectively shrugged their shoulders in resignation when the much touted electronic thingimajigi that cost us, collectively, upwards of 7 Billion Shillings not only failed, but failed so spectacularly we had to return to our previous ways of counting on our fingers and toes (real or imagined).  What the fuck?

I understand that sometimes shit don’t work out, and sometimes technology has a way of making us more stupid than we already are, but for 7 Billion, my friend, I expect not only electronic identification and tallying, I expect the damn thing to turn the bloody pages for me as I tick the 67 ballots.  Not only did my polling station not have a functioning thumb thingimajigi, they made no attempt to explain it to me.  To be completely honest, having gone through previous elections where a bugger striking my name off a piece of paper was the routine, I didn’t even remember that my thumb was supposed to be checked until I got out of the centre.  I want my money back, and I expect many heads to roll for that farce.  BVR what now?  I shall say it again, what the…?

And can the rest of you please stop shrugging stoically like this is normal, its not.  We got screwed, collectively, 7 Billion times, and not in a good way.

REJECTED VOTES

I’m that idiot that was diligently following the IEBC tallying board, watching the numbers tick upwards slowly, marvelling at the new fangled technology (all 7 Billion worth.  What?  I’m not letting that story go any time soon…) and humming along to the melodious tunes of the various choirs at Bomas, they who felt the need to keep singing ‘You lift me up’, as if to soothe what should have been a very angry beast (that would be us, raia, we who spent more time than is acceptable in lines going nowhere, but I digress…).  Thing is, it soon became apparent that there was something amiss when the number of rejected votes was fast approaching 10% of votes counted.  10%?  How now?  That would mean that 1 in 10 ballots were messed up, which means 1 in 10 people didn’t know how to fill in a ballot?  Hmmm…  Yes, there were many ballots to fill out, and some were pretty long, so it’s possible that some people got confused, no?  Turns out, no.  Apparently, that 7 Billion bob system, yes that one, it took to multiplying the number of rejected votes by 8, or 18, or 67, depending on who you believe.  What the…?

Don’t worry, I’ve already bitched about my refund, this is not about the money.  All I want to know is, if you were multiplying shit, why the hell didn’t you think to multiply my Martha’s votes by kendo 10?  Boss, we were chapwa’d by Dida.  Dida?  What the…?  On that note…

DIDA

Seriously though, what the hell?  I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry, but if you voted for the man, put it on a t-shirt, because you, my friend, are a superstar!  Just for the record, I’m not being in any way sarcastic.

FEMALE TV NEWSCASTERS/PRESENTERS/RANDOM JOB DESCRIPTION THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE PROVIDING ACTUAL INFORMATION

Once the IEBC big screen froze, I had no choice but to turn on the TV, a decision I now regret immensely.  If you recall, I’m the idiot sans live TV, which means I haven’t seen a newscaster/presenter for a while.  Picture, if you will, the look on my face when I clapped eyes on the ‘ladies’ of Citizen, and KTN.  Can you say troubled?  Would someone please tell me when it came to pass that all women on TV must be clad in tight clothing, at all times, even the Muslim ladies in their headscarves and tight pants?  What the…?  I mean really, those dresses were so snug I swear I could see their diaphragms, and other, contract.  Now I get why men run home to watch news, that shit is like soft porn, only without the soft lighting, or the nonsensical dialogue… no wait, it does have the nonsense, no?  ‘Ladies’, its one thing to look presentable, it’s another thing to look like you’re looking for tips, and not tips on how to calculate percentages.

CITIZEN TV’S STAGE THINGI IN THE POOL

Hata kama mko na pesa mingi, did you really need to plant it inside the pool, and then have Janet Mbugua do the catwalk thing every hour?  What the hell?  Although, in fairness, that woman, in those dresses, and with that ass, it would be a crime not to milk it (there’s no pun there, you bloody perverts), no?  What?  Oh please… don’t even try to pretend you weren’t turning your TV around to check it out in 3D.  I was, and I’m not too proud to admit it.  And no, I’m still not a lesbian, I’m just idle most of the time, and those geniuses weren’t saying anything worth focusing on, no?  Moving on swiftly, Citizen TV, what the…?

THE THREE COMEDIANS ON NTV

Because I don’t watch much TV I don’t know their names, but there was the guy who used to do, and I assume still does, the business segment in the afternoon (or morning?), the Indian mama (wait, that sounds rude, I meant to say the lady of what appears to be Indian ancestry) and the inimitable Larry Madowo.  On this one I know I’m not alone, what the fuck kind of crack were they smoking?  These buggers were the highlight of my TV watching, if only because they were so foolish, intentionally, you couldn’t help but laugh.  That said, the level of blondness they exhibited was a bit scary, and I am now convinced that a certain someone may swing the other way (wait, that sounds rude, I meant to say someone reminded me of Anderson Cooper, in a good way).  Putting up the spoof picture of Lucy spanking The Baks?  What the…?  Who is your mother?

K24

These ones deserve a permanent ‘What the…?’ for foolishness exceeding the norm, always.  We get it, Kamwana bought you, or more likely hired you, a helicopter.  Perhaps now you could engage in news gathering?  Just a thought.

NATION ONLINE

These buggers claimed to have an election portal, complete with an interactive map.  Perhaps I need to explain to them what interactive means, because clicking on a map and then spending half an hour watching that wheel thingi go round and round and round… that’s not interactive, its just plain useless.  For some reason, Nation just doesn’t seem to get this internet thing, at all, but that’s a story for another day.  As for their crap high-tech portal, they may want to ask for their money back as well, hopefully it’s less than 7 Billion (yup, I’m still not letting go…).

IPSOS SYNOVATE

‘Statistical deadheat!’ they said, as they promised us a run-off.  Now they’re talking about margins of error?  What the fuck man?  These buggers must be on their knees praying that the CORD petition is successful, and that there was some dodgy mathafus going on, otherwise…

RAILA

Boss, how many times must I say this?  In Africa the incumbent never loses.  You, sir, were the incumbent, and we are in Africa, and somehow you still managed to lose?  What the…?  What’s that?  They cooked the books?  What the hell were you doing meanwhile?  When a Prime Minister, and the Vice President, can’t fudge the numbers, then perhaps he’s not a real PM, and perhaps the VP is useless.  Oh my… I think I finally understand the kikapeti thing you kept going on about.  You really got shafted, didn’t you?  Now you know what the other half of the loaf is for, yes?  Ignore my evil laughter.

UHURUTO

I haven’t come to terms with this reality yet.  I need a few more months, and a lot more booze.  What the…?

Now I know, you’re no good for me baby,

You’re my fork in the desert road,

But I know, there’s no turning round,

I’m too far from home...

I would like to dedicate this song to Mr Issack Hassan, he that I suspect may have led me up the garden path, and then down another one, just because he could.  Worst part is, I suspect still have love for the man, useless bugger I am.  These men I fall for, they’re no good for me baby…

Introducing... Obadiah!

Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Kai Nikii? welcome to the lovely Obadiah, one of the more silent members of our little group, and by more silent I mean completely silent, except when he sends me the odd email, usually with irrational demands.  This is the gentleman who instructed me to write on his break-up (A friendly break-up?  Hmmm...), because he wanted me to offer some of my invaluable nuggets of wisdom to the lovelorn, such as I do.  And so I did.  And then he went and ignored me completely, as you shall soon see.  This is his take on the ever thorny issue of break-ups, because he figured it was time we got more male perspectives around here, his perspective to be precise.  I agree.  You will too.

A Friendly Breakup.  Really.

Do things differently.  That’s what I tell myself, trying to actualize the phrase ‘Stand out from the crowd.’  And that’s the mantra I take into my relationships, especially when the boat appears to be wrecking, especially when I’m faced with my own ‘Titanic’.  They say a reaction is everything, and when the relationship bell rings, signaling an end, it’s that reaction that really counts.

I love with my heart and everything in me.  But I’ve been played, I’ve been left due to finances, or lack of, someone has lost interest in me, or I’ve simply ventured forth on my own when there was no more spark.  Nevertheless, I’ve never felt any need to leave my relationships in a bad mode, you simply never know when you’ll cross that bridge again.  Some dinner will do, or a weekend vacation, to finalize on the breakup.  And afterwards, a friendship, that was the basis of the relationship, continues.  My peers find it quite interesting, questioning how one can be friends with their ex, wondering how we can still be laughing moments after calling it over.  It’s all in the reaction, when you know the journey must come to an end.  That’s how I do it.  

I continue communicating with my former lovers, gradually cutting down on it.  And a time comes when I bid farewell, especially when other men come on board.  There’s never a need to make any man jealous, no? He wouldn’t understand, no one in their right senses would. For if one is still friends, good friends, with their former heartthrob then they must have shared a strong bond. And that would make a man, any man, stark raving mad.

My last relationship came after some years out in the cold.  It lasted only four months. But for the next one year, the friendship blossomed.  What was I doing, they would ask, even the lady herself.  Why did I still care about, meet and visit her?  Why were we having such good times, even better than when we were dating?  Is it that I was in denial?  Is it that I never let go?

I’ve seen painful breakups.  I’ve seen people tormented.  And that made me chart my own course.  I cannot do deflated tires, or abusive phone calls and shrieks.  I can’t withstand drama in public or bruises just to make a point.  That’s why I’m careful who I bring into my life.  And it has to begin with friendship.

I call myself lucky that I’m able to harness such friendships, as I wait for time to come and move on.  It actually surprises anyone I date, that I still seek friendships even when we both move on.  No, it’s not that I get lonely, even though I’m a private man.  And no, it’s not that I’ve dated angels, far from it.  I simply don’t let the tense ambers that come with breakups to flare up.

On my last journey, on the night after the breakup, she called me.  When I had immersed my mind with thoughts of moving on and starting all over again, she called me.  Not to try and reignite what was over, but to appreciate me for taking it in my stride and still having the courage to make her feel okay with her decision.  And she never stopped calling, even when we were no more.  Our friendship blossomed, even when nothing else changed.  To this day.

And that’s my school of thought.  There’s never a need to leave each other seething and loathing.  During those years I toiled alone, I was a confidante to many.  Their stories, their experiences were simply not good.  Is there a better way to kill everything off than to have someone in your house when you know your girlfriend or boyfriend is on the way over?  Is it worth to ignore someone’s calls when they have no idea what is going on?  Does one have to raise hell when calling it off?  No, I don’t think so.  You don’t need drama when you realize the relationship’s lights are dimming.  You need to be wise if you see the waters are about to wash you away.

I agree, it’s human nature to want to vent you anger when you are left, it’s anyone’s right to feel wasted, to feel a loss one considers unwarranted.  And many times that’s what makes relationships to end messy.  Because bitterness breeds anger.  Thankfully, patience is a virtue I have in some portions.

Yet again I know, it’s risky, very tricky, to still befriend your former lover.  For jealousy can grow in you, when you see them being treated like a queen by others, when you feel it was you who was supposed to do likewise.  It’s always advisable, at this instance, to keep your distance, it’s always better to cut off any communication channels.  Nevertheless, it never hurts to do it differently. You simply never know what the future holds.

What do men want?

Just so you know, the only time women ask this question is when they’re looking to get serious, or looking for a serious man (I’m not sure that’s the same thing, is it?).  What we really want to know is what do men consider a serious woman, and how can we become one, forthwith.  No really, this question isn’t asked with a view to finding out what’s going on in the (seemingly addled) brains of the other half of the species, it’s simply an attempt by women to break men down into bite-sized chunks of information that we can easily digest.  We want to understand men, in terms of women, no?  Don’t get upset, gentlemen, it’s just what we do, and today’s soundtrack is a classic example of what we’re looking for.  ‘Someone’ is that song that women will describe as a great love song, because the man is saying all the right things, and saying them oh so well.  As to whether we can take Musiq’s word for it?  As much as I have great love for the man, that remains to be seen…

I never wanted a woman that wanted
Me for my name or material things,
I always hope for a woman that’s so sure,

Emotionally secure, with spiritual faith,
A woman that I can trust with all of my secrets,
And even listen to all of my issues,
A woman who never judge me or how I was,
She deals with me strictly through love…

I have a bunch of male friends I’ve known my entire adult life, we met back in ’96 as freshers in Campus and we’ve been close ever since.  We’ve been through campus crushes and passionate but doomed loves, mid 20’s flings and late 20’s mistakes, and now in our 30’s, children, marriage, engagements, heartbreak and fungas (that last one applies only to me, ironically given that I’m funga-averse one, or so I like to tell myself).  Over the years we’ve had many long discussions on what kind of woman they’re looking for and what men really look for in a relationship, but for all everything they’ve told me during those 16 years, I still have no clue.  That’s how confusing men are to me, to all women I suspect.  Hang on, 16 years?  Fuck me sideways!  Every so often I forget how old I am, then I write crap like that and it comes rushing back…  Where has all the time gone?  I have digressed, no?  Apologies.

When we were in our early 20’s, young and idealistic, convinced we would run the world, back then the boys wanted a girl who was hot and who loved their broke asses.  See, back then all the hot chicks in campus had boyfriends with jobs, and cars, and they had no time for the youngsters running around with books in arm and stars in eye.  That was the challenge back then, to get a girl, nay woman, who could see the potential, and shag at the drop of a heart.  Back then the boys would listen to sappy R&B on MetroFM and talk longingly of love.  Those were good times, but alas, they were not to last.  In campus Blackstreet’s (dubious cover of) ‘Can’t buy me love’ was their mantra, but after campus it became ‘We Kamu’.  Once we got out into the big bad world and they got a little cash in their pockets, idealistic thoughts of love flew out the window, to be replaced by realistic thoughts of pleasure, all the pleasure money could buy them.  In their mid 20’s, these buggers were, to a man, jackasses, using and abusing anything in a short skirt, or tight jeans.  What did they want?  A tight nininio, who looked so good all their boys were green with envy, who didn’t cost them too much money or give them too much grief.  At that point, I stopped trying to get to know their girls’ names, they were simply accessories and were treated as such by all parties concerned.  

It occurs to me that that might sound a bit harsh to those of you at that point in your life, but that’s just the way it was back then, and from the few younglings I talk to these days, the way it still is.  Moving on swiftly…

After a couple of years, approaching 30, these men then got it into their heads that they needed to settle down, get married, have the mandatory 2.5 kids and what not.  A couple of them had (what they considered) the good sense to dismiss the party girls they’d been hanging with and went off in search of serious women, women they found disturbingly easily (compared with the drama women go through trying to achieve the same), women they have since made their wives, for better and for worse.  Which brings us to the point of today’s post.  What qualifies as a serious woman?  What is it that men really want? 

All that I hope for a friendship that’s so pure,
A girl I can talk to bout whatever is on my heart,
A woman that needs me, that trust and believes me,
That wont take my kindness as some kind of weakness,

A woman who bares her soul, who’s willing to let go,
That wants me to lead her, but knows how to take control
And when I am feeling down, cause things are going wrong,
She fills me up and makes me feel strong...

As always, I turned to google in search of illumination, but given that I’ve been doing this for a minute or two, I didn’t feel the need to search high and low, this time I went straight to one source, The Huffington Post, not because there’s nothing else out there, but because this site is never content with one answer, allowing its columnists and guests to respond to each other, at length.  There is, of course, the fact that they’re milking this ‘relationship advice’ thing for all the dollars they can squeeze out of it, but who isn’t, no? 

First up is the appropriately titled, 7 Things Men Look For In A Woman.  At first glance, this appears to be the quintessential list of what men want, complete with feel good affirmations like, “Although men and women are different in how we think, communicate and express our emotions, one thing that's true for all of us is that we desire to love and be loved.”  Like I said, at first glance.  Read it again and you realise that, a. she’s not really saying anything you don’t, or shouldn’t, already know, and b. she still hasn’t really told you why that guy you like doesn’t like you back.  What?  Come now, my lovelies, let’s just cut to the chase and admit that the only reason you’re reading this is because you want to know why it didn’t work out with that guy who killed your vibe, or how to make it work out with that guy whose vibe you’re feeling.  Its okay, don’t be shy, that’s what I’m doing too, or at least I was when I first started writing this, last year (long story, will rant another day).  Read this list, but keep in mind that it’s a cheat sheet, written by a woman for women.  The list tells us all a man wants, it doesn’t really speak to the why. 

Which is how I ended up at this article, What Do Men Want?  This lovely woman, on the other hand, does not attempt to give you simple answers, instead allowing the men to speak for themselves, and speak they did.  The summary?  Men want to be men, and for their women to be women.  No really, for all the talk about no more drama and tent tests (#6), seems the one thread running through the responses is that men want women who fit their image of woman (yaani softer, gentler, nurturing, feminine), because that makes them feel more masculine, because being masculine is at the core of who they are.  Incidentally, we had this discussion some months back, with my not so brilliant argument for Type A women to file down their alpha edges, and the reaction was, shall we say strong?  I think my feminist card was revoked after that little piece of genius.  I can only assume that this point I’m making will have a similar reaction, but this time it’s not me saying it, but a bunch of random men.  Don’t write me hate mail, is all I’m saying, if you cant stand this heat, then take it up with the men in your kitchen.  Simply put: being masculine = being a man.  Take a breath and read that again.  Turns out, men just want to be men.  The reason the writer didn’t bother to come up with a pretty little list, instead condensing her opinion to one neat paragraph, is because everything these men were saying could be condensed into one paragraph.  As it turns out, its not that men want to strut around like peacocks cum cave men, with women falling over themselves in awe (although, in fairness, these geniuses do like to do that, often), men simply want a woman, their woman, to see them, and respect them, as men, the men they see themselves to be.  Shocking, no?

That brings me to the next piece of wisdom, What do men really want?  Who cares!  This is a man arguing, quite strongly I might add, that men want nothing more than to be our heroes.  No really, nothing more, his is a list of one.  All the drama and obsession with having the perfect relationship, what us women like to call ‘moulding’, but what men call nagging, all the constant criticism we dish out only serves to destroy the man, and as the lovely gentleman says, “You dont want to break us; if we are broken, we dont work.”  I’m not entirely convinced his hero theory works, but it does have one major saving grace, it fits into our fantasies.  Seems to me that if a woman can’t get over her delusions of fairytales and happily ever after, then perhaps she could get a prince instead?  According to this guy, it can, scratch that, it should happen.  Ladies, he wants to be your knight in shining armour.  Woohoo!  I am resisting the urge to scoff…

I suspect there are a couple of people waiting patiently for me to get to the point and distil all this nonsense down into one of my pithy lists (I mock myself).  No such luck, folks, if you want answers to this one you have go read, because this question cannot, or should not, be answered in bullet points.  The reason I insist you find out for yourself is simple, this question is a mirror; you see what you’re looking for, and what you’re looking for is your mirror image, real or imagined.  If you think men only want hot chicks, hot sex and money, then perhaps that’s because all you want is hot guys, or perhaps chicks, hot sex and money.  If you think men want loving, responsible women to have babies with, that’s probably because you’re (aspiring to be?) a loving, responsible woman, looking to have a baby, no?  More to the point, this question is only asked when a man has vexed you, and you’re sitting there trying to figure what, if anything, you did wrong, and what you need to do right next time.  Stop frowning at me, you know I’m right, right?  No?  Probably not.

Someone who will put up with the things loving me can bring,
But still be there to see us through,
Someone who would put up with the strange and complicated things,
Cause I would do the same for her too,
Someone who I can be real with, aint gotta be perfect,
Because loving one another is all that matters,
It's not hard to explain, so believe me when I say
That I found all of that in you…

What do men want?  What they don’t have. 

Debate my ass! Wait, that's not such a bad idea...

de·bate

  [dih-beyt]  Show IPA noun, verb, de·bat·ed, de·bat·ing.

noun

1. a discussion, as of a public question in an assembly, involving opposing viewpoints: a debate in the Senate on farm price supports.
2. a formal contest in which the affirmative and negative sides of a proposition are advocated by opposing speakers.
3. deliberation; consideration.
4. Archaic. strife; contention.

verb (used without object)

5. to engage in argument or discussion, as in a legislative or public assembly: When we left, the men were still debating.
6. to participate in a formal debate.
7. to deliberate; consider: I debated with myself whether to tell them the truth or not.
8. Obsolete . to fight; quarrel.

(from Dictionary.com) 

That’s the text book definition, the one they want us to believe they understand, and practice.  We, the uneducated masses, with three hours to waste on a Monday evening, know better, however.

debate

Today, a form of intellectual self-masturbation in which one attempts to scale an ivory tower in the shortest time possible. Policy debate was founded in 1957 in an attempt to disguise the throes of the real world with dignified, "intellectual" switch-side arguments. The framers intended it to allow young people to become more active in the world around them and encourage them to do something to help the ailing world. Instead, debaters made the activity into a competition of who could spew the most statistics, impacts, horribly damnable effects/results, screaming evidence at cutthroat speed, and modern debate sprouted as a result. Debate resides close to the top of the proverbial "ivory tower", as the real world gets translated into evidence and impacts, statistics and "strats" to win tournaments. Those who participate for the fun of it are exempt from this definition; it is only applicable to debate when it is applied as a critical theory that can "benefit the world".

Debate, when converted into a social theory, becomes a laughable mockery of the suffering of the world.

(from The Urban Dictionary) 

Wake me up when one of those geniuses actually says something that could possibly change the taste of my tea tomorrow morning. 

Dida for president!

Dear Amolo,

Can I call you Amolo?  I know, it seems rather personal, considering we haven’t actually spoken before, but after all these years I feel like I know you.  For a long time I thought you and I were kindred spirits, that is until you left me, abandoned by the side of the road, as you rode off into the sunset, never looking back.  That’s right, you took the love I had given you and threw it away, and all for a new office, and a bigger car with a smaller flag.  Amolo, was the flag (cum air freshener) in my decrepit tuktuk not enough for you?  Was my undying devotion, even in the face of my parent’s resistance, not reason enough for you to hold on to me? 

Why, Amolo, did you desert me in my time of need?  I supported you through the bad times, only for you to leave me when you got a better offer, an offer that would benefit you, and not me.  Amolo, what did he have that I didn’t, that man in the big white house with the many gates, and a helipad he doesn’t use? 

Oh Amolo, you broke my heart in two when you abandoned our dream; when you sank into the cushy chair he gave you and promptly forgot what it is you, we, really wanted; when you stopped listening to the people who believed in you and your egalitarian dream, and started listening to the idiots and sycophants you surrounded yourself with, thieving, foolish sycophants obsessed with the trappings of power, like stolen land, and 500k suits, and book deals; when your half of the loaf was no longer enough to sate your greed, and you began to eat my crumbs; when your vanity overcame your good sense, and you began buying Polycolor by the truckload, no doubt at the (un)wise advice of your (alleged) girlfriend, the one with the even dodgier hair.  Oh Amolo, why did you have to break my heart? 

But do not mourn for me, my heart has healed, Amolo, and I am stronger now.  I will go on without you, as you did without me. 

I am no longer yours (at least until we go to the run-off, then perhaps I will be forced to reconsider), 

(not) Alex