It’s been a wild month, and not in a good way. I’m lost, and I’m trying to find my way. Again.

I’ve been at this for about a year, and it’s been fun. Twice I’ve deleted this blog, once more at blogspot. I’d do it again, except the powers that be won’t let me. [Thank you kindly, you’re irreplaceable ((you))] Doesn’t mean I should be here, or have anything to say here, just means they won’t let me leave.

Writing isn’t usually very hard for me. It’s a part of who I am, like breathing or steelwool hair. But lately, it’s been hard. Really hard. And I finally admitted that I don’t like hard. I’m lazy. Nothing i’m proud of, just a fact. I like to take the easy way out. The cheapest, shortest, quickest route. The one that needs least effort.

But I’m also a pretty driven person, so I have to justify my shortcuts. I have to be convinced that it’s philosophically and cosmically right, that my easy way out has some predestined place in the order of the universe, otherwise I can’t do it.

I have to be 100% sure that there is a divine reason for me to be in that chochoro, otherwise I’ll take the long way round, or sit on the spot if I’m too tired to walk. It helps that I always have a notebook, novel, music, or a daydream to keep me busy while I sit idly at the shortcut.

I was reading the Friday Nation, and Kamau Mutunga was writing about how hard it is to get words on paper. That made me feel silly. Coz most days I get the blank paper and the words flow out. And if they don’t, then I find some excuse to get away from the paper. My most popular excuse is ‘when i force stuff, it doesn’t work. It has to come naturally’. That’s served me well so far.

But lately I’ve been in a pseudo-depression. Lost interest in everything from rock music to ice cream – apparently, I’m lactose intolerant. I’m even losing weight [yay, the silver lining!!] But I refuse to give up dairy, even if it kills me.

I know that I really need to snap out of it. My usual remedy is to just keep myself distracted, binge on vanilla, and wait for it to tire and go. Not working too good this time, so I figure I need to go proactive. I want to start with writing, my grace.

I read in a Dean Koontz that every human being has a certain grace, a thing that God gave them to make the world better. For some people it’s a smile, you know, those people who smile at you, even if you’ve never met them, and suddenly you feel warm all over? Some people’s grace is genius, or music, or in Brother Odd’s case, light fluffy pancakes. My grace is my writing, so it’s as good a place to start snapping as any.

But now I need to [cliche alert!] decolonize my mind. I need to find that place inside that is about grace, not profit. That place where passion exists for passion’s sake. Right now, i have no idea where that is.

I keep telling myself that I don’t struggle at stuff because I want it to flow, to come naturally. But I finally accept it’s a hoax. I’ve been refusing to try because I’m afraid to fail. I’ve found a million legitimate reasons to stop myself, when all along it’s just old fashioned cowardice.

They say you can’t win if you don’t try, but the thing is, if you don’t try, you can’t lose either. The world asks why not, but mostly, I just ask why. They say ‘what if’, and I respond, ‘if’. And I need to stop, for the sake of my own sanity.

A bunch of times I’ve started to post in my head and got stuck at the third word. Then i’ve stopped, coz nobody will read it. Coz I don’t want my name on something substandard, so I’d rather have my name on nothing at all.

Money makes the world go round. It drives everybody. I’m not really a money person, but I enjoy the things it can buy. And there’s an awful lot of things that I want to buy. So I want to work to make money, but that’s shallow, and when I’m shallow, my mind freezes up. So I have to somehow work for money without thinking that I’m working for money.

Somebody made me a brilliant offer, an amazing offer. Then somebody else took it away. And that showed me what matters, what I want, what I need. I just didn’t know how to get there, coz it needs that one thing I don’t want to need – cash.

It’s pretty frustrating to know what you want but not know how to get it. It’s more frustrating to know what you need, know how to get it, but not want to try. i need to want to try.

My whole life i have resisted trying. I’ve never done anything unless it felt right or came to me effortlessly. I never studied for exams. I figured if I couldn’t pass it on my own knowledge then it wasn’t worth doing. I almost laughed at people who chopped, I convinced myself I was better than them and smarter than them coz I could do it effortlessly. And so I disappointed a lot of people for not doing as well as I should.

I never wrote unless I was inspired, unless the words flowed out. i never talked to anyone unless I felt like it, I never did anything unless the mood was right. A voice in my head is saying that the way it should, be, that I shouldn’t conform, that shouldn’t be like everyone else. And I don’t want to be. I don’t want to fit the mould. After all, eccentricity is all the rage, even if it’s just hyper-selfishness with a weird haircut.

But some things are important to me, some things are worth doing, whether i feel like it or not. Things like earning a living, or feeding my passion. Those are things worth struggling for, worth fighting for, and I think it’s about time I snapped out of it and found the fight in me. I know it’s in here, somewhere.

Dar is my third home now (my second is online!) I don’t get out much, but in the few places I haunt, I’ve been accepted, enough to be told ‘Naona umekuwa Mbongo.’ It’s sort of a compliment, generally given when I out-talk a smart-talking Tanzanian male. They still think I’m too loud though.

By the way, to all you Kenyans, here in bongo, uswahilini or uswazi means ghetto. So you might not want to tell someone “Acha uswahili” coz – uh – they just won’t get it at best – and at worst, they’ll thump you.

Another tourist lesson – Dar residents tend to take things very literally, so be careful with your Kenyanness. A certain Bruno was nearly lynched for telling a conda (they pronounce it with a short ‘a’) ”Wee una wazimu.”

I still get the Mkenya wewe from the construction workers and from random men. But that’s because most local girls respond to cat calls.

I’m quite comfortable here, but I will never cease to be tickled. For one thing, in Dar, you hail a cab [or sell mineral water] by making a loud kissing sound. [this you just have to see for yourself!] So it’s quite easy for a girl to attack a man for simply stopping a daladala…and quite easy for a guy to fake a failed cat-call for his friends! All he has to do is pretend to talk to the conda.

In Nairobi, stima inapotea. In Dar es salaam, umeme unakatika. In Nairobi I eat ndengu na mbosho/maharagwe. In Dar, I eat maharage, na choroko. In Nairobi, nanoki supuu moja odinari hivi. [hey, it’s an example, I don’t swing that way!] In Dar, nazimia sister du. In Nairobi, we have Yo-Yo’s. In Dar we have brazameni.

But the best one is this. In Nairobi, we steal stima. You unganisha some wires to a transformer somewhere in Umoja, and when the KPLC (em, that tells you what era I was born in…) people come, you lock the door, or zima the metre.

People steal in Dar too, but here, they steal water. And I don’t mean from the ocean, though piped water is salty too. And depending on the time of day, you can get hot water from a regular tap.

The water system here is very…interesting. Wires run through walls without conduits, and water pipes run under the sand in basic pvc pipes, the kind used to make flutes in practical assessment. So if you stand anywhere in Dar and dig the sand for about a foot or so, you’ll find a plastic pipe.

All you have to do is break the pipe, fill your bucket, reconnect the pipe, cover the hole, and walk away. No, you don’t run, you’re not doing anything strange. There are tell-tale puddles in the sand all over.

Most neighbourhoods in Dar don’t have class distinctions, and most houses in Dar don’t have compounds, or fences. The house is built using every inch of space on the plot. Which means you step out of your house right into your neighbours. And since there are no class distinctions, you can peep out of your window straight into your neighbour’s … which means you pay the water bills for all your puddle digging roomates.

The weirdest thing about Dar is nobody sees anything wrong with it. People wake up in the morning, take their trips to the water puddle and life goes on. It’s part of Dar culture, like asking for tips. Yes, I said asking for tips. “Hivi dada, kwa vile unatuaga, si utuachie kitu kidogo, kiinua mgongo“

And paying for weddings. I don’t mean the kawaida harambee. I mean you get a wedding invitation (and that includes a kitchen party, send-off party, and the actual wedding – each requiring mchango, each requiring gifts) with instructions of where to deliver your donations, and how much.

Yes, I dared to protest. Yes, I got a Mkenya wewe. Yes, I am going for the kitchen, and send off, and wedding. Yes, grrrr, I am taking presents.

Oh, and yes, I will cover my hair with a [for appearances only] lacy, beaded, nyilninyilni brown veil. No, I will not be checking out the bride’s brothers. Mimi nachill till I find my Pete Sampras and start to keep it strictly tennis. As for them, well, I can’t speak for them, but my dreads will be covered, and I doubt I’ll hear the cab-hailing, water-selling soundtrack above the taarab – so I think I’m safe. Viva daresalama!

Ps : the kitchen party was pure trauma. I am so not doing that again. And *M* dear, i shall translate in a quick minute. 😉

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Lesson 1 : dress appropriately

How not to do it

People in Dar like to swim with their clothes on. Especially their evening clothes. A trip to any public beach will reveal at least 5 women in evening gowns, complete with heels…inside the water. Show up in any less and you will get raised eyebrows. Dare to wear a swimsuit and you will be called names, you know, like Kenyan.

Apparently, I’ve been in Dar too long, coz yesterday morning, I was feeling very un-Kenyan about my swim gear. Let me explain.

I woke up to find the loo [almost] overflowing and the compound all liquid. It had rained so hard that the power had gone out, and the floor was starting to leak. Yes, in my house the floor leaks. Everything was soaked through and there was at least an inch of water on the ground.

But life must go on. We bailed out the house as best we could with several mops and a dustpan. Don’t ask. Then I set off on my errands.

The ground was so soaked that I had to fold up my trouser legs. In most places, the water came up to my knees, and I actually saw a fish on the road. An actual fish. And I’m not exaggerating – for once.

You see, there’s this mtaro that runs along the length of the main road, and it’s filled with yucky green water, and the little boys breed fish in it, and they hunt their fish with polythene bags and makeshift poles, and long story short, if you’re ever driving in my hood and a cute little boy tries to sell you a very fresh fish, just walk away.

Once I was done wading, I had to grab some breakfast, but the only thing I could find were cheeseburgers. So then I had to wade across the road, with my cheeseburger, to get a mat [daladala] back to work. Now, I know this route fairly well, but the water was at my knees so I couldn’t see squat, and some kanges were catcalling something that sounded like a cross between ‘sista dredi’ and ‘there are crocs in the water’ – in swa.

I saw a daladala heading my way and jumped to catch it. Next thing I know, choobloo! I’m neck deep in muddy water!

Lesson 2 : Life saving

How not to do it

I was peacefully treading water when I heard shouts and yells from the kange in the daladala. ‘Anakufa anakufa, okoa!!’

Next thing I know, some unseen hand had grabbed my t-shirt and yanked me out of the water. My handbag was soaked through, so were my nokias and my cheeseburger. I was wearing a white cotton t-shirt, an open sweatshirt and an umbrella…and one shoe.

Luckily, the daladala was too packed for anyone to notice. I called my boss and explained that I needed to go home and change, then I grabbed a cab to drive me the 1500 metres from the stage to my house. I mean I couldn’t walk a ten minute stretch with a muddy clingy t-shirt and one shoe. And apparently, my phone lived long enough to make the call before it died.

Lesson 3 : Keep your eye on the water

How not to do it

I snuck quietly into the house, ignoring the jobless corner boys who were staring at my…tshirt. Princess saw me and rushed to meet me before she burst out giggling. She had the day off because the school bus couldn’t get through the flooding. As is, a sweet neighbour voluntarily [and totally unbidden] carried her from the house to the school bus stage, so that her feet wouldn’t get wet. My role in the scenario was to wade behind them holding an umbrella…

Anyway, the second I got into the compound, all silence was forgotten and I started whining and limping on my one-shoed legs. I sloshed right into the house and…choobloo!

The water level in the house was…higher. And if I hadn’t already been soaked through, well, I’d have been soaked thorugh. But the boss was waiting, so I just peeled off the wet clothes, threw on some dry clothes, changed handbags and headed out. All this before 10 a.m.

I love my life.

PS: i has amazons! Holla for details

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