They say pain makes you know what’s important to you. I’d heard that nakumatt downtown burnt, but it didn’t sound serious. Then I heard some rumours at work, and I was on capital and BBC and Nation and any other site i could find.

You’ve been on my mind a lot lately. In my thoughts, in my dreams. But I wouldn’t let myself call you. I think of you sometimes, lots of times, but I don’t want to bother you. Truth is, I’m a little afraid of you, and I’m only partly sure why.

I texted you this morning, on a whim. I’ve texted you a few times, in my mind, a few times on my phone, but I never clicked send until today. I watched it for a while, waiting for ‘delivered’, but it didn’t come.

I ‘avoid’ you, coz it’s easier that way. It hurts a little to be around you, and to see others around you, so I just stay away, then you can safely think that I don’t care. Coz you said you don’t want me to care.

I told myself I didn’t care. Had myself pretty convinced. But when I opened BBC, saw the ruins of nakumatt, saw the 13 dead and 40 missing, the first thing I did was call you.

Your number isn’t working.

I read about people calling their sisters, their mothers, their loved ones, telling them they’re trapped and can’t get out. Would you call anyone? You don’t like a fuss. You don’t admit you’re scared. You’re a free spirit, you’d find some way out, you’d go down fighting, but you wouldn’t call anyone.

I read about people who’d said they were going downtown. You wouldn’t do that. You’re impulsive, adventurous, you never plan. And you hate peopel keeping tabs on you. If you were missing, no-one would know where to look for you. Would we even know you weren’t there?

Your boss would know, coz you never skip work. And he’d call your cell and find it dead, and he’d maybe check your house. But then what? Would we find you?

Your number isn’t working.

I hope you’ll get to read this. I hope you won’t be angry with me. I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re not trapped somewhere under smoking wood. And I hope the people camped outside nakumatt downtown aren’t as scared as I am. Nothing hurts like not knowing.

Please be safe my friend.

Warning: This could take a while.

Yesterday I was on such a high that the powers that wish they were decided to take me down a peg. And boy, do they know their stuff!

So. I was superhappy for reasons that cannot be mentioned here. Suffice it to say they involved furniture, ice cream, and Rover. But I was happy. Earlier, I’d bought a shiny new toy as retail therapy for a crappy day, but that’s another story.

So here I was was, banging on my keyboard, sharing my glee with one *M* when suddenly haiya: the words are missing. See, I have this…condition. I talk faster than I think. And I think faster than I talk. which means when I’m excited, [or speaking Swa] I tend to stammer. And since I spend so much time online, I stammer when I write too.

[apparently, talking and writing are two different brain functions, which is why smooth talkers can’t do loveletters  for jack, while the Brontes and Shakespearettes of this world can’t say anything past “wsup” without blushing. **Hint hint, cough, cough, I wasn’t faking it my dear**]

Typersomnithingimie – where I type faster than I think, and spell slower too. Which ends up with me writing stuff like ‘aks him to rember liek taht fastre’. Of course those in the know [wink wink nudge nudge] know that I sometimes type like that for other reasons…**blushing**

Anyway, when the words got illegible, I figured it was an attack typersomnithingimie. So I deleted and typed again. Same effect. Then I typed reeeeeaaaaaal sloooooow, to make sure I got the words right. That’s when I noticed it – the damn thing was typing backwards!! I would type james, and the screen would show semaj. Seriously, I’m not kidding!

Of course there was no one with me to explain this phenomenon [or prove it happened, just like no-one but my brother – who is stuck somewhere in Siberia – and princess – who is as loopy as I am, so her word holds zero street cred – can prove my watch ticks backwards.] And of course as one 3 would say, in response to another one of my endless technorants, computers only do what you tell them to. But seriously, I’d like to know just what I told my computer to get it to go debinary!!

After a few minutes of backtyping, the thing just hung, as in stood completely still !! I banged on it a while longer, called it a few names, then long-pressed the off thingie with the pretty circle design and went home, where I tried to get back online.

First, my comp spews out some jargon about configuration whatsit that I can’t understand. All I know is that the screen is blue and it’s supposed to be black. I am troubled. It’s gone DOS on me!! I see something that says F10, save changes and exit, Yes or No. Yes.

No. I’m still here.

Okay, set default, that looks good . Yes or No. Yes.

Bilaz. Okay, I long-press the offdot thingie and put it on again. Still blue, with white borders. Creepy. Now it says date. 02/01/1988. Okay, I’ll change it to 29th january. But nooooo, each time I press 29, the thing just makes this annoying buzzing sound. WTF! I unplug and replug the thing. No luck. [Of course I now know, like as of a few minutes ago, realise the date was written American style, and that the o2 was for month not day, DUH!!]

Eventually, the thing feels sorry for me and re-windows itself. I have no idea how, so I hope it won’t ask for seconds. But apparently, my internet account is low [or something] and the shop was out of top-up cards, groan.

I tried again and the signal was too low, just one bar, even after I sprinted all around the house, clung to the windows, and waved the pretty egg-shaped CDMA modem thingie in the air for better network, nada. Just how many internet thingies are there anyway? Sijui 3G, sijui Edge, sijui WAP, sijui GPRS sijui whatwhat. What do all those things mean? I just want functioning gmail !! And now my chair is leaning left. All ye IT people, stop laughing, this is serious.

So after that cyber-therapy session backfired, I decided to try retail, and went to unpack my shiny new toy. Alas and alack [good grief, I can still remember that phrase?! ] the shine was not to be. It’s got the wrong plug!! So I have to call my friendly neighbourhood cab driver, the same one who drove me to get my toy in the first place, to drive me back for replugging.

Of course the shop turned out to be closed, so the cab fare was wasted, and I have to drive back today. I will effectively have paid three times the cab fare required just to have my new toy. Groan. It better be worth it!!

Then we get home, after falling asleep in the ride, to realise that we have homework. First, princess is distracted by one Walker Texas ranger [my little one takes Chuck Norris over Jack Bauer any day. I think it’s the cowboy hat and red hair. Good girl!!] So she refuses to make a link between boy and toy. It was a spelling assignment.

Then she gets bright, sneaks a sip of my malta, decides she doesn’t like it, replaces the can and pretends like nothing happened [except for asking why on earth I bought a six pack of nastiness. Answer, hehehe, because I knew you’d hate it and leave it all for me, mwahahaha. Plus, I love the stuff] Result: when I open the can for my drink, it’s flat. Argh!!

And finally, Nelly’s mathenglish homework. I have to teach her how to write 564,876,987,785 in words. Twelve times. Now this is easy peasy for you or me. But to someone who speaks very little Engish, and can’t difrerentiate 19 and 90, it gets a little tricky.

I figured I’d try explaining it in Swa and then translating. Okay, so…laki tano sitini na..no. Milioni tano, elfu sita, laki nne na….no. Bilioni mia tano sitini na nne, milioni mia nane sabini na sita…argh forget it. It’s easier in English. And if you can say that in both English and Swa, I dare you to do it in mother tongue. Or French. Or Thai. Or all four. Only then can you comprehend my two hours of agony. AND I lost my pretty tiny taped-up flash disk. How I wish it wasn’t so pretty and tiny, then maybe I could locate it somewhere in the mess that is my bedroom! The memorial service will be held in a shop with lots of ice cream, chocolate, and blackforest cake.

Oh, oh, one more. It’s really hot in Dar at the moment. So hot that my hairdresser has devised an annoying new hairdo to make his work easier by keeping the locks neater for longer. He ponies them up in string. It looks much nicer, professional even, but it itches like…like it shouldn’t!

So, after three weeks of looking neatly professional [refer to FB] and missing my usual rougher look, I decided to let my hair down. Think one sharp, tiny, girly pair of scissors, one tightly wound black string, and one massive head of black hair, and picture the results. Hair down…sure…down on the floor!!

Princess found me bawling and mourning, and only my precious one can cradle my head and say with a completely straight face “Don’t cry mummy, it’s just one hair”.

Parting shot. Kindly decipher the following conversation, coz me, I can’t stop laughing. WTIWG is some weirdo that I work with.

WTIWG : So I have to go home now.

CB: This early?

WTIWG: I have to go wash my clothes.

CB : [only just manages not to burst out laughing]

WTIWG : You see, I don’t have a wife.

CB: So you think wives are for washing clothes?

WTIWG: [mumbles some inaudible reply]

CB: You realize that’s a very chauvenistic attitude.

WTIWG: No…I mean yes…

CB: Okay, so why are you telling me all this?

WTIWG: Well, you see, I know you had a very bad history with that man…

CB: Aha?

WTIWG: And you know, every woman needs man to take care of them…

CB: Aha?

WTIWG: And I really want to help you out, you know?

CB: Aha?

WTIWG: And you see, you have such pretty hands…

Have a good weekend all.

I googled Girl interrupted after a mention on Gilmore girls, and ended up on wiki reading about psychological disorders. After hours flipping through stuff like DID and ASD and schitzowhatsit, I’m a little worried about myself. I hear that’s what med and nursing students go through during diagnostics – learning new diseases and imagining they have them.

But my case is a little…different. I have always described myself as antisocial. I don’t like people. I think it’s called being a misogynist or a misanthropist or something. Or a hermit, a monk. A loner. Bottom line, I prefer my own company.

I do like to stand on the edge and watch people sometimes, kinda like being invisible. And I have a handful of people that I enjoy for extended periods of time, people I can spend a whole day with and not get uneasy or bored. I know all these people by name. But with everyone else, no matter how nice, warm, gorgeous, blood-linked or stimulating they are, after five minutes I start wishing they would leave.

I am generally quiet in groups, unless I’m provoked, and it’s hard to provoke me – or get me into a group. People have tried for years. I never know what to say, and I never feel the need to try. Those in my circle know I’m a chatterbox, there’s no shutting me up. But to everyone else, I may as well be mute. I can stay completely by myself for weeks at a time, I never feel the need for company or conversation. Solitary confinement is some form of paradise.

There are negatives too. I get depressed a lot, the dangerous kind. I sometimes withdraw into myself, even within my circle. I never know what’s going on around me. When I walk, I’m in my own world, inside my own head, so I never see the people walking next to me, and lots of times, I’ve ignored a greeting just coz I didn’t hear it. I’ve walked right past family and friends coz I honestly didn’t see them, yet they were right in front of me.

I hate to ‘suck up’ to people, bosses included, so there goes career progression; my bosses have misinterpreted my aloofness as a lack of interest, or a disregard for authority. One boss actually told me that my work is brilliant, but that I will always be passed up for people with less skill but better attitudes. Reason? I never cow or soft-step when I feel attacked [and i always feel attacked; i’m hypersensitive to slights], or when I think the boss is wrong, and I will never be awed by titles, cars, or prada when the wearer has blood as red as mine. Other people are far more … diplomatic.

I’ve lived here three years, and I don’t know anyone, [or any place beyond the beach doctor and bank] and it doesn’t bother me. I never actively make friends – I just don’t feel the need. The only people I enjoy, the ones I talk to, the ones in my circle, are people I clicked with naturally, no effort on my part. And mostly, it’s them who made friends with me. Of course when I do let people in, I can be smotheringly clingy, and that’s just a scary as my ‘goth’ thing. I wasn’t aware of it, but since it was mentioned, I’m a little paranoid about it, and apologize constantly, which is equally frightening.

The one person I allow [almost] unconditional access is Princess, but even she knows there are moments when mummy ‘isn’t really there’. It’s a blessing that’s she so sanguine and knows how to deal with me. She’ll stay on the other side of the house, peeping at me once in a while to hug me and make sure I’m not mad at her. And she never holds grudges, so even when I snap, she forgives me in five seconds. I love her for that.

I’ve never thought about why I like being alone. It doesn’t seem important, it’s just a fact, just the way I am. And I can usually tell within seconds of meeting someone whether they will penetrate my circle, whether they will be one of those people I let in, one of those people I’ll hang out with, and apologize to, and be terrified of scaring away.

But I got upset on Friday evening when I was talking to Princess’ doctor. He’s a sweet old ismaili man, great with kids and always gives me discounts on her meds coz he knows I’m on my own. He’s pretty chatty, and I enjoy talking with him.

He was telling me about a new Kenyan in the neighbourhood. He wanted me to be friends with her, since she doesn’t know anyone, and most of the Kenyans from the embassy are snobs. He sees me as friendly and bubbly, and thought I’d make a good friend. But for some reason I just felt boxed, like I was being cornered. I was irritated and I wanted to get out of it, to get away from him, and I wasn’t very proud of feeling that way. He gave me the lady’s number, and even now, I’m hoping he won’t remember to ask me if I called her.

I noticed that antisocial is the wrong word for me, since it clinically means people who deliberately fight ‘social norms’ like propriety and good manners and stuff. Sociopaths are aggressive in their dislike of decorum. They know what they’re supposed to do, but they choose not to do it – or are incapable of it. They do the extreme opposite instead, often with violence. Maybe i’m a mild version.

There was another term – dissocial, which means you can’t recognise social behaviour. Can’t be nice or polite or proper coz you have no idea what that is. Autistics are like that, and people with tirrets.

Then there was neurosis vs psychosis. Neurotics are total psyche jobs, bonafide mathare cases. Psychotics are crazy, but can still function and think rationally, it’s just that they just usually don’t, sometimes by choice.

My favourite was borderline personality disorder. Unable to form close personal relationships, tendency to see things as either black or white, good or bad, unable to process that good people can do bad things and vice versa, prone to depression and it’s trimmings. That one had me worried for a while.

I think the biggest reason I refuse to “believe”, the reason that lately, I’ve been trying to crush my romantic side by convincing it that it’s redundant, is that I’m afraid. I’m scared of exposing another human being to my dark side, with its creepy moods and dark thoughts and neediness. I’m afraid of loving someone, then hurting them 15 times a day because I want to be alone. I’m scared of finding that one person I want to be with forever, loving them enough to overcome my fears and commit…and then scaring them away just by being me. It won’t be the first time.