Anatomy of CFA

Here’s my latest theory. A CFA is not CFA.

Hang on, that’s not as dumb as it sounds.

Think about it. CFAs are based on convenience. But as long as two [or more] people are involved in anything, convenience will be relative. Mr A might get hunger pangs while Ms B is busy with Mwaura. Or the lady may want some when the guy has had a long day and just wants to sleep.

In relationships, working relationships that is, the couple compromise. The sister from the red hills might choose to buy a lollipop, or the poor exhausted stud may sip some lucozade and pop a few Viagra for the love of his girl. But in a CFA, there is no care, no obligation. You can simply say you don’t feel like it, and that’s it. Which leaves the Co-CFA in a fix, unless of course he or she has a whole list of Plan B’s. i.e. multiple CFA, or an active LBCG – little black caller group.

But here’s the clincher. The kind of people who operate CFAs can’t have them in multiples. They’re just not wired this way. I explain. See, the CFA is about supply and demand. You want ngingi and your CFA can supply it – at their convenience, not yours. But who gets into a CFA? Generally, smart monogamous people having trouble sustaining ‘normal’ relationships. They’re usually recently broken up and craving their regular dose, or disillusioned with coupling and looking for a parachute. CFA is the logical option.

See, the average [read stupid] population go around having one-night stands. They have them in all shapes and sizes – gloved, ungloved, single, prepaid, married, roofied. And you never know where your shag has been. Their habits may be less than stellar. Or their partner’s habits. Or their partner’s partner’s habits. People don’t remember that when you sleep with someone, you’re effectively sleeping with everyone they’ve ever slept with.

Take scenario A. A shapely teenage girl was hurt as a child, but probably doesn’t remember it, or doesn’t want to talk about it. She flowers, and finds a nice guy, and they get friendly. She can’t tell him what happened because she (a) has no idea, or (b) is afraid he won’t like her anymore. She doesn’t know something has been festering inside her for years. So now you have two sick people. Both of them, years later, get married, and now we have four sick people. And on and on and on. So random shags are pretty much like playing Russian roulette with a loaded gun, a head full of vodka and an itchy trigger finger.

Which is why smart people make CFAs. They figure it’s safer to have one consistent source than to go sipping at random taps, what with the state of NCC these days. Of course, the fact that they are CFA-ing at all proves they’re serially monogamous. They prefer to be with one person at a time.

And this is the problem.

In a functional relationship, people compromise on sex, so that each couple gets some semblance of contentment when it comes to frequency and quality. In a CFA, there’s no discussion. It’s yes or no, depending on the weather. People who try CFAs are really just looking for a cheaper relationship without the trimmings, a generic S/O, so to speak – no birthdays or dates or candles or flowers means no cost, no stress, no drama. But it also means no sex, coz you might call her when her folks are in town, or you might call him at his kid sister’s birthday gig…Plus, more often than not, one of the CFA-ers has more-than-horizontal designs on the other, which just makes it more frustrating.

So. CFA is a hoax. The latest in a string of relationship myths that started when Eve gave Adam the apple and claimed she did it out of love. I like to think it was love that made Adam take it. Or if you believe the animated version, she looked so much prettier when she was evil. Her hair was all wild and sexy, and she had this ‘eat-me’ look in her eyes. If it was love that made him bite the Mac, then he only proves that love is blind and stupid. Too bad it feels good enough to nab us.

As for FWB, well, that one works, but it’s pretty much like juggling fireballs while mono-cycling on titghtrope over a vat of boiling oil. It’s beautiful when it’s right, fatal when it’s not, and the line between is pretty murky…

Going serious

This whole mess with Nakumatt is pretty disturbing. I think I am unbelievably naïve, but I just don’t see how people can be seriously thinking about suing Nakumatt. Granted what happened was terrible. It’s possible the claims are right, and that maybe Nakumatt shut the doors in a panic, thinking the blast was a ruse and trying to prevent looters. They’re probably feeling pretty hunted – first Thika road and now a mysterious fire!

And I realize the mourners are angry, driven by rage, and wanting someone to pay, to take responsibility, to say they’re sorry. But all the money in the world won’t soothe the pain, or bring back the loved ones, or give the little girl her mummy back. So I can’t help being disgusted that people want to sue!

And the Molo accident. Sigh. I don’t even know what to say there. I was kinda angry when I heard the gava is organising a harambee to treat the burns, since the people who got burnt were stealing ! I hear it happens really often. The trailers are insured, so the drivers just park the truck, sell the oil, then tip it over and claim an accident. Reports are questioning how the trailer crashed on a straight, safe road, so maybe that’s what happened. Some other reports say someone got mad and lit the people up, others say it was just some idiot who lit a cigarette while knee deep in petrol.

But whatever the reason, I’m thinking about the desperation people live in. I don’t know if it’s greed, or just survival. There’s a story that in the Nakumatt fire, while frantic relatives were milling around calling their people, trying to get information, other people were snatching their phones. The Somali boy who lost his mum and sister while he stood nearby unable to get in, had his phone nabbed as he called for help.

A friend of mine was at a funeral once, in shags. It was a close knit community, so everyone around knew what was going on. My friend went to run an errand in a nearby shop. She had the funeral kitty, and was talking on the phone when she got hit by a speeding mat. She flew into the air, and her bag did too, spraying about 20K all over the road. The people around grabbed the money first, then one of them came to inform us what had happened. The girl died, and we never got the money back. Is that cruelty, greed, or poverty?

What makes people risk their lives to go swimming in crude oil just to grab a few litres so they can make a few shillings? None of those looters would have earned more than a sock from that oil, but in shags, a sock is a fortune. Were they unaware of the danger they were exposed to, or were they too desperate to care?

PS: There is this person that I am trying very hard to dislike, simply because I should [and probably because I’m jealous]. The problem is, they are such a sweet person that there is no earthly – or unearthly – reason for my hostility. Which just makes me hate them all the more. I mean how can somebody who should be so bad be so nice?! Woman, grow a dark side, will you!

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Back to the future and random eighties’ stuff

I was rifling through some old music last night. It’s on tape, that’s how old it is. I was singing along and rasping my voice and amusing myself and amazing my princess that I can remember all the lyrics. I used to play that tape when I was expecting princess, and I remember Risper, a lady from our shags. She’d hear me and tell my brothers how when they go out, I put on the radio and I know every single song that plays.  Heeheehee.

I was thinking about a few other things too. I realized that karaoke date I promised Mo just might backfire on me, coz my ‘stellar’ voice just isn’t what it used to be. Blame it on the sugar. Back in the day [don’t you just hate it when people say that] when I could actually sing, the nuns took all our jam, biscuits and Saturday chocolate…and fed us on a diet of hot water and honey. Great for the vocals, bad for the…is there a pretty, scientific term for addiction to sugar?

Anyway, back to the musing. It’s kind of interesting that when asked about myself, I always list my qualities without thinking.

Personality: warm, friendly, unsocial, aloof, loner

Hobbies: books, music, poetry, baking

Passions: writing, reading, sleeping, ice cream, black forest cake

Recently, I was put on the spot.

‘You like reading? What do you read?’

Eh….textbooks?

‘Actually, I haven’t read in a while…I’m pretty busy with work.’

‘Of course, but what was the last book you read?’

‘LOTR’

‘Lovely books. When was that?’

‘Er…July?’

‘Right…you’re passionate about them, clearly. What else do you read?’

‘Um…well, I’ve read every Sheldon before Doomsday conspiracy. After that they just got sort of…dry.’

‘I totally agree. When did you read Doomsday?’

Eh…before the D.

‘Pardon?’

‘I think it was high school.’

‘Oh.’

Then there was the question on some form princess brought home from school. It said ‘How many times do you finish a book?’ I’m sure they meant how often do you read books, but I pounced on their lack of English and gigglingly replied ‘always’ [which is true!] knowing they’d interpret it as ‘all the time’ without noticing the pun.

I love, love, LOVE rock. Never mind that the last time I listened to any was…98? All I really know about rock is words and sounds. I can sing the guitar solos of all my faves. Yes, I did say sing the guitar solos. And I’m pretty good with lyrics and band names. It’s pretty hard to forget Bare Naked Ladies or Smashing pumpkins or Blink 182.

Band trivia? I know exactly four lead singers: Rob Thomas, Chad Croeger, the William guy from Creed [I am the only person alive that likes Creed. There. I said it. Though in all fairness, the singles were great, but the album sucked] and Bono.

Beyond that, don’t ask me who is in what band or which one sang what song, or even what colour their eyes are. I could pass Petra in the street as easily as…Nameless. Start a lyric and I’ll finish it, but don’t ask me what the song is called, coz me, I don’t know. And I don’t do concerts – coz I don’t do crowds, and I like my instant replay and fridge-pauses.

Plus, the last hit song I know was by Avril Lavigne, and I can match her screech for screech, coz she’s kinda cool with all the chanting and stuff. I know Staind doesn’t have an ‘e’, and I know SOAD means System of a Downs – whatever that means, and that the disorder song is classic. I know that Three Doors Down song with the funky video, something about time. That’s pretty recent – last July I think. Beyond that, the only rock hits I know are B***h and Ironic, and all the stuff before.

I bought a mini oven coz I just looooove to bake. But the last time I made anything was…waaaay before princess. So I’m looking at my shiny new 12 inch oven shakingly afraid to try. That and the electricity bill would kill me, especially since it’s shared.

I’m thinking about that, and this, and goldy, and all things teen, and wondering if my self image is stuck at sixteen. I mean I always pride myself in ‘still being me’, and I love it when my friends say I haven’t changed, but is it because I don’t see myself?

Today, a dear friend called me unbelievably naïve. Is it because when I look in the mirror, I still see a chunky Form 3 kid just starting to find shape, still ridiculously in love and so very unsure of anything? When people look at me, they see a brash tough nut, a survivor, a conqueror, but all I see is a scared little girl afraid to say the wrong thing in front of the boy she likes, so she says nothing at all.

I AM mad about music and books, and my dream holiday involves beaches, malta, and an endless supply of both. In my heaven, I’d lounge in the ocean sipping iced maaza, reading a novel with emo blaring in my headphones, strictly bass, no tweeters. But if I can’t name a single living artist [I still declare, proudly, that my favourite band is Matchbox Twenty], or any books that I read past lit class, then am I really a bookaholic soundophile?

PS: My interesting American friend found me. Yay! He just followed the billboard, found my office, greeted the watchies, and asked for the pretty dreadlocked Kenyan that he met at the pool yesterday. Now that’s guts! But then, the man is over 50, and he’s from New York.

The watchie called the office know-all who then called me. Oh, you should have seen the look. Priceless! There I was, standing in the carpark, talking to this lovely grey-haired old man with the laptop and the accent and far better Swa than mine, and there they were, my workmates, peeping through the shades and guessing who my friend was. What I wouldn’t give to hear those lovely guesses…

Oh, and I’ve just rediscovered, I hate kids. I have no problem with mine, but the rest of them, well, I find them annoying and crass. Sorry *M*, don’t kill me. It’s probably PMS, but it’s lasting an awfully long time!!

Doesn’t stop me from being fiercely protective of them, and my heart shatters when they are hurt or abused – I would kill to save a child, any child. But apart from my own little one, I’m just not big on kids. Which makes me wonder what I shall do now that somebody clearly wants a new one.

Trouble…with a capital T that rhymes with P that stands for…

…and yes, you get points for guessing that right. More if you can name the tune.

Chapter 1: Be strong, love

For my dear, dear friend, who may read this for distraction. I know you’re in pain, I know you’re hurting, I know what you’re going through. I wish I was near you, to hold you, and give you a hug, and drown you in ice cream, and say it will be okay, and beat that boy to a pulp for hurting you. You feel like the world is ending, and nothing I say can ease that for you. Just know I’m here, which is nothing, but it’s all I have to offer. It’ll be over soon. ((((you))))

Chapter 2: At the pool

Today I spent six hours swimming, and it was absolute bliss! Not sure how many calories I burnt, but it was sooooo fun! Of course I also lost my most valued piece of jewellery, the tiny gold stud I wear on my nose. Irony of ironies, I took it off to avoid losing it in the water, but I can’t remember where I kept it!

Well actually, I can, but it’s not there, so I must have put it someplace else. I’m SO in mourning. But I had probably outgrown it anyway – the piercing was a sweet-sixteen rebel thing [rebelling against the nuns forcing us to…okay, that’s a story for another day, but it rebelled successfully on a million different levels, ranging from faking Islam by looking more Nubian, to disowning my un-learnable mother-tongue. And it was real cute too].

The gold stud was a gift that cost 9 sock at the time [circa 1997, so I can’t imagine what it’d cost to replace it!] But I know a few people who’ll be glad I lost it, including you. Sigh. How I shall miss my little goldy. I suppose I could replace it with something less shiny, but (a) I – apparently – have really thick nose, so the jeweller had to customize the thing to size, and (b) I have the strangest allergies, so I can’t wear anything without caflon or carats.

Chapter 3: The curse of the introvert

There was this really cute guy at the pool today. Granted he was a bit on the chubby side, but I love to cuddle, so I don’t mind a little teddy-bear on my men – as long as it’s just a little, and his was very just-a-little. He had this dark look, kinda moody, and I didn’t once see him smile. What is it with this pull women have to moody men? I imagine it’s something to do with wanting to cheer them up and be the ‘sunshine’ in their lives.

Anyway, the guy had very Kenyan features; I got close enough to see the Maasai beads with the Kenyan flag that everyone wears abroad but never at home. And I’m pretty sure I heard him speak Kao. I did want to talk to him, but each time I played the conversation in my head, I couldn’t get past “So, you’re Kenyan?” Okay, I’m a … well, actually I was a little hungry, and I was more than a little drooly, and he could swim really well, and it was a really small pool.

I understand the game is to establish eye contact then look away to show availability, but what can I say, I’m lame. The best I could do was talk to princess very Kenyanly, throwing in a lot of stuff that only a Kenyan would say, and hope to catch his interest. It didn’t work, and I was busy cursing and smiling when he walked away after three hours of silently whatever-it-was-that-i-was-doing.

But I did get chatted up by a lifeguard, and by this old guy from New York who was at the pool with his nine year old son and paid my dala-dala fare. The man has lived in New York, and he thinks Nai is scary!! Apparently kids there have ‘a killer instinct’ so he much prefers Dar. Maybe I should have got his number…

Chapter 4: Black is…

So my hairdresser got this bright idea to dye our hair black. Princess’ is usually a shade of brownish-red that had us worried about marasmus in the early days. Now’s it’s blue-black. Still getting used to it. And after hours at the pool, her skin has tanned to a lovely shade of chocolate. Apparently coconut oil beats tanning booths hands down. My face still stings from the burns, but I’m wondering how long my little one’s tan will hold out. It’d be kinda cool if she looked a little more like me …

Chapter 5: The stupidest thing I ever said is…

“I will always love you.” Oh, I meant it when I said it, and continued meaning it for a long time after that. He was the guy I fell in love with over and over and over again, and just when I thought I couldn’t love him more, he’d buy me a book I’d been wanting, or write me stupid note, or cook me ugali for dinner and I’d fall all over again.

But s**t happens, and the spell broke, and the boy is history. Today, I was listening to a rock tape I made once, and it had all these songs I chose for him, and I had to skip over most of them. I burst out laughing at one or two, amazed that I ever felt that way. I cried at others when I couldn’t hit ‘forward’ fast enough. Sigh. Humans sure are fickle. Or maybe it’s just me.

Chapter 6: It’s official – we OLD!!

I hear people talk about how smell can take you back, how a whiff of cologne or the smell of baked cookies can transport you to a whole new place. For me, what does that is music.

I heard the ‘Shomi ngolova’ song today, by TKZee, and suddenly I was back in that room, listening to Hits not Homework with Jimmi Gathu and watching some crazed rugby players doing a demo of the Kenyan version…hehehe.

Those in the know know why I am giggling. Let’s just say it involved sagging jeans, large boxers, and a cheeky precursor to Applebeez, and it was way cooler that Kuku dance, wink wink, nudge nudge. Oh pleeeease tell me someone knows what I’m talking about, some memories are too wicked not to be shared!

In other news, I heard that Rihanna/TI song, the one with the squeaking, and I assumed it was some soul show on radio. But then I heard it again, and again and again, and I was like WTF?

First of all, as I recall, the song had techno beats, not words, and the genre was then called funk, I think. So this new one, now I don’t know. Apparently she done bit the sampling bug. I have to say, it’s worrying when a song is sampled by a kid who’s never heard it, yet I remember the song when it was Top Ten. Top of the Pops I think the show was called. Or BIG for the Germans. I now know how my mum felt when she found me singing Lauryn Hill’s killing me softly, and she kept going on about some chick called Roberta Flack.

Chapter 7: Better the devil !

In one of the numerous arguments about how Kenyans are rude and Tanzanians are polite, I attacked with a fact. I said I preferred Kenyans coz they tell it like it is. If you’re a fala, they’ll just tell you you’re a fala. None of that ‘tafadhali naomba uniondokee mara moja’ nonsense. A Kenyan will stab you in the eye and run, while some others will hug you with the knife still in your back.

Yesterday, I got hugged, and I got stabbed. And today, I got hugged again. I played along, all nice and sweet, did the deed, held the role. Later Princess asked me why I was being so nice, ati had I forgotten what the person did to me. And I taught her a valuable life lesson – sometimes, you just have to pretend.

But guess what, this fat lady has sung, and she’s gearing for killer guitar encore, so Jimmy Hendrix better be watching, coz CB’s batting for the home team.

Chapter 8: Hope!

There was this couple at the pool today, they must be in their forties or fifties. They were muslims, hijabs and all, indian-looking, a bit on the larger side. In fact, very much so, in a less than…well, I don’t want to be rude, but russian dolls come to mind. They were with their kids, seven of them,six girls, one boy.

The first thing I noticed is the kids’ accent was so heavy that half the time, you couldn’t be sure they were speaking [punjab? or gujeratt?] or English, which was pretty funny. They were playing watergames, which princess joined in [oh the joy of large families!], and the dad was filming them on his phone and grinning with pride. For once, princess seemed lonely being an only kid.

Then I noticed the parents. They were in the pool by themselves, and he was teaching her to swim. I’d seen her swim with her daughters, and she did pretty good, though she wasn’t very confident. So the kids went away to the baby pool and the man stayed there with his wife, coaching her.

He had this look of pure adoration, and she was all giggly and girly when he touched her, and it was just so amazing. I mean she was…visually..you know, and so was he. And there they were happier than puppy love, even after sijui how many years together, and with the kids clearly showing on her! then some guy brought them food, and they all sat together and ate and laughed, it was just beautiful.

I know I have issues with headdress and arranged marriages and shrouding women and stuff, but that old couple, totally shapeless and totally in love, that right there is what marriage should be. And I’d so love to find it.

Without the covered hair and the lost shape of course.

Epilogue

I’m really glad you’re safe. You need to get a new phone.

Love, me.

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