I surprise myself. A lot. And it’s never a good thing, because I’m a planner, and planners don’t like surprises. For example, just yesterday, I realized that I need people. Well actually, I need person. Not any person in particular, but the person does need to be consistent, single, and male. I don’t mind if said person is gay, since there isn’t necessarily any sex in this equation.

Here’s the thing. Friday was the worst day I’ve had in a long time. I was so panicked in the morning that I couldn’t get out of bed. I tried to do visualizations but they kept drifting into nightmares. I had to make some scary phone calls and hunt down all the coins in my house. Sadly, the coins are mostly Tanzanian, and the exchange rate is lousy.

But after I was done panicking, I went on this date and for the next five hours, all my worries disappeared. I was sufficiently distracted, and it was a really good thing. We bonded, we ate, we had a good time. So when I found out he was leaving, I felt sad, nostalgic, and a little upset. I didn’t want to talk about it because no one would understand why I was making such a big deal after just one date, so I blogged and typed and did taebo. I thought it would make me feel better. It didn’t.

While I was moping around, my brother showed up online. Ordinarily, you don’t discuss such things with brothers, especially when their response is: ‘I’m not touching that. Not even with a ten foot pole.’ But surprisingly, I felt  better after talking to him. It felt good to let the junk out of my head and to have somebody talk back, even if I didn’t like what they had to say. Besides, I know it was done in love.

So, I’m ashamed to admit that as much as I pretend to be a married lesbian, I do need a sounding board. Preferably one without a wife, a girlfriend, or a three-legged kitty, and preferably, one that knows how to talk back.

Moving on. My second surprise: I’m in panic. I’ve never cared about my age. For my entire childhood, I seemed older than I was. Then somehere in my twenties, it was decided I could pass for a teenager. I’ve been asked for my ID more than once, and I often get frozen from my daughter’s PTA meetings. The other day, I went to get a birth certificate at Sheria House and the guy asked if it was mine. The date of birth was 7th December 2002. So yes, I’m surprised that I am spooked out by the big three-oh. I’m more surprised because it’s only been 60 days since my last birthday.

This is the year that I turn 30, and while I have ten months to go, I’m already in panic mode. This isn’t supposed to be how things go. At 30, I expected to have my own house, drive my own car, have a pretty bob, swing a pretty boy, and be nowhere near a ring.

Instead, I have one pseudo-ex-husband, four pseudo-ex-boyfriends, one former nose ring, short purple dreads, and a gorgeous little girl who just turned eight. Suddenly, I’m asking myself questions like ‘Why am I here?’ I lost religion several years ago, and while I miss the security of belief in a higher power, there’s no secondary belief in Mary’s virginity. When it’s gone, it’s gone. My new age ideas answer some of my questions but not all, and The Secret tells me to stay happy without giving me a why.

I could focus on just raising my daughter, but if I make my life all about her, I’ll have some serious withdrawal symptoms when she turns 16, and it’s not even that far away. I could make my life about work, but that’s not very fulfilling. I need a reason to get out of bed in the morning, and it has to be more complelling than ‘I can’t reach the alarm.’

I don’t know why it’s hitting me now. I’ve been around for over 20 years, and my wake up ritual never needed prompting. I don’t know why I suddenly need to figure what my motivation is. I can only conclude it’s because I’m almost 30 and haven’t done half what I expected. I know I have ten months to go, but it’ll take a little longer to buy a penthouse and an 8-million-shilling red car. God I feel old!

I had I date yesterday. I was kind of dreading it because I’d asked around a bit, and I was sure the guy was taken. I wondered what he wanted with me, and I wanted him to ask quickly so I could just say no and leave. It was a bit awkward at first, because I didn’t know what to say. But somehow, the ice broke, and soon we were talking like old friends. It was really cool.

And no, he isn’t taken.

We talked about some nasty stuff that happened, and I gave my usual response:

‘That’s life. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

He frowned a little and told me I was wrong. He taught me a new phrase instead:

‘Otimre, ok ber.’

I’m sure I’ve spelt it wrong, but it roughly translates into ‘shit happens’. It means ‘it happened, but it’s not good.’

I like this phrase, because it acknowldges that what happened was not okay. It doesn’t try to philosophize or draw life lessons from it. It simply says it like it is. Shit happened.

I suppose I should tell you a little more about this guy. He had on jeans and a checked shirt, which is my favourite look on a guy. It helps that the checks were burgundy. He’s got the perfect height and build, and he’s playful and polite. I like the way he joked with the waiters, and I like that he wasn’t upset when I did the same.

Of course, I’m not sure the waiters knew that I was joking.

I like that he drank moderately, and that he held his alcohol well. After three beers, he was exactly the same as he was on Fanta. I like that. He was honest in his opinions, and wasn’t afraid to show emotion. I respect that. I like a man who doesn’t hide behind being a man.

He did something else that was endearing. As we looked at the menu, he playfully talked about the items and decided on his meal out loud. That made it easy for me, because I didn’t want to order anything too extravagant. His hint helped me pick a meal that was in the same price range as his. I don’t know if it was a deliberate strategy, but it was completely adorable, and I like him for it.

It surprised me how easily I could talk with a virtual stranger, and I like that he was so easy to be with. He laughed at my jokes, which is important to me, because I like to make people happy. It was especially important because I brought up some sad things, and I feel bad about that. I’m glad I could make him laugh and make up for it.

I felt like a lady. A boy asked me out, paid for my meal, made me happy, and didn’t ask for anything in return. He said I was great company, but he also said I was high maintenance, had large arms, and was taller than he expected. I’m not sure if those are good things, but hey, at least he likes my purple hair.

I also felt a bit awkward when he scrutinized the bill. It made me feel like I had spent too much and that I should chip in my two cents or something. But I do like the boy. He’s good fun and great company.

As it turns out, today is his last day in my neighbourhood. He’s been around for six months, and I don’t know why it took so long to meet. Turns out we might have known each other in our childhood – our grandparents were next door neighbours in the 80s. Well, my grandma and his uncle anyway. I don’t remember ever meeting this boy. There was this one kid who might have been him. He was kind of quiet and liked to whistle through his teeth. It was adorable. I don’t know if it’s the same guy, but the uncle was  a really nice man.

Anyway, the red-checkered boy is gone now. He’s on a jet plane, off to chase his dreams. I don’t know if or when I’ll see him again, or if anything could have happened between us. I just wish I’d met him long before today.

I hope you find everything you’re looking for, I hope you have a nice life, and I hope you find lots of things to warm your heart and make you smile.

Yours sincerely,

Me.

I’ve been watching the goings on in North Africa. Or, to be more accurate, I’ve been reading about it on Twitter. I don’t watch the news because it’s depressing. Someone is always getting killed, being hanged, or looking stupid.

Case in point. On Thursday morning, I woke up feeling really depressed over some personal issues, so I stayed in bed two hours longer than usual. When I finally gathered psyche to get up, I did a quick bit of taebo to get the juices flowing. The session is 45 minutes long, and I rarely make it past 20, but I got to the 40 minute mark and I was feeling pretty buoyed.

Then, as I took out the DVD, I lingered on CNN for a few moments. Hurricane Yasi and Chaos in Cairo. Aw Crud.

I logged into Twitter for consolation and found guys going on about #Kenya28Feb and University Revolutions In Arabia WhatWhat. I followed the thread – and the link – with some caution, and found that I quite agree, or at least, I agree with MisterNV.

But the whole situation got me thinking. A few days back, when Egypt was still just Gypt and the protests were largely iconic and peaceful, I saw a woman marching with a picket sign. I noticed her because she was marching next to a little boy. He couldn’t have been more than ten, and his face was as aggressive as the rest of them. He had a picket sign as well, and he wore just as much passion as the grown ups.

I wondered, for a split second, whether I would let my princess picket with me.

As Kenyans on Twitter continued to call for revolution – or to be more apt, violent reform – my insides started to shake. I thought about my baby. I wondered whether I’d find her a babysitter, grab a banner, and head to the streets. I wondered what would happen if she happened to see the news and saw her mummy running and screaming with a bleeding head amidst plumes of teargas. I wondered what could happen if minutes, hours, days, weeks later, the babysitter hadn’t heard from me, and I hadn’t come back home.

I wondered whether instead of joining the riots, I would run to the shop and stock up on as much food as I could, then cuddle my baby, sit glued to the TV, and watch the violence as we waited it out.

I wondered if my current bank balance would allow me to do enough shopping to wait it out.

I wondered … if all this happened, how long would it be before the looting started? Before the creepy neighbour broke down my door and tried to grab what he could get? How would I protect my baby? How would I protect myself?

I wondered, if we’d been waiting it out for a while and had run out of food, would I lock my little girl indoors, tell her to hide under the bed and not make a sound while I went outside blindly to scrounge for water and food? What if I got outside, was immediately attacked and never came back? How long would she stay under the bed shaking and afraid?

I wondered if I’d risk holding her hand and going out there with her to find her something to eat, instead of leaving her alone and unprotected. What gangs of marauders and law enforcers would we meet out there, and how they would respond to a little yellow girl and dark college-looking kid with D cups and purple dreads?

One Tweeter said Kenya will never have a revolution violent reforms, because the middle class is too comfortable, and that protesting would just be a nuisance. She could be right, but my thoughts are more on the terror than the irritation.

I realize some people may call me cowardly, middle class, bourgeoisie. The woman on the streets who was marching with her son might be offended. She might wonder if I think my child is more important than hers, since she’s willing to risk him on the streets and I’m not. She might spit in my face because she’s fighting for my freedom, yet I’m not willing to lift a little painted toenail.

Not that my toenails are ever painted, mind you.

I wonder the same thing myself. I wonder if I have a right to sit here and complain, to demand the torching of MPs [figuratively speaking, of course], to yell ‘Down With Ocampo 6’ yet when it comes to putting my pickets where my mouth is, I grab my baby, push the fridge over the doorway, and pray.

You could argue, and rightly so, that my baby shouldn’t grow up in a country like this. That if we all sit quietly and shut up, then maybe buildings won’t be burned, but we’ll continue to be oppressed economically and politically. That if corruption doesn’t stop and things don’t change, then ten years from now, my baby will be alive, bitter, and jobless, then maybe she’ll be brave enough to risk her own children for reform.

You could argue that if the men and women of MauMau and Saba Saba hadn’t risked their lives and children, we’d still be wearing khaki shorts, dreading Nyati House, or drinking maziwa ya nyayo. But I still wish there some way that we could change without throwing stones, getting arrested, and sucking teargas canisters.

There are no right answers to this. I love my country, and I want to see it change. But I’m sorry guys, I’m not changing the world at the physical expense of my own baby girl.

Addendum

Kachwanya has a fairly concise take on why #KenyaFeb28 didn’t take off. It makes interesting reading. I especially like Point Number 10.