I had tons of different titles for this post. Yeah, it’s been one of those weeks. I considered doing a separate post for each title, but my mind is kind of fried today, for lots of reasons. One is that the little one has chicken pox. I’ve had it twice. Yes, twice. I asked the doctor if that was possible. Her response?

“Diseases don’t read books.”

We’re waiting to see if I’ll catch it a third time. I had this weird ache on the side of my head yesterday, and I do feel really itchy. But I lack the fever and the reddish zits, so maybe it’s a mild attack. Meanwhile, princess sucks at being a patient. Bed rest is alien to her, and her hordes of fans keep calling her outside.

She’s spent the last three days outdoors despite having a pink, pockmarked face. She only came in yesterday because:

‘The new children were looking at me badly.’

Poor thing. As we speak, her gang has been divided into pre-and-post-chicken pox, and all the post crowd are hanging out in my living room while the pre group are skulking outside looking miserable. Princess for Mayor! *grin* Moving on.

2. They took my eyebrows and made me a Burke!

I have watched a total of three episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, so it’s weird I know so much about the show. I guess it’s just one of those things, like Supra, and Vitz. BTW, I looked it up. It’s also a sports car. Who knew?

Anyway, a few months ago, I discovered the eyebrow people at Beauty Options. I’m not much of a girl, so I don’t pay attention to girly hair and grooming. But I do occasionally fuss about my eye thingies. With a razor blade. So I passed by yesterday and got a different razor chick. She spent an awful lot of time snipping at my eyelids, and she used three different blades and some scissors. I was getting seriously worried.

When she grabbed an eye pencil and scribbled on my forehead, I was just about ready to faint. So when she held up the mirror, I blinked so I wouldn’t have to see. Then I went shoe shopping for comfort. Bata has the most adorable collection of shoes. I spent nearly 5K in there. Most of it was for princess. She got school shoes, sports shoes, plastic shoes, and girly pink Northstar shoes. I got 400 bob sneakers and a backpack.

I did spend a large amount of time drooling at red heels and tan wedges. I almost bought some too, except I know I’d never wear them. It’s silly to buy beautiful shoes and then spend a few years staring at them. I have the same relationship with thigh length power suits, and I swear they confuse me no end.

I had a tea date right after, so I was careful not to look in any mirror. My date was one of those guys who keep eye contact. I like that in a guy. But now that I think about it, he may have been looking at my eyebrows. *groan* Almost two days later, I’m still looking at the blade work. It feels a little … strange … but at least they look better than Sofia on Machachari.

I talked over many things with my new tea friend. I have this very odd habit of liking [or disliking] people on sight, and once I do, I’ll spill my whole life out in six seconds or less. So it was that I stared at the eyes of this virtual stranger – pun intended – and told him I fall for each boy that I meet. Well, almost every boy. I know there must some Freudian theory for that. Which brings me to my next alternate title.

3. Hi. My name is 3CB, and I watch Dr. Phil

I’m not proud of it. I’m not the type of girl that watches Dr. Phil, but hey, it turns out I am. I also claim I’m not the type of girl that watches soaps. It’s because I get too emotionally involved. Every time Justin bullied Jessie, I’d be upset for hours, maybe even days! And I still can’t believe she picked him over Luigi. Again, please note that I have only watched 3 episodes, including the finale. Just once, I’d like the hot soapie diva to end up with the nice guy. I mean, stranger things have happened, right?

Every weekend, Princess watches reruns of Talang Dalawa, Marimar or Storm. But this Sunday, I was nabbed. After spending hours begging her to change the channel, she agreed to go outside and play. Our host then disappeared for a few minutes and came back to find me watching … Shree.

I tried explaining that it wasn’t technically a soap, because it’s really quirky and funny. It’s more like a pseudo-naija comedy, except it’s from India. I said I didn’t follow it religiously. I just bumped into it once in a while. But then my host asked a random question about Madu, and ended up I explaining how she’s pretty but she doesn’t get along with Nikita, and that Shree is afraid of cats, and that Hari married Shree by force, and that her father is a priest, and that the bottle is really an evil spirit, and … yeah, she gave me the exact same look.  Sad really.

But the contradiction is not very surprising. I once told a pal I’d like to marry a rich man so I can read books all day, but that it was highly unlikely. I’m not girly enough to be a trophy wife. My friend’s jaw dropped for a few seconds, then she burst out laughing. She thought it was a feeble attempt to draw her into an argument.

Anyway, back to Dr. Phil. I don’t watch all episodes. Some of them are a bit silly. But a lot of times, the stuff he says makes sense. My favourite ex hated that about me. We had this one conversation that went:

‘Well, I was trying to write, but I got distracted by Dr. Phil and…’

‘Oh GOD!’

‘What.’

‘Okay look … how is it self-help if you’re getting it from someone else?’

‘…’

Hehehehe.

Anyway, I got The Ultimate Weight Solution on audio via torrent. I got the book too, via www.kalahari.com. I’m waiting for it to be delivered. I’ve tried listening to the files for a week now, and he makes a lot of sense when he talks. The trouble is … I keep dozing off. I’ve learnt a few lessons though. I’ll apply them as soon as I get the book and take notes without falling asleep.

 

I learn stuff from the show too. Like I told my new friend, I develop a crush on just about every boy that I meet. I don’t know why. Dr. Phil would say I’m starved for male attention, so I’m attracted to any boy that’s vaguely nice to me. He’d probably say it’s a daddy thing.

The trouble is that I’m largely choleric and strongly self reliant. I was just raised that way. So it takes very little for a boy to be labelled as nice. All he has to do is buy me a non-alcoholic drink without me having to bully him into it. Tea, mala, or milkshake is preferable. Buying cake or pizza works too. Buying a book that I like gives you direct access to the know-zone.

Offer to pick me up or drive me someplace, or offer to call and actually do it! That last one scores big, because I am surrounded by people who never answer texts. Seriously. It’s why I’m so obsessive about phones without delivery reports. So replying texts also gets you in the ‘nice guy’ category. I like nice guys.

Now that’s all very nice … but it’s a little silly to have such basic standards. It makes it easy for boys to play the game. It’s also silly to fall for every boy I meet when I don’t want to date or get married. And I suck at CFA’s, so that’s not really an option. I don’t get along well with women, so I need to learn how to be friends with guys without catching feelings.

It would also be good if I wasn’t quite so vocal about my appetite. When you talk about sex all the time, guys assume you’re a down-for-whatever kind of girl. So they don’t see why you should get offended when they treat you like a gardening implement. Nice girls can like sex too. I’m just saying.

I think my non-marriage stance is really just avoidance. I have a clingy, possessive, jealous nature. So instead of learning about healthy affection, instead of learning to like a guy without mauling any girl that talks to him, instead of constantly wondering which girl is in his head when he’s in bed with me … I choose to avoid relationships completely. That doesn’t sound very smart, or even very grown up.

Another topic came up in discussion with my new friend. It was the issue of writing about people that you know. I learnt the hard way to always ask permission before writing about my little girl. I’ve had to delete some of my best work because she got mad at me for exposing her. She doesn’t like it when I ‘talk about her to my friends’ so I always have to ask first. But with other people, well, I guess I should learn to channel it into fiction. I haven’t written a good story in ages. I should probably get back to that. It beats making people upset and having to delete stuff. Plus, I could make more money that way, and I’m a lot less likely to get sued.

4. Enter the forward introvert

Dr Phil says … okay … I’ll admit that I cringe every time I start a sentence like that. Anyway, Dr. Phil says sometimes we pick up a habit for one reason, then maintain it for other reasons. For example, I started becoming an introvert to protect myself. I stopped making friends and collapsed into myself because I didn’t want to be hurt again. I’d lost so many friends that I thought it was easier not to make new ones. But because I have a sharing nature, I still need contact, so I got active with penpals, blogs, and Twitter. It allowed me to have friends without really having friends.

I felt that I was socially awkward, even though I mostly come alive around new people. I often put people at ease, and I’m the one that picks the ‘lost sheep’ and guides them through new environs. At family gatherings, I’ll be the one chatting up my cousin’s new girlfriend because she looks she lost and out of place. I’ll be the one being nice to the third wife that nobody likes. I’ll be the one pampering the naughty kid that everyone else avoids, or showing around the new member of staff. I like to make people feel comfortable and at home.

That makes zero sense since I prefer to keep to myself and avoid new people. I know that I talk about myself a lot, and I suppose that gets boring really fast. But instead of learning social skills, learning how to to ask non-probing questions and make small talk, I avoid the social scene and play all by myself. I’m really just running away.

I was reading an old post where I realized I was pretty extroverted as a kid. But then something happened and I couldn’t defend myself. All my strength and toughness was useless in that situation. So I guess in some way, I overcompensate by protecting other people. I act extroverted around people who seem lost, because it keeps them from feeling isolated. I actively, assertively stand up for social underdogs. But in a crowd of dominant people who are at ease with each other, there’s no one to protect so there’s no need to exert myself.

There’s a strange aspect to my personality. I don’t much like guests. I don’t like to have my space invaded. So I’ll often tell people, ‘Come by anytime,’ only to curse when they call my bluff and knock the door. When I’m hosting people, I’ll be nice for a while because I want them to feel at home, but after half an hour, it’s all I can do not to kick them out and move. It tells a lot that my dream home is the penthouse of a tall building with no lifts.

Of course there are exceptions to every rule. There are people I practically beg to visit me. But of course, kharma being who she is, these are the people that have to be heavily bribed before they actually show up. I can only smile at the irony.

Dr. Phil would probably have a lot to say on these contradictions. I’m a boy-crazy girl who doesn’t believe in relationships. I’m a free spirit that enjoys timetables and routines, one that is uneasy about regular hours but lacks the discipline to hustle. I’m the pseudo-feminist that stupidly submits to men I love. I’m the perfect host that resents having visitors. I’m the hermit that loves to share the feelings on her mind. I’m the tomboy who spent hours buying girly shoes … for other people. I’m the girl that avoids tweet-ups but seeks out strangers one by one online. I’m a Modesty Blaise who only sees herself as Dale Arden. I’m a walking, talking identity crisis. Or maybe I’m a 30-year-old teenager. Well, okay, 29.

Last week, my pal said to do a mind map. He said it would help me see who I really am. I guess that’s what I need to do. I need to somehow look at myself objectively and find out what is me and what’s a mask. Trouble is … every time I try, I either start daydream … or fall asleep. And there’s a huge moving container at my window. Hmm. Oh well. Maybe I can do like my new friend says – stop worrying so much and just go with flow. Everything works itself out eventually, right.

5. Different things for different reasons

I was watching Big Cat Diary the other day. There are a several reasons why I like that show. First, they don’t say things like:

“This delightful creature is known as the Hungarian Potbellied pig … even though it’s clearly something else.”

Second, their animals have mostly decent names. I hate the way people in dockis name albino tigers and polar bears silly things like Fufu, Dipsy, and Popo. I mean, really!

Still, a docki is a docki, and the narrators do talk in that slow unnatural way. It’s supposed to sound moving and conspiratorial and … you know … documentary-like. I’ve never really thought about it, because everyone in those things talks like that.

 

But in this one episode, they had this Maasai guide whose name was Jackson. He had been called in to help them find Bella, the leopard that the team had been following for five years. Turns out the Big Cat Diary has been filming for more than a decade. Who knew? I guess some people really do like humans less than wildlife.

Anyway, Bella has been MIA for a while. Something like a year or more. Enter Jackson to help them find her. He’s known her since she was a cub, apparently. Now … I have no real problem with Jackson. He has a crazy accent, but that happens to the best of us. Here’s what my problem was. He was talking wrong. I don’t know what about it was wrong, but it was just … well … wrong.

He started out saying how Maasais always wake up early. The first light of day is a blessing, so they like to get that blessing every day. That’s fine. Then he started to talk about Bella, and that’s when I caught it. He was talking just like the narrators!

‘The African wilderness [pause] is vast and beautiful [pause] and there’s Bella. [pause] Oh yes [pause] I see her. [pause] I can see her now. [pause] Yes [pause] there she is. [pause] Clearly [pause] there’s something wrong. [pause] She must be hurt [ pause] it’s crucial for a leopard’s survival. [pause] An injured leopard [pause] can die out here.”

It was just so weird!! I wondered if I was being racist. After all, the other narrators do that all the time, the speech with the endless pauses. But coming from Jackson, it just sounded so wrong!

Then after a while of filming, they discover that Bella is all better because she’s managed to make a kill, and Jackson says,

‘This is good news for me [pause] for us [pause] for the entire Big Cat team [pause] for the whole of Kenya…”

I’ll admit  rolled my eyes at that point. It’s one freaking leopard on a docki. Then came the clincher. Jackson decided to surprise the Big Cat team with a secret. He decided to introduce them to Bella’s extended family. They were five beautiful cats and he had named them … wait for it … The Jackson Five. And yes, the soundtrack did change appropriately. *blink*blink*

I’m still not sure why Jackson’s voice over bugged me so much. He was doing the exact same thing as the other narrators, but somehow, it seemed disturbing coming from him. I guess it’s like how I respond differently to different people. I heard Dr. Phil [or somebody] say that if a man in an asylum called you a gardening implement, you wouldn’t react. But try hearing the same words from your brother or your mother.

If my friendly ex ignores me, I’ll assume he’s busy with work. But if my latest crush ignores me, I’ll think he doesn’t like me anymore. If my cousin doesn’t call me for months, it’s no big deal. But if that other pal doesn’t call for weeks, then it’s cold war. Hmph.

6. And now for the cars

I don’t know a lot about wheels. I just know when something is pretty. I wanted an old school beetle. They’re quirky, they’re cheap, they’re funky, and [for completely different reasons] they remind me of my mother. I was going to buy one for 40K and pimp it for 500. But my cousin talked me out of it, and he’s a mechanic, so he should know. Then I wanted a dark red X6. They are so hot. But this one talked me out of it by making me watch Top Gear, Season 14, Episode 7. Le big sigh.

Next, I thought I’d buy a red Defender. I used to like them once upon a time. But … you see … they’re just not … well … pretty. An Audi 2.0 is pretty. A Passat is pretty. A Jaguar is way pretty. Even a standard Lancer is pretty. But  Defender? Not pretty. Powerful, evocative, extremely don’t-mess-y, but just not pretty. Sigh. Maybe I’ll just buy a Red Vitz.

Anyway, speaking of things not pretty, the 350i is is not a BMW. It’s just wrong. On a million different levels. Also, whoever made the Nissan Cube should be shot. That thing is so ugly, I would kick it if it wouldn’t get my foot broken. *shudder*

 

7. X vs Y thingimies

I can’t believe this blog post has subheadings. Anyway, a lot of my intimates say I’m more like a guy. My favourite cousin amused me the other day. I walked into Tusky’s and bought him breakfast, then I realised I’d used all my money and had no bus fare. I suggested we go to Mpesa, but I was uneasy because I knew if I made a withdrawal, I’d spend all the money on beer chocolate. As I checked my back pocket for ID, I found a stray 100 bob note. Yay! We didn’t have to do Mpesa! My cousin laughed at how dude-like I am, double-dees notwithstanding.

That whole Modesty vs Dale thing is the reason I ended up carrying my own groceries and 20kg worth of water while the bag boys carried the stuff for my room mate. It’s why my men find it annoying when I seem helpless around computers – especially since I best them after one or two lessons. They think I’m just pretending to be damselly, and it annoys them. Le big sigh. Luckily, my bro is in IT, and he knows that when I call him up at 6.00 a.m. and whine about my blinking computer, it’s for real. Thank God for baby brothers.

A lot of what I do is pre-emptive. It’s like the obese comedian who makes a career out of fat jokes. I imagine that people have certain perceptions of me, I’m aware that those perceptions are wrong, so I correct them and apologize. Just like Rabbit in that last rap-battle scene in 8 Mile, I crack the jokes before anyone else can.

‘Now tell ’em something about me they don’t already know.’

Of course, the healthy thing to do is to find out who I am, make peace with it, and then stop saying sorry. Yeah. Now to find a way to stop philosphizong and just do. *grin*

There was a point in here somewhere, but it’s a random Friday that feels like a Saturday, and I’m elbow deep in my baby’s calamine lotion. We did a little Googling and some substitution. Some site says I should give her ice cream to soothe sores in her mouth. We used ice cubes instead, and it’s keeping her fairly happy. Now all we have to do is find a way to cure the itching and the boredom. Unlike me, she can’t be sated with books, cartoons, or rock music, and she doesn’t want to sleep. Plus, she’s moody, so I can’t sing aloud. Somebody help!

♫ Haiya ♫ Harry Kimani ♫

Just so you know … I don’t mean to be offensive, but I am. So if you’re religious, believing, or strongly faith-ful, you might want to skip this one. Seriously.

Moving on. I’m kind of in a fix right now. For a long time, I’ve denied conventional religion. I started out being a Christian that didn’t like church. Then I got saved despite not knowing what it was. Next, I decided I’m uncounted. After all, The Book of Revelations mentions 144,000, and apparently, they were chosen before birth. So, since I was having such a hard time with my faith, I must not be one of them. After that, I felt lost because each time I opened the Bible, I felt these dizzy whirlings in my head. At that point, demonic possession was considered. Consultation implied ancestral curses, and yes, I’ve been exorcised. It’s not as glamorous as it seems on Benny Hinn. Candles, chants, and large medallions were involved, and if I hadn’t been so piqued and terrified, I might have played along and encouraged my ‘demons’ to talk back.

About a year a ago, I found The Secret and Neal Donald Walsch. I flowed with it for a while, but I had questions. For example, I accept that The Secret works. I’ve used to bring out a lot in my life. But … it’s a little … well … faithy. Let me explain.

When you really believe something, you bend things to match with your faith. Look, we all know grass is green, right? So if you woke up one day and the grass was red, or blue, you would assume there’s something wrong with your eyes. Or you would think it’s April Fools. It would take a lot of convincing to accept that someone showed up in the night with an alien zapper ray thingie and altered the grass colour. The alien could be standing right in front of you eating hotdogs and twirling his colour-changing ray gun. But rather than believe your eyes, you’d be convinced you were brain damaged and that the fact that you’re seeing aliens and blue grass is proof of that fact.

Faith is like that. If you believe you’ve seen the Virgin Mary in a fountain, then anyone who doesn’t see her is a pagan. If you believe that Jesus rose after three days, anyone who denies it is blaspheming. Similarly, if you believe death is final, you easily accept that the apostles hired a gang of soldiers to come move away the stone and steal the body.

If you believe in science and whatnot, it seems silly that some all-amazing being would ask Abraham to kill his only kid to prove a point. It’s far more likely our boy Abe was hearing voices in his head. Totally schitzo, too much desert sun. And if you’d rather kill a human than run over a cow, then it’s perfectly conceivable that you can drop dead and resurrect as a fly.

The Secret is like that, and so is my New Age. They both say everything that happens to me is my will. If I’m single, it’s because I choose not to be married. If I’m poor, it’s because I wanted to experience life like that. If I really want a red car and I end up with a blue one, it’s because the blue car is the fastest way for me to get a red car. Like … maybe in 2 days, the blue car will be written off, and I’ll get insurance, and I’ll be paid just enough to get the same kind of car, and the showroom will only have it in red. It could also be that I thought I wanted red, but deep down, what I really wanted was blue. Kind of like seeing [or not seeing] The Holy Virgin.

I like New Age philosophy because it’s accepting. It doesn’t say anyone is wrong. Gays, idolaters, animists, pole dancers … everyone is cool. And the reason they’re cool is that they made a choice. They’re all exactly where they want to be. New Age believes we all started in some space up there with George, and we all decided where we want to be. Of course once we got down here, we chose to forget everything. Life, according to the New Age, is this great big adventure. It’s kind of like Zelda, or Monopoly. You choose what piece to play, and you can play as often as you want.

The reason I find that principle tricky is that I’m not an adventurer. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I don’t want to discover things. I don’t want to see the world. I want to sit here quietly, play my music, write my stories, and raise my baby. That doesn’t sound like much of a trip.

Also, there is no religion that can explain evil. At least, not to my satisfaction. Some people call it infidel[ism?] Others say the devil made them do it. Some wonder why a loving God would let babies get raped. Others ask why God would let you kill other people in his name. I mean, in the Old Testament, the Israelites wandered through the desert killing all the kites [Amalekites, Hittites, Everybody-ites] and God said it was okay. There were people living on their Promised Land, so they had to get rid of them. God said. Yet the same God said Thou Shalt Not Kill [Fellow Israelites]. It’s all pretty shifty to me.

The New Age has an equally strange story about evil. It says there is none. After all, we all chose what we wanted. So on some level far, far away, you wanted to be raped. Mike Dooley has a theory about this, and I’ll share it, because at some faithy level, it made sense to me … for a while.

Let’s assume we really are all powerful beings, and that somewhere up there in the afterlife, we love to hang out. Let’s say we have a best friend, and that we like to play together, so you follow each other through different lifetimes. The adventure for you is in finding each other and rekindling your friendship, so every time you meet in a new life, you recognize this strange, unearthly bond that you share. You’re literally soulmates.

So let’s say in one lifetime, your pal decides to be a murderer. The thing that will make him change his ways is when he hurts the one he most loves. He will butcher and kill his baby girl, and it will shake him so badly that he will change to good completely. So, as his after-lifey best friend who wants only the best for him, you choose to be born as his little girl…

The other theory is perspective. When you’re walking on a road, things look pretty basic. But if you get on a plane, a spaceship, or a satellite, things look different. Walking in your neighbourhood, you will see garbage dumps and dirty children. In the plane, you’ll see trees, rooftops, and little lines of road. From the satellite, you just see pretty swathes of blue, brown, and green.

The perspective theory takes that view of evil. While you’re lying there being violated, it’s the worst form of hell. But from a ‘spaceship’ you can see what led to that day. You can see how the thug started his morning, how he will later be caught and jailed, how imprisonment will save his baby from being his next victim. In that sense, evil isn’t really evil, because it has purpose.

That makes sense on a logical level, but I still have issues when a girl saves her purity for marriage because of her faith, then has a gang break into her house and rape her.

I think as human beings, we choose what to believe, then we bend everything else to fit into that belief. The idea is pretty scary, because it means we have 7 billion warped people blindly filling up the earth, and we have no clue whose belief is right.

There’s one thing we all have though, and that’s a conscience. We can get good at ignoring it and even blocking it out, but we all know it’s there. Some of our actions are driven by society and culture. We do stuff because our parents told us that we should. But deep inside, each of us has our own moral code.

In my case, I got over chastity. I turned 17 and decided it was boring and annoying being a virgin. After all, I spent hours feeling guilty over lusting after boys when it would be so much easier to go Nike. In the end, I didn’t do it until 19, and I felt really guilty about it for a couple of hours. But then I didn’t feel as tortured by my thoughts. They say the best way to fight temptation is to give in to it, and that night was living proof. Still, I  don’t do married men. It’s my personal rule. It’s not about religion or upbringing or faith. I just feel it’s wrong to enter someone else’s marriage. Thus says my conscience.

Yesterday, I decided that there is a God, and I decided that his name was George. It’s not about blaspheming, or bugging people’s faith. But for me, a mighty, loving being should be my pal, and George sounds a lot like my pal, and so my God is George.

I haven’t gone so far in this religion I’ve created. I don’t know why George lets children get kidnapped. I don’t know if George will keep my princess safe. I don’t know if George cares what house I live in, or what car I drive.

I do know that I love my old beat up computer, and that I once said if I ever get a new one, it will be a Mac. Instead of getting the money to buy a Macbook, George sent me a client who said I can use his Mac for work. So now, suddenly, I have [access to] a Mac. *Terms And Conditions Apply* Mike Dooley would say that I manifested it, and that the The Universe gave me something really, really close to what I wanted. The Secret would say that lending me  a Mac was the fastest way for The Universe to put one in my hands.

About a month ago, I went into one man’s office looking for some freelance work. While I was in there, I decided salaries would be a better option so I pushed for that. A month down the line, I was offered a consultancy, which is a cross between freelance and a salary. The Secret would call this a product of my early thoughts. It would say I didn’t shift vibrations soon enough. Traditional faith would say that God felt this was much better for me. Mike would say I created this job with my thoughts.

Meanwhile, I’m in the middle and confused. If I try really hard, I could convince myself I got just what I wanted, and that I used The Secret to do it. But it would still be really faithy, because I didn’t get exactly what I pictured. I just got close enough to think so. It doesn’t help that two or three days later, the client reverted to original plans.

With George on my mind, I can think that he wanted this for me, because he likes me, and he knows that it will help me. I don’t know why he chose to give it to me, and I don’t know what I’ll think when he denies my next two wishes. I don’t know what his game is, or how he chooses what’s a yes and what’s a no. I don’t think he cares for offerings or Sunday jeans. My conscience is at ease with skipping tithe, church, and virginity.

But I think George has a  good sense of humour. I think he knows just what he’s doing, and I think someday, sometime, I’ll find out what that is. We’ll sit with milk and cookies, and he’ll answer all the questions that I have. He’ll tell me why somebody’s baby was raped. He’ll tell me why I got the attic roof but not the spiral staircase. And he’ll tell me why I’m such an oaf that for me, heaven is ice cream, cookies, and milk, with no subsequent gases, cramps, and tummy aches.

The George & Conscience theory works just fine for me, but I’m not sure what to tell my daughter. I could [and have] told her sex is just for marriage, but she met and really liked that last boyfriend – the one I threw up over – and we were clearly not married. Plus, she watches all the soaps, so duh! I could tell her to wait till she’s 18. But she might lose her cherry to that boy that made a bet to slay the 18 year old virgin. I could tell her to wait till 21, but thugs could break into the house. I could tell her to wait till 25, but by then, bioclocks are calling and decisions can be stupid.

And what about booze and nicotine? I can say don’t drink and drive, but that gives her an excuse to get drunk and ride home in strange [sober] boys’ cars. I could tell her to follow her own conscience, but that’s kind of being an irresponsible parent. And of course, I’m assuming she’ll do what I tell her. She’ll soon be a teenager after all.

I guess the thing with my George is to take things one day at a time. I’ve noticed that humans tend to eat their words. It’s never about pretence, or even hypocrisy. It’s more about change. When you look in his eyes and say you’ll love him forever, you generally mean what you’re saying. Then you find out he’s cheating and you wish that he was dead. Neither of those is a lie. They were both true when you said them, and the contradiction doesn’t negate them.

That’s why I like blogs. It’s cool to look at your words, swallow them as needed, and add an edit or link every time you change your mind. Now if only I could learn to stop deleting them…

♫ Erase and rewind ♫ The Cardigans ♫

 

I remember watching an episode of 21 Jump Street where a girl was gang raped. She wasn’t dressed provocatively. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t high. She was just walking through the park. A bunch of guys were walking through the park as well. When they saw her, they started heckling and ran after her. Then they took turns. There must have been twenty of them.

I’ve always wondered about the mentality of gang rape. One rapist is bad enough, but what happens with a gang? What runs through their minds as they stand by and wait for their turn? Don’t they feel their insides shrivel as they watch the victim struggle, fight and scream?

There’s a scene in Purple Hibiscus that describes a ‘nice guy’ participating in a  gang rape. We hear his thoughts as it happens. He doesn’t want to do it, and he looks away as the others have their go. But then they taunt him and ask if he’s a coward, so he plays along to save face. He takes his turn, watching the girl’s face contort with hatred and rage.

I imagine that when there’s a  gang, the victim gives up after a while. You might fight off the first two, but by the third, something inside you snaps. You realize the futility, or you freeze from exhaustion, or maybe you just tune it out and pray for it to stop. But what about them, the ones that attack you?

I’ve seen mobs perform their justice on a thief. Half the time, they don’t know who he was or what he stole. They don’t care if he stole nothing at all. Half the time, the mobs are just people with their own problems. They’re just glad for an excuse to vent their pent up anger. And there’s a lot of pent up anger in the world, so at some level, it sort of makes sense.

But what about kiddie mobs? Because I’ve seen those in action too, and I can tell you, they’re shit scary. You see this swarm of children under two feet tall, and they gang up on this one kid and attack. Sometimes they pick on him because he’s fat, or poor, or geeky. Sometimes, it’s because they think she’s pretty.

The reason makangas bully people is that they feel inferior. They think the whole world looks down on them, so they hit back. I think some kid mobs are like that. When they bully the fat kid, it’s because he’s an easy target. When they take the geek’s glasses, it’s because he can’t fight back. When they go for the rich kid, the smart kid, or the pretty kid, it’s because the target has something that they don’t. They assume the target is proud of what they have, so they try to cut him down to size.

I’ve seen that three times in the recent past. Today, a gang of kids gathered at my door. They accused my baby of something utterly silly. I say it was silly, because they couldn’t explain it. They said my baby liked to size them up. Anapenda kuwapima. They said it in both languages, so that was funny.

I knew exactly what they meant, but I wanted to see if they knew it, so I asked them to explain. They couldn’t. So I asked them to tell me what they wanted me to do. They suggested I spank her. And naturally, they wanted to watch.

I resolved the issue by trying to reason with them. If she had offended them could they simply talk things out? No. Apparently, they had tried, and she wouldn’t listen, so they wanted me to teach her a lesson. My own baby. And that’s when the ringleader said i:

‘Leo atanijua.’

I looked right into this kid’s eyes and calmly asked her if she thought it was a good idea to threaten a child in front of her own mother. Wrong move, kid.

As it turns out, the ‘sizing’ had happened the previous day, and the girl had stewed overnight and decided that she felt affronted. Microaggression whatwhat. So she had gathered a mob and come for revenge, literally plucking my baby from where she was playing and dragging her to my house. My baby responded by running inside, locking the door, and grabbing me like her life depended on it. Seeing the fire in that little mob’s eyes, I could see why she was so scared.

I was scared on another level, because when I was exactly her age, the same thing happened to me. I was caught standing under a tree, squinting at the sun, and screwing my eyes shut to keep them safe from dust. A little girl that I know decided I was screwing up my eyes because I didn’t like how she looked.

‘Why are you looking at me as ift I’m mavi?’

Yes, she said ift. That’s not a typo. She threatened to yank off a tuft of my hair and give it to her auntie, who was allegedly a doctor from Tanzania. Yes, that kind of doctor. I was too shocked to think up a response, but luckily, the bell rang and saved my little neck.

The next day, on the school bus, a prefect ordered us to sit down. I was daydreaming and I didn’t hear the order. So I was traumatized when the prefect yanked my arm and forced me onto the ground. He said I was ignoring him because  thought I was too clever to obey him. He said just because I was always number one in class, that didn’t mean I could do whatever I wanted. The prefect was the little girl’s brother.

Mobs have come for my baby on five separate occasions. Two times, it was a case of lost-in-translation, and it was quickly resolved. One time, it was genuine, and I delivered a spanking and a time out – after chasing the mob away. Discipline is not a spectator sport for me. Today, it was just children being vindictive. Each time a mob appears, she runs inside, slams and locks the door, and hides behind me, so maybe the mob thinks it’s some kind of game.

Thing is, today they’ll come in a mob, and tomorrow they’ll be here one by one, asking her to come out and play. She’s a pretty popular kid most days.

I’ve noticed something about these mobs. They’re usually incited by outsiders. The kids play happily all week, but every once in a while, some child from a different neighbourhood will show up. And one way or another, the newcomer will incite a mob, and I’ll end up referee-ing.

Mobs are also a little … you know … stupid. I mean, I know they’re only children, but on what planet does a gang of 20 children take a kid to its own parent and expect the parent to side with the mob? Really?

The worrying thing is that mobs lose their minds. They think as a hive. The children in this mob visit here all the time. They play in my house, eat my food, and collectively turn my flat into a nursery. They seek my baby every day, to just hang out. But the second a ‘case’ appears against her, they forget all signs of friendship and join the chants of ‘spank her! spank her!’

I pulled one of the girls aside and asked about it. They’re best friends when it’s just the two of them, and they routinely have sleepovers. But when things get thick, she’s always the spokesperson for the mob. I asked what that was about, and she couldn’t answer. I guess she likes to go with the crowd.

These mini-mobs are scary in one other way. With adult crowds, we can say we’re acting out. We can say we’re stressed over fuel prices or prissy bosses or makangas. We can say we’re mad at MPs and rape-thirsty thugs. We can say we’re just unleashing pent up tension.

But what about these kids? They range in age from 3 to 11. They have nothing to be angstious about. Their biggest struggle is homework, and not all of them are spanked at home. They come from various backgrounds, and individually, they’re angelic. So what are they acting out? What is this spirit that possesses them when some outside force invades? What makes them forget their friendship and their love, and turn viciously on one of their own?