[Disclaimer: Sort of fiction, mostly. Names have been changed blah blah blah. End of disclaimer.]

Let me start by saying I’m extremely judgemental. Extremely. When I first landed in boarding school, I assumed the role of watcher. I looked at every girl I met and decided instantly whether I liked her or not. I didn’t have any basis for my choice. It was simply gut feeling, and I held on to that gut feeling for four years or more. Granted, a few people surprised me. The girl I nicknamed Lady SuperFrown ended up being the sweetest girl on earth, and on the days she wasn’t frowning, she had a killer smile. The girl I thought was pleasantly assertive and strong ended up being a bossy bitch. And the girl that was pushy and annoying turned out to be my best friend.

In the grown up world, I’ve pretty much stayed in my cocoon. In campus I shuttled between class and books, so I never really talked to people. Then I confined myself to my house for three years with no one but my little girl for company. After that we were in a foreign country [What. Tanzania is a foreign as it gets. They even think different.] I speak Swahili well enough, but I’d stutter, lose all the nuances, and end up offending everyone, so I just avoided them.

Back home, I was thrust into people for maybe the first time ever. I could hide in my house and bond with my computer, but working freelance meant I did have to mix with clients once in a while. It also meant I had to physically mingle with online people in various capacities. Some were colleagues, others were clients, and some were simply crushes gone bad. In the process, I learnt a lot about second first impressions.

There are people in this world who have presence. You spot them in a  crowd and it’s like no one else exists. I’m not talking about love at first sight or anything like that. It’s just that some people have – you know – the ‘it’ factor. I was in a mat this morning and I saw this little Japanese girl. She must have been five feet tall, and she wore shorts and a blouse. She’s not a kid – she looked 28 or 29. But for the five minutes that we were stuck at the roundabout, I didn’t notice anyone else, and I’m not even sure why. Maybe it’s because she had pretty hair, or because she was lighter than everyone else, or even because the rest had layers and layers of clothing while she had on a checked shirt and shorts. Whatever ‘it’ is, that girl had it. She made a strong impression.

I’ve met people who’ve made strong first impressions, only to cancel them on the second third or fourth meeting. There’s Katana, the manager I met during one freelance gig. When I first met her, I didn’t pay much attention. She’s very graceful despite her size, a real African woman, all power suits and heels. I assumed that her confidence was connected to her beauty, and that she was a bit of a busybody because she kept butting into exchanges that had nothing to do with her. I thought she might be a bosses’ pet, and that her clout came from proximity to authority.

She would make a lot of snap decisions concerning the project, but I secretly thought she was a little, you know, blonde. She made declarations that were obvious and unoriginal, yet she made them with confidence and carried herself like the world was her underling. She had the air of a pretty girl drifting through a world of Plain Janes, or at least that’s what I thought. She would walk into the room like she knew everyone was looking at her, and she commanded attention when she didn’t get. Naturally, she didn’t get along well with all the other women, but it didn’t seem to faze her. She seemed to almost expect it, and even thrive on it, using it to justify her condescension.

Three months down the line, I was invited to a board meeting … and she was chairing it. It turns out she owns the company. Oooookaaaaay. I didn’t treat her any differently after that, not even when I saw the car she drove and the house she lived in. She got a little tipsy during some cocktail thing and did some name-dropping and payslip shoving, and I finally realised where her attitude came from. She could easily afford to buy me, five times over! But the tipsiness also made her human. She showed off her soft, nurturing side, and I decided she wasn’t so bad after all. When we met the next morning to go over a brief, she got out of her car, handed me some files, and topped the load with an ashtray for me to hold while she dusted off her cigarette and talked on her cell phone. She did say thank you when she was done smoking, so I suppose that’s something, but still, can you say ouch?

Then there was Barbara. She was the PA to a web developer that I was working with. Yes, I know web developers don’t have PAs, but this one does. When I first saw Barbara, she had this look on her face. It was like she’d sized me up and decided that I wasn’t much competition, so she could afford to be nice to me. And she was, but only from afar. She was extremely polite on phone and email. Her boss would call to see if she’d gotten me drinks or stationery or food, and she’d always answer with a voice dripping honey. But she would never speak to me directly or follow through on any of her bosses’ requests concerning me.

Then one day, something touched her – I’m not sure what – and she went totally human. She came up to me at lunch and we chatted about movies and music and boys. Turns out she has a crush on her boss, and could only let her guard down once she was sure I wasn’t interested in him. If only she knew he sees me more as a boy. Either way, she surprised me by how cool she turned out to be. She still has lapses of girliness where’s she’s downright bitchy with me, but I just assume it’s monthlies, and we’re pretty much pally nowadays. Sometimes, when her mood switches get really extreme, I wonder if she’s schitzophrenic, napoleonic, or just a really good actor.

Speaking of being seen as a boy, there was this one girl, hotshot accountant type. Let’s call her Dana. She was the only girl in the boys’ club of senior management. I’d followed her job profile for a while, and she was always photographed in girly stints and poses. Fashion events, hair exhibitions, bead galleries, she was always there. She seemed vivacious and feisty, always being interviewed for some radio show or other. So I assumed she was the flower of the firm, and that she was their soft touch, their bid for affirmative action. I didn’t doubt that she was good. I mean, the firm was top notch, so affirmative action or not, she’d have to be awesome at her job to get there. It wasn’t the kind of place you could get into on your back. So I was more than a little intimidated about meeting her.

When I finally  did meet her, she seemed … well … quiet … and guarded. Very guarded. I thought she’d warm up eventually, but six months into the project, she was still all hunched body langauge and one-word answers. I eventually asked her assistant about it, and he laughed at my shocked expression. ‘Didn’t you know? She doesn’t like women!’ Oh. Right. Didn’t see that one coming.

The other surprise girl was sort of … different … so let’s call her Shaquilla. She’s the partner to one of my clients, so she’s in charge of PR and Marketting. I’d bumped into her online and thought she was a little – well – blonde. But when I heard her title and her credentials, I assumed I must be wrong. After all, she had a 50% stake in a blue chip company, and she wasn’t anyone’s daughter or wife, so she must have something in her brains. I met her quite a few times over the next few months, and each time she did something silly, I’d defend her and wish it away. But by the time I picked my final cheque and left … well … she has really good taste in shoes.

And just so you don’t think I have it in for girls, let’s do a few boys as well. There’s Mwema, the driver who was assigned to me during one gig. He had to take to me to odd places at even odder hours, and he seemed kind of aloof and distant. No matter how hard I tried to engage him, he was like a rock. He’d watch me and listen attentively like he planned to act on every word, then he’d do whatever he wanted. Real phleg that one. We’d be driving in my hood and I’d suggest an alternate route he could use, and he’d pause and nod … and use whatever route he wanted anyway. One day, I just flat out asked if he resented driving me, and if he’d rather have me assigned to someone else. He didn’t respond, but the next day, Madam Boss caught a ride with us. She took the back left while I took my usual shotgun seat.

That woman makes Cruella de Ville look like a saint. She’d ask the driver to take one route, and when he did, she’d blame him for taking it, claiming that he was an expert and should know better. If she caught him using the rear view mirror, she’d swear worse than any sailor and fire him on the spot even though – clearly – she had no jurisdiction. Once or twice, she threatened to throw him out of the car  and drive it herself, but recanted the demand once she realized the harm it would do to her nails. And when he finally dropped her off, she insisted that before taking me to where I needed to go, he should go back to the house … to get her dog. No, it wasn’t a joke. At the end of the day, I bought the guy a big bottle of Johnny Walker and promised to be quiet and let him enjoy all future rides in peace.

Then there was the uber friendly guy who smiled all the time – Timmy. I haven’t decided about him, but nobody can be that happy all the time. And there’s Adrian, the flirty Finance Manager. I can’t really tell with him. There are times when I swear he’s hitting on me, and times when I think he acts this way with all the girls. Sometimes he pays such attention to details in my nature, remembering what colour my shoes were, or noting the flavour of smarties I enjoy. Other times, he ignores me for weeks at a time except for work matters. He seems so professional sometimes, but at other times he’s such a clown that I wonder how he ever got that six-figure job. He’s fun to watch though.

But there are two guys who have me curious – Peter and Paul. [What.] They’re twins in a sense, because they handle two sections of the same account. One handles PR and the other handles media. They’re both kind of quiet, but I’ve seen pictures of office parties that suggest they can get rowdy given the right drink. One of them has this habit of watching me with this … expression. It’s like he has a million questions he wants to ask me, but he can’t quite decide if he should. The other one is reservedly flirty, if such a thing exists. He checks on me once in a  while, and notices when I’m not at work. My brief is that I don’t need to be there every day, but he’s the only one that asks me where I was when and why. He never does it in a nosy way. It seems more like curiosity and concern. In fact, it’s almost … territorial. It surprises me when he does that, because when I first started the project, he seemed to almost resent me being there, but once he decided I was worth what they were paying me, he started acting almost like a boyfriend. But only two or three days a week. The rest of the time, he acts like I’m not even there. I’d love to get inside those twin heads and find out what they really think of me. Maybe I should rig up a mike in their office and hear what they say when I’m not around.

I think the most confusing person I’ve met so far is Jem. He’s gay guy that I worked with a while back. When I first walked into the office, he introduced himself, and he seemed really nice. He was friendly and open and we talked a lot about our personal lives. I felt like we’d made a connection. But then the next day he walked by like I didn’t even exist, and I admit that I was hurt. After that, he was different every day. I noticed he was unpopular with the girls in the office, which is strange because most gay guys are adorable. There were days he’d go out of his way to be polite to me, inviting me to sit with him at lunch and lending me a book he was sure I’d enjoy. Other times, he’d be mean and raspy and snap at me, so I’d stay out of his way and assume it was his periods.

Once in a while, I’d see a startling side of him. He had some rather mannish tendencies, which I found strange for his orientation. He sucks at taking hints and he has the EQ of a rock. He also has a tattoo on his … well … I’m not supposed to know about that, so I probably shouldn’t mention it, but let’s just say that when I found out about it, I started to wonder if he was really gay. He’s also – apparently – really good with kids. He spends most of his weekends babysitting for the boss. Anyway, I’ve known him for a year, but I haven’t quite decided what to think about him. It’s like he’s someone different every day, and it’s more than a little creepy. Maybe he’s just ISFP.

I suppose what I’ve taken from all this is not to judge a book when I first read it. It could be very, very different the second, third, or fourth time that I see it. It won’t really have changed, because you can’t alter words that are in print. But they might seem different in another mood, another light, another language. The words may change because of context or translation. The person I meet might be someone completely different and yet someone exactly the same, so I have to be open to the fact. It’s like Dr Phil says, life is made of a million first impressions – the first time you’re stuck in traffic, the first time you’re excited, the first time he surprises you with black forest cake and so on. People react differently to every first, so you have to allow space and time to make a composite impression  before you decide if you like someone or not. And even then, there are mid and quarter life crises, and breakdowns, and brain tumours, and alzheimers, and menopause. So you might know someone for years and end up thinking they’re a complete stranger and you don’t like them anymore, or that they’re cooler than you thought they were. I suppose I’m finally learning to accept that. I wonder if that makes me more grown up.

♫ Nara ♫ Posthumus ♫

So it turns out I’m an expert on social media … and my status is complete news to me. I mean, all I did is a have a conversation with a person of influence, and apparently I knew what I was talking about, so I got the label. I don’t know if I’m am expert as such, since all I’ve done is tweeted from the heart and been the star in lots of tweef. I wouldn’t really call myself an expert at anything. I do know that I have a quick learning curve, and that I can get quite good at anything that doesn’t involve motor skills or aiming. That effectively means any job I’ve done has left both clients and bosses happy, and I’ve been described as proficient in everything from PR Consultancy to music tuition.

This week, I was tasked with talent scouting. I had to go on Twitter, blogs, and MKZ, and identify … um … experts … in various fields. I’ve been on and off Twitter for five years, and my tweets would probably be in the twelve-thousand-region if I didn’t keep deleting my accounts. So I know a little about tweeple and their online personas. Because I’m such a hermit, I’ve only met a handful of tweeps, so I don’t know for sure that their real selves are anything like their twitter selves.

For about half an hour, I scoured the Twitter corridors and came up with a longish list of names. Then I asked someone who I do consider an expert, and she came up with the same names in just two minutes, plus a few that I’d forgotten never heard of. Yes, she’s that good, and I bow in awe of a Ninja.

Anyway, while I was cooking up my list, I noticed just how many Kenyans are on Twitter. Some lists suggest we’re close to 60,000, though I don’t know if that’s accurate, or how many of those accounts are active and/or corporate. I do know that I’ve worked with Twitter in other countreis, and the Kenyan online crowd is fairly vibrant.

Vibrance can be a good thing or a bad one, and it turns pretty nasty when you’re stuck on the wrong side of a TT. But one thing about the process made me sad. Because of the nature of Twitter, we’re on a level playing field. You can pick any username you want, so you could have five different variations of @Kim-Kardashian and not know which account is hers. You could also be tweeting your own CEO and not even know it. So if I’ve been tweeting this nice easygoing person for three years, I’d have no way of knowing they own a fleet of cars and have a net worth of 6 billion. That made it hard to tell whether @songstressdiva is a professional shower crooner or an artist with 9 albums to her name.

People were ‘famous’ and ‘gifted’ simply because I said they were, and it got pretty embarrassing when I singled out someone as a sporting professional then realized they sit right next to me in the office. Granted, they’re really good with sports, but I’d never have known who they were if I hadn’t picked them. At the other extreme, there were people I wrote off and was later told there were so-and-so, the great whatsit of whosville. For some, that made me like them more, but for others, I liked them even less.

I made my recommendations based on my exchanges with these tweeple, and my analyses of their blog presences and timelines. I looked pretty keenly, because I had justify my choices with graphs and stats and pie charts and lots and lots of red … and even then, they weren’t always agreed with. But as I looked over the tweeple on my timeline, I wondered who I might be missing. I wondered which amazing talent could be hidden behind locked accounts, poorly chosen usernames, and blank, whimsical bios. I wondered how many brilliant people I might never find simply because they’re not in my circles.

And I wondered if this kind of fluke is how stars are made – and broken.

I get this same feeling each time I discover a new blogger, and realize that this gifted writer might never get paid simply because nobody knows his url. It’s a sad and scary feeling. Still, I suppose in my bosses eyes, what makes me an expert isn’t that I know every person in the blogosphere. It’s that given a brief and a task, I have a good idea where to start, when to finish, and how to get it done. They know that when they give me work to do, I have it handled, so all I can do is my best. That, and following every single Kenyan person Twitter recommends. So if you’re suddenly being followed by a 3CB, well, now you know why.

Twitter makes us equal in a way that Guinness can’t, and it gives us access to people we could otherwise never talk to. But it makes the invisible man obscure and the IRL giants tiny. Just one more reason to watch what [and who] you tweet. As for MKZ, well, that’s a story best left for another day, but I’ll just say it one more time for clarity. I.♥.Twitter. That is all.

♫ There goes the neighbourhood ♫ Sheryl Crow ♫

When I was working from home, there’s one thing I missed, and one thing I looked forward to. About once a month, I’d have to go into town to pay my Zuku bill. The hour or so that I spent in a Number 15 gave me enough material to write for a week. So I’m glad I get to use matatus now. I ride two to work every day, and two more on my way home. It’s positively muse! Loud, ricketty, sometimes annoying muse, but still, muse!

I generally have three options of mats. I take a 15 to and from town, and to work, I take a 30 or a 23. Heading back into town, I’ll sometimes take those blue shuttles or a yellow Star thingie. At least I think that’s what they’re called. I sometimes wonder why I don’t take one in the morning. I guess I’ll find out one of these days.

My story started four nights ago. It was a Friday night, or maybe a Thursday, I’m not too sure. I got to Afya Centre and there were no mats, so I went to Bus Station. I don’t really mind getting mats from there. They’re old and ricketty, and they often fall  apart, but I’ve never been a yo-yo kind of girl, and the last mat I entered by name was Street Legal. That was a loooooong time ago.

Anyway, it turns out there was an operation of some kind, or a jam, or something, but for some reason there was a shortage of mats. The mathrees were charging 80 bob, which is expected for the Afya Centre matatus, but is blasphemous for Bus Station transport. The highest prices go here is 60 bob. Still, people got in and the mat left. Next, a yo-yo mat showed up charging … 100.

I was pretty pissed off, but I figured this is Lang’ata crowd, it’s late, they’ll pay. They always do, that’s why mats hike their fares. I mean, try pulling that stunt on Namba 8 and you’ll probably get lynched! Anyway, the guy comes and yells ‘Lang’ata Mia Moja’ and … *crickets* Nobody rushing for the mat, nobody whining, nobody protesting, just … *crickets*

I expected the usual scuffle to break out where some old man would start causing about the rising cost of living, or some woman would accuse the makanga of being cruel and heartless. Instead everybody just stared at him silently, and after a few moments, people resumed their conversations, totally ignoring him.

After maybe ten minutes of yelling into nothingness, the makanga whispered with the driver and lowered the price to 70 bob ‘watu wa estate’. What that means is the matatu would stop ten minutes from the last stage. But I didn’t mind. I spend 60 bobo every night, so 10 bob extra was better than 30 bob extra. And in the end, the mat got to the last stage – or so I heard.

I’ve never seen anything like that happen, and for some reason, I felt really, really proud to be among a crowd that stood up to a makanga. And we did it without yelling at anyone, weka-ing a tairi – or even saying a single word. Very cool. I saw it happen a few more times at Afya Centre, where the makanga would yell ‘Sabini’ and some woman would yell, ‘Hiyo sabini unafikiri tunaokota?’ Apparently, after 8.00 p.m., all Afya Centre mats should charge 50 bob. Hmm. Learn something new every day.

On a completely unrelated note, there’s a boy in my office who smells absolutely heavenly! Every time he has to brief me on something, I have to concentrate really, really hard to understand what he’s saying, and it’s hard to keep my mind focused. He walks by my desk and it’s five seconds before I remember what I was doing. I have no idea what that scent is called, but every time I’m near him, I sing silent praises to the God of Male Cologne. Sigh.

Back to the point. My next matatu story is more amusing than anything else. We got onto the matatu and it took off without its makanga. We alerted the driver, but he said the tout has been arrested, so we’d just have to do without one. He had an akorino turban on his head, and I was really curious to see how this would play out, especially since the passenger in makanga’s seat didn’t look like he planned on counting any money.

When we got to Museum Hill used-to-be-a-roundabout, the driver calmly parked the car, got out, came round to our side, collected his money, then went back and drove off. For some reason, I found the whole episode really funny and unusual. Not so, however, because it was repeated severally over the next few days, though the other drivers weren’t nearly as efficient as the turban man. One guy was so flustered that I’m sure some people left without paying, though I was amused to see the guys sneak away while the girls stood around and waited to pay. It made me smile that they chose to stick around and be honest when they didn’t have to.

On another side note, every time I get into a mat at night, I shake a little. The other day I got into one and after a few seconds, I noticed there were no other girls inside. It was a very worrying ride. If a guy gets into a mat and all the passengers are girls, he’ll have nothing but smiles and … other things. Yet for a girl, getting pointed stares from the guy sitting next to you at night is cause for concern. On one ride, every one in the matatu was a girl except the driver. It made me sad that if the roles had been reversed, the girl would probably be scared out of her skin. I know every time I get in a mat and find no women, I think long and hard about getting off and waiting for the next one. So much for gender equality

Lighter matatu stories. In another makanga-less mathree, an oldish farm lady ended up on the makanga’s seat. She had a pale matronly dress and a white headscarf, and I think she had as much fun doing the job as I had watching her do it. It’s things like this that make my days that much brighter, and each time I see one, I thank George for little mercies.

Sometimes, matatus make my day in other ways. Like when a driver zooms from 0 to 60 with the precision of  a rally driver and makes the transition so smooth that you barely feel it. Or when a flying mathree comes to a halt using some killer squeak-free brakes. I love that. I like it when the music in the mathree plays to my taste, and I enjoy the early morning rides because every day between 7 and 8 a.m., before Maina and King’ang’i start the nonsense, they’re actually quite funny.

A mathree can make my day and ruin someone else’s. In the mornings, we usually pay 70 bob to town. But once in a while, you’ll get lucky and pay 50 bob. The downside to that is people pay ’50 bob stage yote’ so that even people who get on at Dam, Wilson, or Nyayo pay the same price. Roles reverse in the evening and you end up paying 70 or 80 from Nyayo to Lang’ata. It’s enough to make you want to move to Kangemi, though they have to pay 50 bob in rush hour as well.

Most makangas are mean and heartless. I’ve been abused by more than one simply because I ignored their catcalls or wouldn’t get into the mat. But sometimes, they surprise you. One stage tout called me lots of sexist names, and I was about to get offended when the makanga jumped to my rescue. He was gentlemanly and polite, apologized for the stage tout’s behaviour, and when I got off at my stage, he even wished me a nice day, in those exact words. Bless his angel heart, wherever he is.

I’m a bit conflicted about driving my own car right now. I’d love to attend plays at Mavuno Dome without having to leech on a  ride, and I’d love to drive my baby to Panari for an evening of skating. But I haven’t been in a car since I cried my way into getting a drivers license, and all my dream cars have been taken away. According to the experts, a Beetle will give me nightmares in maintenance, a Jeep only scores 9 out of 20 on Top Gear, Defenders are just plain ugly, and an X6 can’t make it up a hill. I’m now wondering what pretty red car I can get that won’t be a total disaster; never mind that I can’t afford it yet, and that any car I pick is purely for visualization purposes. But however things turn out, I hope I never get too rich, comfortable, or stuck up to ride in a mathree.