Well actually, it was yesterday morning at 7.00 a.m. See, I’d like to have a certain … operation. And because of my … delicate age … my OB/GYN has to get permisision from a shrink. The idea came to me years ago. I must have been 12 or 13, having a philosophical discussion with my mum when she said, ‘Just have as many kids as you want, then tie your tubes.’ I can’t remember what the discussion was about, but I imagine it involved population explosions and polygamy.

Anyway, two years ago, I walked into a doctor’s office and asked for a BTL. I’m not sure what the B stands for (I’ll Google it when I’m done), but the TL is for Tubal Ligation. As I told my shrink yesterday, I have one child, I lost one child, I’ve done my duty to the world. After a lengthy chat and analysis, he declared me psychologically stable *insert evil laughter* so early next year, I’m getting myself sterilized.

I actually wanted my tubes tied as soon as I had my first baby. But I was only 21, and it was a Catholic Hospital, so they were having none of it. Two years ago, after a lengthy debate with my doctor, I talked her into it. Unfortunately, the operation was beyond my budget, so she gave me arm implants and we agreed to wait two years while I saved up. I finally have enough to get it done, so it’s on … or rather … it’s off.

But I digress. This is about my early morning visit to the shrink. It wasn’t what I expected. For one thing, he didn’t make me sit on the couch. I didn’t even realize he had a couch until we were done. He asked a lot of questions, mostly about my family, and seemed unusually interested in what we all do for a living. He asked about my mum, dad, and brothers’ occupations, but didn’t ask about mine, which I thought was a little weird. Maybe he’d seen it on my forms. He didn’t ask about my dreams, or my childhood, though we did talk about the rape and depression. Considering how often I worry about my sanity, it’s nice to meet a shrink who thinks I’m normal.

The visit to the psychiatrist got me thinking though, and the thought thread followed a conversation I had with a good friend the night before. We were talking about my confusion regarding relationships. See, I think I’m happy on my own. I have a good life, great job, supportive family, awesome friends, and a wonderful baby girl. (She’s almost ten, but she’ll always be a baby to me.) Yet I seem unusually listless and unsettled. Also, I seem to be making an awful lot of effort to get coupled, especially considering I don’t even believe in marriage.

My friend pointed out that for someone who’s such a hopeless romantic, I spend a lot of time projecting the image that I don’t need a man. I explained that I don’t do it consciously, but she insisted, so I gave it a little thought. Well, okay, a lot of thought. I concluded that I’m so afraid to be alone that I desperately need to convince myself otherwise. It’s easier not to want anyone than to have someone reject you. Or hurt you.  Or leave you. Sort of like the insecure bully who picks on everyone else.

See, in my eyes, my mother is the perfect woman, and the perfect wife. She’s hot, smart, pretty, stylish, and worldly. She speaks French and vernacular with equal fluency, cooks, cleans, drives, swims, and has a solid career. She’s the perfect host and can make anything from Dutch cookies to traditional vegetables. She is the absolute package and I could never measure up.

All my life, I’ve watched my mum and wondered why all her gorgeous genes didn’t come down to me. I know we look a lot a like, but even when people mistake me for her, I still don’t recognise that beauty in myself. Which, incidentally, is the second half of the equation. I know, on a rational, logical, mental level that I’m a good-looking woman. Yet somehow, I just don’t feel particularly attractive.

Also, despite all my mother’s perfection, she lost the man she loved, so I really don’t have a hope in hell. I have this preconceived notion that any man I catch will leave, and my love life has been a study in self fulfilling prophesies. So the only way to keep my heart from getting broken – again – is to convince myself I don’t have one. The trouble comes when all the rest of me wants a relationship and my mind is screaming black power power to the independent female.

I suppose it’s my latest identity crisis. I’ve been having them since I was a teenager, dressing in baggy jeans and pretending to be a tomboy when I so obviously wasn’t, and struggling with my urges to go girly. I finally reached a happy middle ground after my make-over – jeans, boots, make-up, and a few feminine outfits that I can pull out when required. I also restarted my exercise regime. I’m hoping to shed all those extra kilos at the waist.

See, I allegedly have an apple-shape, which means that while I mostly look well proportioned, my weight tends to bulge around the middle. So when I say I want to lose weight, I get everything from shocked stares to prayer offers. The truth is, even though it doesn’t show, I weigh almost 80 kilos, which is not at all healthy for my height. So I’ve decided to do something about it. Again.

I’ve tried to shed these excess kilos lots of times. It’s hard because I love food and hate exercise, and because every time I give up, I end gaining more weight instead. The first time I went on a ‘diet’ I was trying to shed the 5 excess kilos I’d gained while working in Tanzania. I tried again when I was 10 kg overweight, and even joined a gym. But now that I’ve gained 20 kilos, and it’s about time I let them go.

Each time I went on a weight loss programme, I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those girls, the ones that walk into a restaurant and buy a plate of salad. I mean, really, salad?!? But today I have a lunch date with a long lost friend. I haven’t seen her in ages, and we have a lot of catching up to do. Over rabbit food. Sigh. The things we do for love (and weight loss).

Why am I ordering salad? Well, I’m using something called the 4 Day Diet, which is basically four days at a time for as long as you need to. I’m pushing for six months. Today is a fruits and vegetable day, hence the salad. I might end up ordering some soup – without the bread of course. I’ll find out when I get there.

Lately, I’m getting spiritual, praying a lot and meditating, so it bugs that I’m concerned about my physical appearance. Plus, if I don’t want a guy, why do I care about how I look? Well, the prolonged shrink-inspired thinking made a few things very clear. One, I don’t like myself very much, and I hide it by being confident and vain. Some people call me arrogant, even though I’m rather self-deprecating around those who know me well, and it annoys them, because they think I’m fishing for compliments. And yes, I realise I’m over-thinking this. It’s what I do.

I also don’t find myself attractive, so I transformed my whole wardrobe and I’m now shifting my body. I imagine I’m unlove-able, and that anyone that loves me will leave me once they realize how awful I really am. So I try to make myself more want-able, and when anyone gets close, I push them away before they get epiphanies and leave.

I dated a guy once who said when a man wants an easy lay, he’ll pick a girl who’s either (mentally) blonde or emotionally damaged. I’ve had a string of ‘one-hit-wonders’ and always assumed the problem was me. Now I realize I’m attracting that kind of person because it’s the only thing I think I deserve. Self-fulfilling prophesy. I make stupid relationship decisions because I crave attention so badly that I latch onto it, even when it comes from the wrong quarters. In fact, I especially ‘enjoy’ inappropriate attention, because it proves me right, affirming that it’s the only kind I can get.

And if anyone else shows any interest, I automatically get paranoid, or worse, I don’t notice it at all because I don’t think it’s possible. It’s like seeing a pink elephant crossing the road, then assuming you must be drunk, even though all you’ve had is coffee. Your first assumption isn’t that the elephant has spray paint – it’s that your coffee has been spiked.

In theory, the solution to all these problems is to convince myself I’m worthy of affection. For me that begins with getting the physique and wardrobe that make me happy. All the self-help books tell you that’s the wrong way to do it. They say you should love yourself as you are, not change into who you want to be, but I don’t quite know how to do that.

A lot of people will dismiss a blog post like this one. They’ll call it a blatant cry for attention (though they’ll use descriptions that are way more graphic than that.) All I know is there are a LOT of beautiful women who think they’re ugly and hurt themselves because of it. The world is full of gifted, talented, amazing people who think they’re crap. That’s why so many artist[e]s, movie stars, and success stories kill themselves. Nobody sees themselves the same way that the rest of the world does. It’s just that the average person is better at hiding their insecurities, that’s all.

Sometimes I wonder what world I belong to. I’m low enough to know the pain of hunger, because there were nights when I had nothing to eat, yet I’m high enough to order pizza for me and my daughter once a month on Terrific Tuesday. I’m simple enough to have leftover ugali and sukuma for breakfast, but ‘middle-class’ enough to consider taking lessons in Tai-chi. I’m Kenyan enough to happily shop at Toi Market, but ambitious enough to have dream car that costs 15 million.

I’m ‘ghetto’ enough to eat at Karumaindos but bougie enough to recognise capoera, caesar’s salads, and dutch dating. Maybe I’m just a series of identity crises wrapped in a cuddly bundle of plus-sized awesomeness. Also, lolcats make me very, very happy. I do know a few things though. I’m grateful for my beautiful daughter and the endless blessings in this life. I’m thankful that I can finally accept the friends and family who love me. I’m honoured to be a dreamer, and a writer. And I’m glad that as strange and unfamiliar as it all seems, and as lost, confused, and depressed as I sometimes feel, my vision of myself is getting better and better.

♫ Crazy ♫ Aerosmith ♫

I’m a drama queen. Everybody knows that. So when I have a serious complaint, nobody pays attention. It’s like the boy who cried wolf, but in reverse. And this time, my beef is with Safaricom. Granted I’ve deleted five accounts on facebook, twelve on email, seven on twitter, and four blogs. In fits of anger, I’ve ripped countless manuscripts, broken crockery, mwikos, and umbrellas (the latter on a certain boy’s head) and have had about fifteen different phone numbers since 1999. One more change shouldn’t be that big a deal, right? Well, as Julie Andrews would say, let’s start at very the beginning.

• 2000 – Bought my first Safaricom line for Ksh 2,500/=.
• 2006 – Was offered a job in TZ and bought four lines, one from each service provider.
• 2007 – Got the TZ job. Bought four more lines since the first four were expired. Or lost. Or both.
• 2008 – Reverted to my Safaricom line thanks to the East Africa Tariff.
• 2009 – Came back to Kenya, leaving four of my cell phone lines behind.
• 2009 – Put my Safaricom line inside a modem and bought a new sim card to escape a stalking ex.
• 2009 – Moved to  new house with network issues. Bought ALL lines to see which one would work. Settled for a Yu line.

• 2010 – Got a suspect text from Safaricom and blogged about it.
• 2010 – After the previous saga, got mad at Safaricom, ranted online, and threw away my M-PESA sim card.
• 2010 – Freelance client preferred to pay via M-PESA, so I bought a new line.
• 2011 – Got a job at Squad Digital which included training Safaricom Online Customer Care Reps.
• 2011 – Switched to postpay bundles.
• 2012 – Migrated back to pre-pay. Then the real nightmare began.

The first time I threw away my sim card, it was more of a temper tantrum than anything else. At that point, I only used Safaricom for M-PESA, so when I got a text asking me to register my line, I was skeptical. I called Customer Care, and when I couldn’t get through, I wrote a blog post questioning the validity of said text. An M-PESA manager called me (on my Yu line). He explained the situation, in a rather patronizing manner, and suggested I write a second blog post, which I did, while throwing away my Safaricom sim card.

After the second blog post, the manager called me again, apologized for upsetting me, and asked how he could fix things. I told him I didn’t much care, but that my neighbours would probably enjoy having network in the building. See, when I moved into my new house, I tried every single mobile service provider. The most feasible one was Yu, even though I had to go stand at the window to use my phone. My Airtel line had a weak signal in certain parts of the house, but on my other lines, I had to leave the building and go outside the gate to make a call.

I gave Mr. Manager the number of my building caretaker and one of my neighbours, and within a few weeks, the building had full Safaricom network. Incidentally, when Safaricom network got strengthened, the other mobile signals mysteriously disappeared. I’m too paranoid to call that a coincidence.

A few weeks ago, I decided to get off Postpay bundles because they no longer made sense so I shot a few tweets @Safaricom_Care. They told me I’d get to keep my accumulated postpay minutes, and that I had 30 days to use them. During my lunch break on Wednesday, I went Westgate to do the deed. It took a while, because systems were down, but eventually they signed me off. I asked again about accumulated minutes (I have about 5,000, plus 700MB of free data) and they said I wouldn’t need to top up my phone until they ran out. Yay!

On Saturday, I got a text telling me I was officially back on prepay. I don’t use my phone much, so I hardly ever know where it is. But I had a pretty hectic day planned. I had to drop my baby for her camping trip, meet a friend at Yaya, and see a doctor, so today, ED was essential. When I tried to make a call, the nice lady on auto-response said she couldn’t complete the call, and suggested I try again later.

I tried three other numbers with the same result. I dialed *144# to check my balance. ‘Sorry, operator failed.’ I tried to top up via M-PESA and the text said ‘M-PESA is unable to complete top up at this time.’  I bought a scratch card to load the phone. ‘Sorry, the top up was not successful. Please try again later.’ I sent a text to find out where my friend was. ‘Message not sent.’

I had a meeting at 2.30 and a doctor’s appointment at 3.30, so when the doctor’s office rescheduled, I tried to let my pal know, but the call wouldn’t go through! Luckily [?] I was a few minutes late, so she called to check how far away I was, and we agreed to talk after I had finished with the doctor. Once my shots were done, I tried to get in touch with my friend again, but my phone was still haywire, so I borrowed the receptionist’s phone.

I went online to tweet Customer Care and my Tweetdeck said, ‘Tweet unsent. Connection problems. Automatic retry.’ So I called Customer Care, the only number that would actually go through. The first Customer Care Rep was very polite and suggested I do a hard reboot – put the phone off, take out the sim card, put it back in, restart. I did it five times. No luck.

I waited a few hours then called again. This time, after being on hold for five minutes, I got a mean one who said, ‘How do you expect a prepay line to work without airtime. Have you tried topping it up?’ It was all I could do to keep my voice calm as I explained that (a) they told me I didn’t have to, and (b) I’d been trying to top up for three hours. She suggested I get someone to sambaza me.

I asked the girl next to me in the matatu, and she was suspicious, obviously. I mean, a stranger asks you to sambaza them airtime and they’ll pay you cash? It has scam written all over it, even though I’d only asked for 50 bob. In the end, we agreed that I would buy a scratchcard, she would load her phone, then send it to me. It failed, so she ended up paying ME for her ‘free credit’. Sigh.

I got home and tried to tweet @Safaricom_Care from my PC, but it has issues and took about half an hour to boot up. While I waited, I called Customer Care again, and they said they were setting up a ticket which would take 24 hours. Ngggggggg!!! When my machine eventually started up, I tweeted @Safaricom_Care. They said I was mteja and asked me to DM an alternate number. I explained that I don’t have one, tweeted my brother, and asked him to call me. I wanted to see whether I could still receive calls, since I was apparently mteja. Turns out I can, and I ranted at the poor boy until his airtime ran out.

A while later, Safaricom finally got a call through, and they confirmed that a ticket takes 24 hours to resolve. I was furious because I needed to call my baby and see if she had arrived at camp safely. It made me so mad that the one time I desperately needed my phone, I couldn’t even use it. The next morning, a Safaricom Rep called to ask if I could top up my phone. I asked her to call back in 5 minutes. My battery was low and there was a power blackout, so I knew I’d be mteja soon, one way or another.

I tried to top up and failed. I couldn’t call them back because (a) I had no guarantee of getting the same Customer Care Rep, and (b) I didn’t have enough battery power. Plus, with no power and no mobile internet, I couldn’t even tweet. I waited half an hour for her to call back before I gave up, went to the neighbourhood kiosk, and bought Yu and Airtel lines. They both have no network in my house, so I had to go outside the gate to load them and call my baby girl. She’s fine by the way, having a blast and telling me I worry too much.

I’ve heard Safaricom described as an abusive boyfriend lots of times, and I agree. I get it. Safaricom is not that into me. And it hurts because I know I won’t leave. After all, (a) no other mobile service provider has network inside my house, (b) I’ve changed my number so many times that my bankers think I’m Nigerian and my relatives think I’m insane, and (c) all our mobile service providers have crappy service anway. I’ve been hung up on by Customer Care Reps from Orange, Yu, Airtel, Safaricom (and even Voda and Zantel in TZ).

I suppose I should consider that the problem here is me. Maybe I just don’t know how to talk to Customer Care people. Still, when you’re getting paid to solve my problems, I don’t expect you to talk down to me whenever you can’t solve them. That makes me mad, and when I get mad, I yell. And then people hang up. On the upside, I’ve never been hung up on by any Customer Care person that I trained, though I suppose that was for a different reason. Plus, I changed jobs and I don’t train them anymore, so I guess they can hang up on me now, if they want to.

This weekend, I was raging mad at Safaricom, and yes, I did quite a lot of yelling. Now I’m just numb. I’ve talked to one more Customer Care Rep this morning, but I couldn’t find the energy to protest, so I just gave one-word answers. I’m too fed up to be angry. At least I can use my Yu line for emergency calls, and I’ve spent most of the morning switching and un-switching sim cards. But if one more person responds with, ‘You changed your number again!’ I’m likely to stab somebody.

♫ Move b***h ♫ Ludacris ♫

… and I didn’t even notice. Here’s what happened. I was having a sandwich with a dear friend when three guys walked past. I wasn’t paying much attention, so I didn’t get a good look at them. Once they were gone, my pal grinned and said, “That boy wants you.” Huh? Who what where? “The one in the blue shirt. He was staring at you.” Of course by then I could only see his backside, so I shrugged it off and went on with my sandwich. The thing is … it bothered me a lot more than it should have.

See, I’m what you call unlucky in love. Things didn’t work out with my baby’s dad. It was an abusive relationship, and I’ve had a string of bad liaisons ever since. Let’s just say me and the guys I was seeing weren’t after the same thing. I’m at that point where I’ve mostly given up on love and let my life revolve around my daughter.

My problems with guys started way before my baby was born. It took me a while to accept it, but I’d like to think that I’m the full package. I’m pretty, smart, I have ‘natural hair’ (dreads count, right?), an okay figure, a double-D chest, financial stability, and a great singing voice. I also have a strange sense of humour, I can be warm and personable, and I don’t mind paying bills.

Of course I’m also extremely introverted, rather anti-social, utterly undomestic, alarmingly hypersensitive, erratically moody, and not particularly fond of blowjobs. And I don’t, drink, smoke, fly, or party, so I suppose some people might find me boring. Despite all this, or maybe because of it, I seem to attract the wrong kind of guy.

I only get hit on by makangas, mboches, watchmen, bus conductors, construction workers, bosses, married men, and elderly relatives. Not once have I been approached by a ‘normal’ guy. In the past, I resolved the issue by asking them out myself, but that rarely ended well. Guys like a challenge, so while they’ll tap anything that comes at them, they won’t take it very seriously once they’ve hit it.

Back to yesterday. We were in a fairly posh part of town, a place I don’t generally go to. So having a nice ‘high-class’ dude notice me was quite a novelty. A huge part of me wished I’d noticed him noticing me, given him a smile, some encouragement, and possibly my number. But things don’t always work out that way. I wondered loudly how many hot guys had walked away from me simply because I didn’t see them. They probably looked, smiled, and when I didn’t respond, they assumed I wasn’t available, or wasn’t interested.

I suppose I could argue that if they had really wanted me, they’d have taken a chance and made a move. But even lion[esse]s survey the whole herd before singling out an easy target to pursue. Granted, guys love a challenge, but if you don’t look catchable, the hungry boy isn’t likely to chase you. Pun intended. Unless of course the impossible chase is the whole point, in which case there’s probably money involved, and you don’t want to be on the wrong end of a bet.

A part of me thinks guys are intimidated by my … self-reliance. But then again, a lot of women think that. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true. A guy that I … knew … said it’s not my independence that keeps guys away. It’s my vulnerability. He says a needy woman makes guys run for the hills. After they’ve tapped it. A different guy I … knew … said he kept off because he didn’t think he could afford me. He said I do everything for myself, so one, he didn’t see where he fit in, and two, he couldn’t match my standards for myself. A third opinion said I was simply too proud and arrogant to keep a man.

I don’t know which opinion – if any – was right. And it makes me wonder why the makangas, mjengo workers, and sugar daddies don’t feel the same away. I suppose I could be blowing this whole thing out of proportion. The pretty boy in blue may simply have been leering at my chest. Or the sandwich I was eating. Or the supermodel behind me. I guess I’ll never really know. But it does feel good to know that for that one moment, on that one day, a pretty boy (with a really expensive watch) was looking at me.

♫ Stranded ♫ Jeniffer Paige ♫