I can see how you would do that. We were both moving really fast, and we both had earphones on. Plus, I’m always being accused of snobbing people just because I didn’t see them. They say I have a purpose-driven stride, like I’m rushing off to fight some world-changing battle somewhere. We have that in common, you and I, so I get how you would walk right past and not see me.
You looked good today. Your head was shaved bald, and you had a tailored suit and a red tie. You’ve put on a little weight, but it’s a good look on you. Makes you seem all professional and grown up. The last time I saw you, you had shorts and a t-shirt … and you looked equally hot. You’re just one of those guys I guess.
A tiny part of me wonders if you saw me and just pretended not to, but I prefer not to think so. After all, I’m always being told to pay more attention when I walk, to smell the flowers, feel the breeze, see the hot boys smiling at me. So I can see how you would walk past and not see me.
I thought about shouting your name, but you had earphones on, so you probably wouldn’t have heard me. Besides, I had frozen in mid-step, and people were already staring, so yelling and being ignored would not have helped. I took out my phone to call you, but it hung. Stupid ideot. By the time it decided to function, you were way out of sight. You always had a really fast walk.
I texted you, just to say hi, and to compliment your tie. Then I walked on with a skip in my step and my phone in my hand, just in case you replied. You didn’t though, not until an hour later. There was no sentiment in your text. It was polite, gracious, and formal, almost business-like.
I like that it made me a little bit sad, instead of, you know, utterly debilitated. I like that my heart didn’t skip a beat or double when I saw you. I like that there was no urgency to cross the road and hug you, and say how much I’ve missed you. And I like that I don’t miss you nearly half as much as I used to.
I like that seeing you this morning made my day start with a smile, because a hot boy is always a good reason to smile. But I also like the knowledge that I gained. I like feeling like I can see you, and want you, and slowly walk away. I’m glad to know, finally know, that I’m over you.
A few weeks ago, I had no idea who Jimnah Mbaru was. But then I got to know about his plans, his ideals, his vision for Nairobi, and I was impressed. I had my doubts about how popular he was, but I was sure if anybody could make me even prouder of Nairobi, he could. But I didn’t vote.
At first, I assumed I’d need to join TNA in order to nominate anyone, and I had no interest in doing that. I don’t support what TNA stands for. I’m not sure I support what any party stands for. I know that I vote for the candidates that will do the most good, and for me, that’s Martha, Jimnah, and anybody but Sonko!!My voting slip is likely to be a rainbow of parties, because all I will be looking at is the right candidate.
So I asked a silly question on twitter, as proof that I didn’t have to vote. Turns out I was wrong. Turns out that just by being a registered voter, I could walk into any nomination centre and stand by the candidate. I had more excuses. I’m at work! I can’t just walk out and go vote!
Wrong. My boss sent an email to entire office urging us to go out and pick our chosen nominees. I ignored the email. I stayed at my desk, frantically following the tweets and pundits and MKZ opinion makers (yes, I giggled a little when I wrote that, but they do exist. I found a few of them yesterday.)
But I didn’t go and vote.
This morning, it was confirmed that my chosen candidate lost by 3000 votes. 3000! That’s the just following on my Twitter account times three. And I was one of the votes he lost. A lot of people online are bashing the ‘arm-chair activists’ for not putting our thumbs in the right place. A part of me feels attacked and righteously indignant, but a larger part of me is afraid that they’re right.
I didn’t vote yesterday because nominations are frightening and murky. They belong to the psychophants, the die-hards, the … politicians. Yes, that spells four letters in my vocabulary. My face screws up just thinking about the word. In my mind, the politicians would choose their candidates, then I would have my say come March 4th. It never once occurred to me that the candidate I want would not be on the ballot next year. Besides, what bloody difference would my one vote make?
But now I’m thinking. What if me, and all my online buddies, and all their buddies’ buddies actually went out and nominated him yesterday? What if everyone who said ‘My one vote doesn’t count’ actually went and made it count? I didn’t though. I sat at my computer, analysed, postulated, vented … and let other people do the dirty work. No wonder the result is so murky.
I’ve always maintained that few people vote with their intellect. They use their hearts, their pride, their heritage, their sense of belonging. That’s what dictates their vote. I’ve always said those who know better are too few to make any kind of dent in the electorate. But yesterday, all my candidate needed was 3,000 people, including me, to get up and make their voices heard. And I, for one, didn’t lift a finger.
I am, apparently, the most political person in the office, so I thought I was better than those other arm-chair activists. After all, I support my candidates openly, I give coherent reasons for my choices, I have a voter’s card for fuck’s sake. But no. Yesterday, I may as well have had no vote at all, because that’s exactly what I did. I refused to vote.
The two candidates on offer do nothing for me. Kidero seems pretty sensible, but I Googled him, and I really didn’t like what I found. Waititu … well … wow. Just wow. As for Sonko, I’m voting for whoever is running against him. Please God, let someone, anyone run against him!
I’m still hoping for a miracle, some last-minute nomination as an independent candidate or a mini-party or whatever loopholes and statutes allow for that kind of thing. Because with no gubernatorial candidate (yes, I used the word) that impresses me, a part of me is tempted not to vote at all, which would be the worst possible outcome right now.
But then again, Jimnah is a businessman, and pouring more money into a campaign that seems to lack adequate electoral backing would make bad business sense. Maybe if I had gone out and voted, and made the margin just a little closer, he might have listened to my current silent plea.
For now, all I can say is the sad, painful lesson has been learnt, and I hope I’m not the only one that has learnt it. Good intentions will not get the best candidate into office. Only going out and voting can do that. It’s too late for those who didn’t get their voter’s cards last year, but I hope those of us who did, those of us who care enough and are smart enough to know better, I hope that crowd will use our votes very, very wisely.
I was looking at your timeline yesterday. It said you were at a party. You do that a lot – tweeting at parties. I used to think it meant you weren’t really having that much fun. If you were, you’d be talking and drinking and dancing – not tweeting. I know the people that were at the party with you – because you all said so on Foursquare. So I sat in my living room, watching you, feeling like I was there with you.
Then you went quiet. I looked at the other people at the party, and they were quiet too. For three or four hours, there wasn’t a single tweet from any of you. That’s when I knew you were really having fun, and I was glad. But a part of me was sad, because I wished that I was having fun with you.
I’m not the kind of girl you usually notice. I see them on your timeline every day, giggling, flirting, posting cheeky twitpics and clever quotes. The kind of girl you like is at the party with you. She knows she drives #TeamMafisi wild, and she isn’t shy about it. And that just isn’t me. I’m not bad-looking, but I lack self-possession, poise, grace, style, photogeny. No, it’s not a real word. Also, I have a cartoon as my avatar, and a twitter bigwig wouldn’t be caught with a girl like that.
Last night, while you were at your party, I was at home with my baby. We were watching Nickelodeon. There was a marathon of Victorious. We really like that show. When it was finished, we watched Pitch Perfect, and Glee, and Big Bang Theory. Then we went online and sang along to songs from Lemonade Mouth and Tori Vega.
Our favourite is Song 2 You. It’s a sweetly, silly, romantic kind of song, full of unicorns and butterflies and teenage love. I’m sure it was composed in comic sans. My heart flutters every time I hear it. because that’s the kind of girl that I am. I don’t like parties, or smoking, or drinking, or dancing. Well, I do like dancing, but mostly at home, and mostly for aerobics. Sometimes I dance with my baby in the kitchen, and we jump around and giggle at how silly we look. Well, at how silly I look, because my baby is a really good dancer.
I don’t like shisha, or vodka, or weed cake, or coffee, or chilli. I don’t do blankets, or wine, or trance, or John Legend. I don’t read Terry Pratchet or the Economist. I don’t get Warsan Shire or spoken word. I feel nothing for Erykah Badu. I don’t even understand Afro-fusion. I do like books though, and series, and loud rock music, and happy quiet spaces, and twitter. I like the beach and the pool and the ocean. And I love crime shows and documentaries. But that’s not the kind of girl you like. The girl you like is effortlessly beautiful, limitlessly flirty, and always entertaining.
She’s a bikini kind of a girl while I wear a modest skirted one-piece. She’s alluring and mysterious, and she likes to keep you dangling. She reads Harlequinn or Ben Okri, she likes Twilight and sports. Her avi is always tastefully alluring, and her blog has at least one bi-curious story. She plays you like a flute, and you love every moment. I feel a little awkward when I look at you together. I see the way you look at her, the way everyone looks at her, and I feel a little sad, because you’re never going to look at me that way.
Of course I would never say any of this out loud. If I had you in the same room with me, I’d probably talk about the weather, and music, and TV. I never have conversations like this is person. It makes me wonder if I’ll have a virtual marriage, if my husband will be my penpal, if I’ll kiss him goodbye every morning then send him soul-filled emails at work. But things like that only happen in Fifty Shades of Grey.
Still, that’s the kind of girl I am, the kind that expresses herself better on a notepad or a keyboard. I can’t say witty things like those other girls you like, but I can write them, and I know that sometimes, a man can fall in love with what I write. So I hide behind this screen, safe in the blanket of my words.
Sometimes that hurts a little, but most times it’s okay. Most times, I sit back, watch you, and smile, because I know that someday, sometime, someone will have a twitter crush on me. They’ll think I’m wonderful and awesome, just the way I am. And maybe one day, they’ll call me up and tell me.
