The blackest white girl…

You know those days you sometimes get when you just want to scream?

I has it.

I’m sure there’s some convenient lolcat somewhere to express this sentiment, but right this second, I don’t really give a flying f*ck.

I woke up this morning with a sharp lower back pain that I last associated with labour. Or cramps. Eff. It only subsides if I curl up in foetal position, and I can’t exactly be placental all Saturday.

No, it’s not because I got some last night. It actually started when I tried on my kid brother’s glasses. It induced a mild headache, soon followed by general malaise, and by the time I got into bed four hours later, I thought I was going to die.

Not really, no, but I felt pretty bad.

Then come this morning, the hell-invoking ache in the back. I blame Mwaura.

But I digress. This was supposed to be about coconuts and greys.

See, I’m told that I’m too white.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The boy that I love is white, and he’s tolerably fond of plain old me. Plus, I suppose between skating dates and wind-chime hunting, my race is sometimes in doubt.

I’ve also been told my writing isn’t Kenyan enough, and that ‘real people don’t talk like that’. Something about picture-perfect superficial dialogue.

Thing is, I’m as blue-black as  iodine Ajuma … only with a little more hair. I’m often described as ‘foreign-looking’, though both Kale’s and Jang’os are quick to own me, and some Nubians think I’m theirs as well. I suppose that’s why I liked living in Dar so much – because there I actually was foreign, as opposed to being lost in my own home.

I like the way I am. I don’t always understand it, but I like the way I am. And I like that some people like it too.

The thing with humans is that we’d all like to be accepted for what we are, but most of us learn to be what is liked. We conform to be more popular, which I think is really, really sad.

But as a business-person, I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I water down my product into what the masses want, or do I learn to make some money from the few who like ‘just me’?

Most people agree that quality-wise, Capital is the best station ever. But as much as we complain about Kiss playing the same songs over and over, and having shows that are sometimes … less than pleasant, they still have the greatest ratings.

What to do? Stick to Kiss or pull a Capital?

God I want to scream!

Fly awayLenny Kravitz

Operation comfort food

They say stress is the best diet-plan ever. I’ve been trying to lose weight [mostly by using the power of very positively thinking ‘I want to lose weight’] for a year now. I cut down my sugar intake and meal portions, but the pounds just kept piling!

And then this week, by sheer stress and willpower, [and mostly through crying], I have lost 3kg! Yay!! If I can somehow replicate this [without the stress and tears of course] for the next three weeks, I will be down to my ideal weight…

So anyway, I was hanging out with Murphy today. See, I had this project that I’ve been postponing forever, and so I finally decided I would not sleep until I finished it last night. As a result, I did not sleep last night; not until 4.30 a.m.

[I was done with work at 1, but I had to do the dishes and cook lunch. Yes, lunch.]

At about 4.45, my little princess had a nightmare and woke up screaming. We had to do some nightmare therapy, which mainly consists of cuddling, praying, and talking about shiny things and butterflies. By the time the school alarm rang at 5, she was just dozing off and would not be woken again.

When I finally got her into the shower, well, let’s just say we are two very cranky divas when you mess with our sleep! So it didn’t help when the water ran out. Le sigh. At least it didn’t run cold.

Princess was so furious that she boycotted breakfast in protest and would not wave goodbye as the bus drove away. Double sigh.

I got back inside and probably cried myself to sleep [stress, angry babies and lack of snooze has a very bad effect on me]. Next thing I know it’s 12.00 noon and my cellphone is ringing with some semi-good news. The call surprised me because it came from someone who’s usually aloof and very distant. But apparently he was worried about me, and had called to see if I was okay. The quote is right: just because somebody doesn’t love you the way you want to be loved, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they’ve got.

We all show love in different ways, so just because someone doesn’t express themselves the same way you do, doesn’t mean they don’t care. They may not do the stuff I expect them to do, but if I can learn their language, I would probably realise they adored me all along. Just because he got me a kilo of Omo on my birthday instead of a bar of chocolate doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for me 🙂

Anyway, after the call, I rationed some water to do school-uniform-laundry since a bath was out of the question, then I made a few calls to see if I could somehow resolve my problem. No luck. So I had some breakfast [at 2 p.m] and sought more comfort food – cereal.

Now technically, I shouldn’t eat cereal, because of my milk allergy. But something about ice cold [or sometimes almost hot] weetabix just makes my heart dance.

I remembered one Darius Stone suggesting I try it with yoghurt [?!?], but I didn’t have any, so I settled for the next best thing – mala.

[It is so cool that I don’t call it mtindi anymore! Viva la 254!!]

I got out my favourite bowl, poured in some mala and two tabs of weetabix. I watched it bubble for a while as the stuff sunk into the milk, then I figured I’d let it sit for a while so it could soak.

After ten minutes, nothing had happened, so I smashed it with my spoon for better absorption. Princess came in at about that time and nibbled on it a bit. I figured she’d finish it, so I shooed her off to the fridge to find her own snack.

We got distracted talking about school and homework and Austin, and the fact that it was flooding outside. By the time I got back to my cereal, it was, well, sludge. The tablets were soaked alright … but … the viscous mass was not so good to see. Plus, it had a watch in it.

Yes, I somehow managed to dunk my watch in cereal.

It was very hard trying not to spew a few choice words at myself, especially when Princess said ‘If I were you, I’d be more careful where I put my watch.’

This is a new watch, the first new watch I’ve had in years. It’s got sparkles and a big love heart, and I am tolerably fond of it. So yes, I was making little baby noises as I delicately tried to get the sludge off the watch without getting any water into the watch…

Once that was done, there still the matter of cereal. *Groan* I’d brought it this far, the least I could do was try it. I shut my eyes and put a little taste in my mouth…

Then I looked round to see if Princess was looking, and promptly dumped the stuff on the bin.

Since Princess is pretty curious, I had to completely hide the evidence. That means pour it in the trash-bag.

In my neighbourhood, trash-days are Thursday and Monday, and I’d forgotten to take mine out today. Crud. But that meant the trash-bag should still be outside the back door, right?

Let me explain. Most of the neighbours keep trash in the house, or some other place out of sight. I don’t like mine indoors, so I keep it in the back porch … eh … veranda. The veranda also houses the pump that’s used to load water, so once a day, the building caretaker comes into my porch to turn on the water. He has a little red gate with a lock that he uses so that he doesn’t have to get into my house.

Now, a few days ago, I found a hole in my trash-bag. I figured we either have an uber-friendly cat … or a really big rat. But today, as I was going about th business of hiding cereal evidence in said trash-bag … well … there was no trash-bag!

Now I know I didn’t move the bag … but why would someone want to kidnap my trash? Le grande sigh.

I’m off to watch Block D and find some real comfort food, preferably one that’s low in lactose. I’m thinking fries and two sausages…

Alanis Morissette Ironic