That is how I feel today.

Warning!…

So. Don’t believe in coincidences, but I am pretty stubborn, I admit. I want things my way, on my terms. So when I write a poem and want to post it, then dammit I’m going to find a way to do it.

So I called my resident art critic to look at it, and tell me if it was worthy. I haven’t poeted [yes, it’s a word. period] in a while, I needed to be sure it didn’t uncommunicate any inadvertent communications and stuff like that, you know, that kind of thing.

Buuuuuuut, the phone was off. Which is strange. So I tried text, on two different lines. Both bounced. Very, very weird.

So I thought I’d send it on email. Aaaaaand my gmail died. How odd. Okay, let’s do yahoo. But noooo, for some inexplicable reason, the poem up and deleted itself, just like that. Now I know I’m a cyber clutz, prone to typing backwards and things like that, but surely, posts don’t just delete themselves!!

Apparently, somebody somewhere did not want this message getting out. Aye aye sir, I concede. Grumblingly, yes, but I concede. The poesy [old english] was just not meant to be. Which is all very well coz I keep trying to rewrite it, but the words won’t come. Sigh.

In other news, why is it that you can get anyone in the world except the one person you want? I mean I’ve got candymen popping up left, right and middle, one hour phonecalls from my ‘just a friend’, droolers who crash cars when I try to cross, sheikhs with castles and diamonds and oil wells and…and all I have to do is flick my wrist and smile.

But the one thing I want, a nice, plain, spectacled espresso …eh… mochaccino cafe latte sth sth…well apparently, I am now lactose intolerant. Sigh. I wish I could learn to like soy milk.

Thank you for protecting me. 🙂

End of rant.

Normal services may resume…or they may not.

Edit post

I have this theory that cyberbuffs are all introverts. We spend all our time online chatting and twitting and trawling and stuff like that, playing digital native, but we never quite want to take things offline. It’s curious.

I mean human beings need interaction on some level, even us hermits. Whether its family or soliloquy or talking to plants, we all need some form of commune. It’s why jailbirds write books and monks are great poets. So those of us who…don’t like people, do it online. It’s the perfect solution. We get to mix and mingle without having to mix and mingle.

Not that everybody online is temperophobic [fear of 37 derees…figure it out?] Just that most people spend more time offline than on. They go out there and actually meet people, while people like me … well, there’s this cartoon I like, I can’t find it right now, but it’s got this guy hugging a monitor and saying ‘I love my computer, because all my friends live in it.’

Thank heavens for world wide web 😉

PS: isn’t it interesting how in Italian ch is k, ci is s, and cc is ch?

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I was rifling through some old music last night. It’s on tape, that’s how old it is. I was singing along and rasping my voice and amusing myself and amazing my princess that I can remember all the lyrics. I used to play that tape when I was expecting princess, and I remember Risper, a lady from our shags. She’d hear me and tell my brothers how when they go out, I put on the radio and I know every single song that plays.  Heeheehee.

I was thinking about a few other things too. I realized that karaoke date I promised Mo just might backfire on me, coz my ‘stellar’ voice just isn’t what it used to be. Blame it on the sugar. Back in the day [don’t you just hate it when people say that] when I could actually sing, the nuns took all our jam, biscuits and Saturday chocolate…and fed us on a diet of hot water and honey. Great for the vocals, bad for the…is there a pretty, scientific term for addiction to sugar?

Anyway, back to the musing. It’s kind of interesting that when asked about myself, I always list my qualities without thinking.

Personality: warm, friendly, unsocial, aloof, loner

Hobbies: books, music, poetry, baking

Passions: writing, reading, sleeping, ice cream, black forest cake

Recently, I was put on the spot.

‘You like reading? What do you read?’

Eh….textbooks?

‘Actually, I haven’t read in a while…I’m pretty busy with work.’

‘Of course, but what was the last book you read?’

‘LOTR’

‘Lovely books. When was that?’

‘Er…July?’

‘Right…you’re passionate about them, clearly. What else do you read?’

‘Um…well, I’ve read every Sheldon before Doomsday conspiracy. After that they just got sort of…dry.’

‘I totally agree. When did you read Doomsday?’

Eh…before the D.

‘Pardon?’

‘I think it was high school.’

‘Oh.’

Then there was the question on some form princess brought home from school. It said ‘How many times do you finish a book?’ I’m sure they meant how often do you read books, but I pounced on their lack of English and gigglingly replied ‘always’ [which is true!] knowing they’d interpret it as ‘all the time’ without noticing the pun.

I love, love, LOVE rock. Never mind that the last time I listened to any was…98? All I really know about rock is words and sounds. I can sing the guitar solos of all my faves. Yes, I did say sing the guitar solos. And I’m pretty good with lyrics and band names. It’s pretty hard to forget Bare Naked Ladies or Smashing pumpkins or Blink 182.

Band trivia? I know exactly four lead singers: Rob Thomas, Chad Croeger, the William guy from Creed [I am the only person alive that likes Creed. There. I said it. Though in all fairness, the singles were great, but the album sucked] and Bono.

Beyond that, don’t ask me who is in what band or which one sang what song, or even what colour their eyes are. I could pass Petra in the street as easily as…Nameless. Start a lyric and I’ll finish it, but don’t ask me what the song is called, coz me, I don’t know. And I don’t do concerts – coz I don’t do crowds, and I like my instant replay and fridge-pauses.

Plus, the last hit song I know was by Avril Lavigne, and I can match her screech for screech, coz she’s kinda cool with all the chanting and stuff. I know Staind doesn’t have an ‘e’, and I know SOAD means System of a Downs – whatever that means, and that the disorder song is classic. I know that Three Doors Down song with the funky video, something about time. That’s pretty recent – last July I think. Beyond that, the only rock hits I know are B***h and Ironic, and all the stuff before.

I bought a mini oven coz I just looooove to bake. But the last time I made anything was…waaaay before princess. So I’m looking at my shiny new 12 inch oven shakingly afraid to try. That and the electricity bill would kill me, especially since it’s shared.

I’m thinking about that, and this, and goldy, and all things teen, and wondering if my self image is stuck at sixteen. I mean I always pride myself in ‘still being me’, and I love it when my friends say I haven’t changed, but is it because I don’t see myself?

Today, a dear friend called me unbelievably naïve. Is it because when I look in the mirror, I still see a chunky Form 3 kid just starting to find shape, still ridiculously in love and so very unsure of anything? When people look at me, they see a brash tough nut, a survivor, a conqueror, but all I see is a scared little girl afraid to say the wrong thing in front of the boy she likes, so she says nothing at all.

I AM mad about music and books, and my dream holiday involves beaches, malta, and an endless supply of both. In my heaven, I’d lounge in the ocean sipping iced maaza, reading a novel with emo blaring in my headphones, strictly bass, no tweeters. But if I can’t name a single living artist [I still declare, proudly, that my favourite band is Matchbox Twenty], or any books that I read past lit class, then am I really a bookaholic soundophile?

PS: My interesting American friend found me. Yay! He just followed the billboard, found my office, greeted the watchies, and asked for the pretty dreadlocked Kenyan that he met at the pool yesterday. Now that’s guts! But then, the man is over 50, and he’s from New York.

The watchie called the office know-all who then called me. Oh, you should have seen the look. Priceless! There I was, standing in the carpark, talking to this lovely grey-haired old man with the laptop and the accent and far better Swa than mine, and there they were, my workmates, peeping through the shades and guessing who my friend was. What I wouldn’t give to hear those lovely guesses…

Oh, and I’ve just rediscovered, I hate kids. I have no problem with mine, but the rest of them, well, I find them annoying and crass. Sorry *M*, don’t kill me. It’s probably PMS, but it’s lasting an awfully long time!!

Doesn’t stop me from being fiercely protective of them, and my heart shatters when they are hurt or abused – I would kill to save a child, any child. But apart from my own little one, I’m just not big on kids. Which makes me wonder what I shall do now that somebody clearly wants a new one.

…and yes, you get points for guessing that right. More if you can name the tune.

Chapter 1: Be strong, love

For my dear, dear friend, who may read this for distraction. I know you’re in pain, I know you’re hurting, I know what you’re going through. I wish I was near you, to hold you, and give you a hug, and drown you in ice cream, and say it will be okay, and beat that boy to a pulp for hurting you. You feel like the world is ending, and nothing I say can ease that for you. Just know I’m here, which is nothing, but it’s all I have to offer. It’ll be over soon. ((((you))))

Chapter 2: At the pool

Today I spent six hours swimming, and it was absolute bliss! Not sure how many calories I burnt, but it was sooooo fun! Of course I also lost my most valued piece of jewellery, the tiny gold stud I wear on my nose. Irony of ironies, I took it off to avoid losing it in the water, but I can’t remember where I kept it!

Well actually, I can, but it’s not there, so I must have put it someplace else. I’m SO in mourning. But I had probably outgrown it anyway – the piercing was a sweet-sixteen rebel thing [rebelling against the nuns forcing us to…okay, that’s a story for another day, but it rebelled successfully on a million different levels, ranging from faking Islam by looking more Nubian, to disowning my un-learnable mother-tongue. And it was real cute too].

The gold stud was a gift that cost 9 sock at the time [circa 1997, so I can’t imagine what it’d cost to replace it!] But I know a few people who’ll be glad I lost it, including you. Sigh. How I shall miss my little goldy. I suppose I could replace it with something less shiny, but (a) I – apparently – have really thick nose, so the jeweller had to customize the thing to size, and (b) I have the strangest allergies, so I can’t wear anything without caflon or carats.

Chapter 3: The curse of the introvert

There was this really cute guy at the pool today. Granted he was a bit on the chubby side, but I love to cuddle, so I don’t mind a little teddy-bear on my men – as long as it’s just a little, and his was very just-a-little. He had this dark look, kinda moody, and I didn’t once see him smile. What is it with this pull women have to moody men? I imagine it’s something to do with wanting to cheer them up and be the ‘sunshine’ in their lives.

Anyway, the guy had very Kenyan features; I got close enough to see the Maasai beads with the Kenyan flag that everyone wears abroad but never at home. And I’m pretty sure I heard him speak Kao. I did want to talk to him, but each time I played the conversation in my head, I couldn’t get past “So, you’re Kenyan?” Okay, I’m a … well, actually I was a little hungry, and I was more than a little drooly, and he could swim really well, and it was a really small pool.

I understand the game is to establish eye contact then look away to show availability, but what can I say, I’m lame. The best I could do was talk to princess very Kenyanly, throwing in a lot of stuff that only a Kenyan would say, and hope to catch his interest. It didn’t work, and I was busy cursing and smiling when he walked away after three hours of silently whatever-it-was-that-i-was-doing.

But I did get chatted up by a lifeguard, and by this old guy from New York who was at the pool with his nine year old son and paid my dala-dala fare. The man has lived in New York, and he thinks Nai is scary!! Apparently kids there have ‘a killer instinct’ so he much prefers Dar. Maybe I should have got his number…

Chapter 4: Black is…

So my hairdresser got this bright idea to dye our hair black. Princess’ is usually a shade of brownish-red that had us worried about marasmus in the early days. Now’s it’s blue-black. Still getting used to it. And after hours at the pool, her skin has tanned to a lovely shade of chocolate. Apparently coconut oil beats tanning booths hands down. My face still stings from the burns, but I’m wondering how long my little one’s tan will hold out. It’d be kinda cool if she looked a little more like me …

Chapter 5: The stupidest thing I ever said is…

“I will always love you.” Oh, I meant it when I said it, and continued meaning it for a long time after that. He was the guy I fell in love with over and over and over again, and just when I thought I couldn’t love him more, he’d buy me a book I’d been wanting, or write me stupid note, or cook me ugali for dinner and I’d fall all over again.

But s**t happens, and the spell broke, and the boy is history. Today, I was listening to a rock tape I made once, and it had all these songs I chose for him, and I had to skip over most of them. I burst out laughing at one or two, amazed that I ever felt that way. I cried at others when I couldn’t hit ‘forward’ fast enough. Sigh. Humans sure are fickle. Or maybe it’s just me.

Chapter 6: It’s official – we OLD!!

I hear people talk about how smell can take you back, how a whiff of cologne or the smell of baked cookies can transport you to a whole new place. For me, what does that is music.

I heard the ‘Shomi ngolova’ song today, by TKZee, and suddenly I was back in that room, listening to Hits not Homework with Jimmi Gathu and watching some crazed rugby players doing a demo of the Kenyan version…hehehe.

Those in the know know why I am giggling. Let’s just say it involved sagging jeans, large boxers, and a cheeky precursor to Applebeez, and it was way cooler that Kuku dance, wink wink, nudge nudge. Oh pleeeease tell me someone knows what I’m talking about, some memories are too wicked not to be shared!

In other news, I heard that Rihanna/TI song, the one with the squeaking, and I assumed it was some soul show on radio. But then I heard it again, and again and again, and I was like WTF?

First of all, as I recall, the song had techno beats, not words, and the genre was then called funk, I think. So this new one, now I don’t know. Apparently she done bit the sampling bug. I have to say, it’s worrying when a song is sampled by a kid who’s never heard it, yet I remember the song when it was Top Ten. Top of the Pops I think the show was called. Or BIG for the Germans. I now know how my mum felt when she found me singing Lauryn Hill’s killing me softly, and she kept going on about some chick called Roberta Flack.

Chapter 7: Better the devil !

In one of the numerous arguments about how Kenyans are rude and Tanzanians are polite, I attacked with a fact. I said I preferred Kenyans coz they tell it like it is. If you’re a fala, they’ll just tell you you’re a fala. None of that ‘tafadhali naomba uniondokee mara moja’ nonsense. A Kenyan will stab you in the eye and run, while some others will hug you with the knife still in your back.

Yesterday, I got hugged, and I got stabbed. And today, I got hugged again. I played along, all nice and sweet, did the deed, held the role. Later Princess asked me why I was being so nice, ati had I forgotten what the person did to me. And I taught her a valuable life lesson – sometimes, you just have to pretend.

But guess what, this fat lady has sung, and she’s gearing for killer guitar encore, so Jimmy Hendrix better be watching, coz CB’s batting for the home team.

Chapter 8: Hope!

There was this couple at the pool today, they must be in their forties or fifties. They were muslims, hijabs and all, indian-looking, a bit on the larger side. In fact, very much so, in a less than…well, I don’t want to be rude, but russian dolls come to mind. They were with their kids, seven of them,six girls, one boy.

The first thing I noticed is the kids’ accent was so heavy that half the time, you couldn’t be sure they were speaking [punjab? or gujeratt?] or English, which was pretty funny. They were playing watergames, which princess joined in [oh the joy of large families!], and the dad was filming them on his phone and grinning with pride. For once, princess seemed lonely being an only kid.

Then I noticed the parents. They were in the pool by themselves, and he was teaching her to swim. I’d seen her swim with her daughters, and she did pretty good, though she wasn’t very confident. So the kids went away to the baby pool and the man stayed there with his wife, coaching her.

He had this look of pure adoration, and she was all giggly and girly when he touched her, and it was just so amazing. I mean she was…visually..you know, and so was he. And there they were happier than puppy love, even after sijui how many years together, and with the kids clearly showing on her! then some guy brought them food, and they all sat together and ate and laughed, it was just beautiful.

I know I have issues with headdress and arranged marriages and shrouding women and stuff, but that old couple, totally shapeless and totally in love, that right there is what marriage should be. And I’d so love to find it.

Without the covered hair and the lost shape of course.

Epilogue

I’m really glad you’re safe. You need to get a new phone.

Love, me.

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