3CB

Fifteen years ago, I got my first driver’s license. I wasn’t sure I’d get it because the cop yelled at me during the test. I did something wrong, I can’t remember what, and she was rather harsh in her correction.  Which made me panic and cry, so I was sure that I had failed. Especially since I had taken a crash course in driving – I rushed through the class material in two weeks, just so I could finish before school opened.

After the test, we all sat under the shed and waited to hear our names. I heard mine pretty early on, but when I went to the issuing door, the man there told me to get back in line. I didn’t hear my name again until 6.30 p.m. after everyone else had gone. And then the cop that was issuing permits made some thinly veiled banter before asking for  … a favour. And I don’t mean the kind with dead presidents on it.

I was pretty panicky, because it was getting dark and he was really, really big. I was keeping a straight, defiant face – because monsters smell fear – while subtly looking for doors and windows, assessing escape routes. Just then, the ‘mean’ cop lady from my test walked in, grabbed my permit off the creep’s desk and handed it to me. Then she held onto my arm and aggressively shepherded me outside.

She didn’t mention her boss or what he was trying to do. But her voice was much softer when she told me what a good driver I was, and advised me to get more practice because I’m too easily rattled. I thank God for that woman. In so many ways.

Whenever I tell that story, I turn it into a joke. I say I got my driver’s license by breaking down in tears. I skip the part about the big scary cop with the power to issue permits. The one who made me cry in the dark without ever touching me.

I didn’t get behind the wheel again till 12 years later. I was having a driving lesson with my brother, my daughter, and my stepmum. There was a ‘little accident.’ Luckily, I wasn’t driving at the time, but it kept me off the road for another few years. Mostly because after the dent, I was no longer allowed near that particular car.

A few weeks ago, it was announced that my office was moving to a less matatu-friendly neighbourhood. It was also suggested that I might consider getting a car. And learning how to drive. I’d been eye-ing my mother’s vintage beetle for a while. Since I was a kid, actually. I tried learning to drive it when I was twelve. It didn’t end well. But now, with less than a month and not a lot of cash, it’s time to revive JE.

Step 1 was getting permission to reclaim it, which was a lot easier than expected. Step 2 was finding the money for minimal repairs. It took some arm-twisting and belt- squeezing, but the funds availed themselves. Step 3 is to do some actual work on the car. Which might have to wait because the man who has the car keys … and the wheels … and the engine … is currently on vacation. In Rwanda.

In the meantime, I’ve been taking driving lessons at night. We have a van that’s in less-than-stellar condition. Some days, it can carry thousands of litres of water. Which us quite helpful, because I live in Lang’ata. On a bad day, it makes disturbing noises and freezes in the middle of the highway.

Also, it has a little problem with insurance. Which is why we only drive it 10 feet from the house. The upside of learning on a car like that is that once I’m done, I can literally drive anything. The downside is … you know … freezing on the highway.

I’ve been driving the van for a few weeks now. My first lesson was the most exciting, because I realised I can actually drive! I know the car well enough now that I can tell her standard kettle noises from the sounds we need to worry about. I still cruise her at 20 km/h, and I once spent 30 minutes trying not to smash into the pump at the petrol station … to buy fuel worth 200 bob. It was 11 p.m. The man was not amused.

Over the last 15 years, I’ve renewed my driver’s license every three years, to make sure it was active when I needed it. And as I took my lessons, I kept meaning to check and make sure it was still valid. Turns out it expires in October. Uh-oh.

Of course my first port of call was Google. Which told me that manual renewals were no longer accepted. No more lining up at NBK or visiting Huduma Centres, at least not according to Google. There was a rumour in the office I could try the local Post Office. It’s half an hour away from the office, and generally pretty busy over lunch.

I already have an e-citizen account, so I figured I’d try that. I logged in, requested a renewal, and was promptly informed that the government does not have my records, so there’s no way to renew it online. Okaaaaaaay. More Googling. Nope, it has to be done online. No manual options. Crap.

A workmate had previously renewed his DL online, so I asked him for advice. He told me to try the NTSA Facebook page, so I did. The first thing I found was a thread that said lots of people had my problem. Their advice? Inbox Page Admin. Haya.

After five minutes, there was no response, so I checked the thread again. There was a guy’s name at the end that said, ‘Inbox us and we will fix it.’ So I inboxed him. While I was waiting for his reply, NTSA responded and asked for my details. I gave them my ID but I couldn’t remember my DL reference number.

More Googling. Apparently, there’s a 6 bob mobile service that can give me DL details. (Dial 22430 to register) so I signed up for that and 12 bob later, I got the same reply – no records. Drat.

The guy from earlier now replied, asking for my ID. I gave it to him, along with a copy-paste of what I had sent NTSA. It did cross my mind that it was weird to give my details to some stranger in FB – especially since he had a very FB-sounding name. BUT … his profile said ‘Web Developer’ and had his government-issued name in brackets, so I Googled him and felt a little better.

At this point, I remembered that a lot of my documents are scanned and emailed during job interviews, so I checked my inbox to see if my DL might be there. Eureka! I sent the scanned copy to both FB accounts (NTSA and Mr. Web Developer) and waited. Maybe an hour later, I got the A-OK on Facebook, so I logged back into e-citizen and renewed in my DL in minutes. All I have to do is print it, snip it, and stick it in my little red driving book. Soooooooo preeeeeeeetty.

I do have a few concerns though. two, actually. One, do cops know about this online DL thing? Coz I just know I’ll meet one who’ll want a bribe. I bet he’ll claim my new DL is fake. Because it’s colourful and bright instead of faded and yellow. Two … why do I keep arming Big Brother’s online case file? I mean, I know it’s inevitable with digitization and stuff, but between iTax and Huduma Centres, we’ll soon be living the Minority Report, and netizen or not, that makes me very, very uncomfortable …

♫ It’s been a while ♫ Staind ♫

My first two tattoos came from a place of darkness. A hidden darkness I didn’t even know I was in. The first one is a spider web, with a spider inside it, obviously. But it also has a love heart in it. And the love heart is crying. Because … I don’t know why it’s crying exactly. Because it’s trapped I guess, and the spider is coming to get it.

The crying love heart was from an episode of Sunset Beach. Paula got kidnapped and the kidnapper tattooed it near her heart. I can’t quite remember why, except I always thought it would be a cool tattoo to get. And the spider is because everyone has a butterfly. I was feeling rebellious, so I didn’t want the butterfly cliché.

My second tattoo was another love heart. Except this time, it was being strangled by a rose, and the rose was crying. I won’t even begin to explain that one, except to say I’ve been accused of devil worship. I suppose both tattoos were from the space that I was in. I wanted love, I wanted to be loved, but I didn’t think I could be.

My third tattoo is pretty straightforward. A semicolon with butterfly wings. Representing hope and a rise from depression. Reminding me every morning that I’m still here, and that I need to be here because there’s still a lot to do. Tattoo number four is along the same lines. I was on the roof getting some sunshine therapy – or trying to. But the sun was hidden behind some pretty heavy clouds.

It had generally been a miserable day. Endless drizzles with a few moments of sun. I remember thinking this is typical UK weather, and wondering how anyone who lives there stays sane. I had gone to the bank to pay rent, and after zubbing outside for 15 minutes, a nice lady told me they no longer open at 8. Sigh.

So I went to Nakumatt Ukay, but they only have a Stanchart. I stood there in the drizzle debating my options. I could wait until 9. I could go back to the office. I could try the late hours at Queensway. A watchman saw me standing there confused and asked me what was wrong. I said I needed a Barclays branch that was open.

“Si uende Westgate?”

Hmm. The idea was not appealing. I know a lot of people are happy it re-opened. They’re walking in there gladly, laughing in the face of evil. For me, it’s not that simple. For me, Westgate is a graveyard, a place where people died, where soldiers looted, where money continues to be made and justice might never be found.

Still, I needed a bank, so I trudged my way in there. It was barely 8 o’clock so the place was empty. It felt eerily quiet and void of human energy. I really didn’t want to be there. Luckily, the bank had no queues. I was done in five minutes flat. I rushed out and walked back to work in more rain. By lunch time, I badly needed sunshine.

I was on the roof for most of my lunch break, listening to music and playing Candy Crush and Bubble Witch II. For the most part, the sky was dark and gloomy, but every once in a while the sun would sneak out. I’d look up to try and estimate how much sunshine I could get. The space between the clouds promised a few seconds.

The sunshine couldn’t have lasted five minutes total. Yet every single one of those few minutes was as sunny as a day on the beach. It was glorious! It was also funny, because the sun would be so hot that I’d take off my hoodie, but then five seconds later we’d be back in UK weather and I’d have to sulk and pull it back on.

That’s when I got the idea for my fourth tattoo. Because no matter how dark and miserable the sky was, the sun was always there above the clouds, waiting to shine and warm the world. No matter how bad things are, how dark it seems, how long the winter is … the sun is always there. We don’t always see it, but it’s there.

I’m not sure if I believe in God. This morning, when the makanga charged me 20 bob instead of 10, and grinned at me daring me to fight him, I wasn’t sure. Yesterday when I made an M-PESA payment that refused to reflect at the counter, forcing me to wait for half a hour, hold up the line, and eventually pay cash which means I paid twice for the same thing, I wondered if he cared.

Last night, when I watched a true-crime show about demonic cameras, I slept with the lights on and said, ‘Dear God, I’m not sure if you exist, but those TV demons are really scary, so please protect me and my baby girl. Amen.’ And this morning as I passed the beggar who lost his feet to polio, yet spends every morning smiling, singing, praying, polishing shoes he’ll never wear, I wanted to ask where God was.

I can see an analogy to the sun. That God is always there, even if we don’t see him. I’m not sure I believe that. But this afternoon, seeing the sun peek between the clouds, I found something I could believe in.

No, I’m not going to invent a sun dance and sacrifice virgin ladybirds to Solaris. But I am going to look at my wrist every time I’m really down. I’m going to remind myself that behind those nasty clouds, beyond the darkest moods, the sun is still up there, still shining strong bright. And as long as there’s sunshine, there’s always hope.

♫ I’m alive ♫ Qqu ♫

Hi. My name is Crystal. And I’m a self-help slut. Actually, the correct phrasing is ‘I’m a fucking self-help slut’ as inspired by Paolo Sambrano. His words, not mine. He also talks a bit about mindfulness, a word I really hate, even though it’s terribly accurate. Anyway, hi, nice to meet you. Let me tell you a bit about self-help-slut-shaming.

“How is it self-help if you have to get it from somebody else? I mean, if you’re reading  a book somebody wrote, then technically, you’re not helping yourself. Technically, they’re helping you.”

“I think all self-help writers are con-artists. They pretend to have answers to questions that everybody asks. I mean, Danielle Steele writes best-selling love stories and she has seven ex-husbands!”

“I don’t read self-help because it’s really just common sense. Why buy a book to read things that are obvious? Si you live life and discover it yourself?”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those self-help people? Surely! Well, I like the person you are, so if reading self-help helped you become that person, then I guess I can put up with it. But it’s still stupid.”

Wise comments from people I hold dear to me – who are all extremely anti-self-help. Me, I see it more as research. I get curious about something. iGoogle the topic. I read an article. I find a self-help title that’s related. iGoogle some more. I torrent. If I can’t find it on torrent, I buy. Mostly on Amazon.

I guess maybe it’s just how I’m wired. My therapist says I have a questioning core and that I’m always trying to fix things. And since I love words and am fairly self-reliant, I fix a lot of things by reading books. When I had my first boyfriend and was having trouble orgasming, I read The Act of Marriage.

When I had a secret crush and wanted to see if I had the slightest chance, I read 6 signs a guy likes you. When I was taking Psych 101 and trying to use juju science to get a different boy’s attention, I read Why we act the way we do. When I was questioning religion, aliens, and sexuality, I read Conversations with God.

When I was trying to suceed as a freelancer, I read The Science of Getting Rich and the one about the cheese. I even went through phases with The Secret and Manifesting things. Turns out a sure way to get rich is to write a self-help book about, well, getting rich. Weight loss and relationship books sell well too.

I don’t remember much about these books except that I’ve read them, and I still have a lot of them lying around my house. They’re generally quite hard to read, because you have to stop after every sentence to absorb what’s being said. They use the word ‘you’ a lot, often in bold or italics. It gets a bit disorienting. Also, meditation.

I like reading these books though. I know that what they say is common knowldege to some people. Maybe even most people. But I do learn a lot from these books. I suppose it’s because I’m a hermit-prone introvert, so I don’t enjoy talking to people. I’d rather read a book that transcribes their conversations.

I suppose that for the average person, if they have a questions about parenting, they’ll ask their parents. Or if they’re curious about banking, they’ll walk into a bank. Me, my first port of call is the internet, a torrent site, and PDF book, though lately I take Mobi. It’s easier to read on my Kindle.

So … what am I reading right now? The Noticer. It’s about an ageless old man named Jones Garcia, who may or may not be a racially ambiguous angel. In my mind, he looks like Kwai Chang Caine, but with jeans and a blue bandanna. He walks around town giving people advice and changing their perspective on life.

The Noticer is easier to read than other self-help books, because it’s written like a story. As you read, you’re watching people interact rather than hearing catch phrases and mantras. I admit I was suspicious at first, because the author’s name is Andy Andrews – typical self-help name. And he gives motivational talks, which is disturbing as well. But I’m liking the book so far, even if it does give ‘public knowledge’ that I may not possess. Common sense isn’t common, after all.

This book kind of reminds me of how Paulo Coelho writes. He puts down deep, philosophical, esoteric, and sometimes biographical information, but he puts it in the form of a story. While you’re enjoying the narrative, you’re also learning things. For me, Paulo’s books reach beyond entertainment and settle deep inside my heart. I end up cherishing his words, even in the books I don’t like. I want to write like that.

I’ve often been accused of being too open with my life, of being exhibitionist, sometimes even sensationalist. I don’t always see it that way, but there is some truth there. I’ve found as I get older that certain things are best kept to myself, because even though sharing them could do a world of good, they could also affect my baby.

For example, speaking about abortion or feminism or depression might help other people, but it might also put my daughter as risk as people ask her questions that she doesn’t need to deal with. I can’t even begin to imagine how I’d respond if a classmate walked up to me and said, ‘I heard your mom did xyz. It’s on the internet.’ Like teenagers don’t have enough problems already.

I suppose a clever workaround would be to pull a Paulo or do like Andrews does, make it into a story. Most readers assume that leading men/women are biographical either way, so why not tap into it? #ProjectBreakMy(Fiction)WritersBlock…

♫ Wrecking ball ♫ Miley Cyrus ♫