3CB

I’m one of those women who’s immensely possessive, even though I rarely show it. I make mental effigies of girls that flirt with him in my presence. I get jealous rages that shake me to my core, and I pity the b***h that calls him at 3.00 a.m, even if she happens to be his sister.

Of course, the guy never really knows what I’m thinking, because I hide it with a smile and a dash of nonchalance. The only hint he gets that I may be a tad … unstable … is when I text him 5 times a day and get upset that he’s tweeting without replying. I don’t know what it is that makes me so crazy jealous. Some people say it’s a normal part of being in love. Others say it’s petty insecurity.

One of my exes once said he wished I didn’t love him quite so much, because people who care that deeply could end up stabbing someone. He said his greatest fear was me walking into a room with a knife when he was in bed with someone else. Of course when it finally happened, I didn’t hurt anyone. I just yelled a lot, cried a lot more, and told him I forgave him. A few weeks later, once I realized that he wasn’t going to change, I gathered myself and simply walked away.

Loving any man scares me. It wakes the murderous jealous rage that’s lurking just beneath the surface. Yesterday, I had a chance to question this emotion. It started with an innocent retweet on my TL.

I spent several … minutes … drooling at this picture. I even blew it up and daydreamed as it covered up my screen. I don’t know what it is about broad shoulders and washboard abs that does it for me. After all, in real life, I’d probably never be with a guy like that. I’d be way too self-conscious to really enjoy myself, and I imagine a man with such a perfect body would expect me to work equally hard on mine. Diet and exercise is not my idea of fun.

Once I was done drooling, I asked myself a painful, basic question. Why is it okay for me, but not okay for him? Why do I feel no guilt, no shame, no inkling of wrongdoing for lusting after not one, but 11 guys, yet when the man I’m dating so much as glances at a girl, it’s claws and daggers out?

Why is it okay for me to salivate on live social media, yet when he so much as mentions Halle Berry I’m ready to kill them both? Why is it fine for me to twitpic Jason Momoa or Naveen Andrews, yet when he drools at someone’s avi I’m yelling twiticide? Why is it believable when I say that I’m just looking, but ridiculous when he says the same thing?

Please note that I don’t have an actual answer for any of those questions. Double standards I guess. We have to benefit from it some time. All I know is when I like  guy, all reason goes out the window. I was dating a gorgeous guy once, and we were watching The Losers. He mentioned that he likes Zoe Saldana, and for the rest of the movie, even though I didn’t say anything out loud, I was obsessively wondering whether he thought I was fat.

I think I’ll keep that photo of the 7s team by the poolside. Maybe it’ll help me. Maybe it’ll keep my big green monster in balls and chains. Maybe it’ll help me cut some slack to the boy that I like. And maybe the next time I’m in a relationship, it’ll remind me that it’s perfectly normal to look, as long as you don’t touch.

On a slightly related note, there are two things that melt my heart. One is watching a loving, dedicated dad, with his little girl perched on his shoulders. It’s innocent, and beautiful and absolutely adorable. The other is hearing a man talk about his wife with pride and affection. This happens a lot less than it should. I guess it’s a cultural thing. Maybe our men are afraid to look weak in front of their boys. Or maybe they’re worried that praise will go to a woman’s head.

Of course the girls have reason to be scared too. When a woman hears a man talk like that about another girl, she typically responds in one of two ways. The good women feel fuzzy, sad, and just a little envious, daydreaming of a man that would love them that much. The less scrupulous ones want him for themselves. After all, if he can talk that way about her, he can talk that way about me , yes?

I suppose you could argue that if the man is yours, then nobody’s going to steal him. Just like you could argue that if he did get stolen, then he was never yours to begin with. Some people say that men are naturally polygamous, and that a man is only as faithful as his options. They say people cheat because they’re looking for something that they’re not getting, and that cheating is inevitable, because everyone has at least one thing that you don’t.

He could cheat because he wants someone taller, shorter, fatter, thinner, smarter, dumber, broker, richer. In that game, you really can’t win because there will always be someone who is more or less than what you are, so there will always be options. But just imagine, for a second, you walked by a table and saw a large ice cream/cake/beet/car/*insert temptation of choice*. What would you do?

Some people would look around to see if anyone was watching, then take the free merchandise. Some people would look around to see who it belongs to, so they can return it. Some people would admire it, then go out and get their own. Some people would stop and trash the stuff because they can’t have it and don’t want anyone else to have it either. Some people would take the object of their desire, simply because it’s there, while others would pretend it wasn’t there at all.

To me, cheating not about options. It’s about choice, will power, character. And there are really only two options. You either do it, or you don’t, and once you’ve decided, you rationalize, explain, or find reasons to justify your choice. You could choose to be faithful because you love her, or you’re scared of getting caught, or you don’t want to risk AIDS, or you don’t want to spoil your budget, or any number of reasons. You could also choose to cheat because she’s a gold digger, or you never really loved her, or you like the secret thrill, or you want to prove a point, or it’s just a bit of fun.

I guess that’s why I don’t believe in fighting for someone’s love. I give myself to you, wholly, truly, deeply, and if you feel you’d rather have someone else, I let you go. Simple. I hope one day I’ll find my special someone, a man who will love me and be proud of me and take care of me. A man who will respect me and be faithful to me. A man who will love me and my little girl, accept me as I am, and not be overly fond of diapers, colic, blowjobs … or other women. Also, this girl has totally made my day. Bless you, child.

♫ Guitar song ♫ Texas ♫

Sasa?

Fit.

Uko na dredi poa.

Thanks.

Si nilidhani unaishi Ngei?

My dad lives in Ngei, I live here.

Weuwee, Miss Independent … we hu-do nini?

Niko niko tu.

Hata mimi niko niko tu. Lakini yenyewe uko na dredi poa. Miss Black Beauty.

Thanks.

So … unafanya nini kesho?

Niko niko tu.

Si basi we do a polite?

(Laughing) A polite what?

A polite drink.

(Smiling) I don’t drink.

A soda then? … Si you take my number.

No, but thank you.

Haya … sawa … goodnight.

So here’s my question. Is this a typical conversation between a guy and a girl? I ask because last night was my first one. I was walking home when the guy walks up to me and we have this exchange. It was 9.00 p.m. and I’ve never seen the guy before, though he seems to know me so I guess he’s from the neighbourhood. I’ve lived in the area most of my life, so he could be anyone from a long-forgotten childhood playmate to a watchie, a waiter, or a guy from the posho mill.

The upside (and sometimes downside) of living in the same neighbourhood all your life is the familiarity. Every village has a madman, and every area has a resident drunk, or a known petty thief, or a token gigolo. In my case, they’re all people I went to nursery school with. So it’s not unusual for a dude to come staggering up to me at 9.00 a.m. on a Tuesday and give me a hearty hug. I hug back because in my mind, this drunk is still the kid I knew, the five year old who shared my desk, or the ten year old that was my first crush.

My daughter knows all the estate boys I went to school with, and she knows to be polite but keep a safe distance. The trouble is these neighbourhood drunks have friends, and so does my building caretaker, hairdresser, the car-wash guy, the charcoal vendor, kiosk owners, or even the cyber-cafe owner that I chat with every day. So any one of those ‘friends’ may think it’s okay to make a move on me, since I’m so … nice.

I didn’t get a good look at my five-second-guy, because it was dark, and because I was too amused and confused to pay much attention. Also, I’ve always assumed that if a guy likes you, he asks for your number instead of offering his. At least that’s what it says in the movie. Of course once I was done being confused, I switched to paranoid. I mean, for all I know, he could be a thug planning a break-in, or a kidnapper who followed me home.

All this week, I’ve been going on about how no one ‘normal’ ever hits on me, and yet in the past three days, three strangers have asked for my number (or, in this case, offered me theirs). Clearly, someone up there is laughing loud and long. I’m not really sure what to make of it, or whether it has any impact on the ‘bigger picture’ but it does feel nice to be asked out, even in paranoia-inducing-circumstances. And after all, watchmen are people too.

Once I got inside my house, I called a male friend to ask if the exchange with Mr. Five Seconds was a typical thing. He laughed and said, ‘Frankly, if I wanted a pretty girl’s attention and I only had five seconds, I really don’t know what I would do or say.’ The conclusion was that if this guy is serious about asking me out, he’ll show up again, preferably in daylight. And maybe next time, I’ll be focused enough to check him out and see if he’s an actual prospect or just some guy from the local who was trying to win a bet.

♫ Return to innocence ♫ Enigma ♫

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 ♫