3CB

I wasn’t going to watch this movie. I’d seen the trailer, and while the production quality looked promising, I had a feeling it would be too dark and gritty for me. Plus, the title reminded me of my Physics teacher. I didn’t really like my Physics teacher. So while people hyped it up and got excited all around me, I twiddled my thumbs and hid inside my headphones.

But today was a rough day for me, and I needed some cheering up. Plus, I read this review and it made me think a few times.  So I treated myself to a movie. I got to Westgate a whole hour early and killed time window-shopping at Nakumatt and having my first tiramisu. Yes, if anyone noticed a girl at Art Café who was giggling at her Ideos while swooning over a bowl, that was me.

A good story suspends time, at least it does for me, and when the movie started, I tried really, really hard not to like it. For the first ten minutes. And then the next thing I knew, it was over. I remember vague moments of shaking myself, wondering where I was, and wondering where the time had gone. That’s how gripping this movie is.

The storyline seems pretty basic. Shagzmodo goes to the big city to seek his fortune. As an actor. Yes, an actor. Lame. But the story is so much more than that, and the fact that two completely polar members of this crew both loved it, is saying a lot.

I took several lessons from that movie. Don’t drive a Toyota. Don’t answer phone calls near The Stanley. And don’t lie to yourself that you know a word of Sheng, because apparently, I am old, and odinari just doesn’t mean what it used to.

Leaving the cinema, I was distracted by this old Chinese-looking couple. I saw them at the cinema hall, they got into the same matatu that I did, and I couldn’t help thinking I would like a love like that. They were adorable.

But once I was done ooh-ing and aah-ing, I noticed that my senses were a lot more alert. I was tweeting about the movie in the mathree, but  jumped every time the slightest shadow approached the window. I saw a lot more people in town, digging around in trash bags, and I was grateful that I wasn’t driving home, especially not in a Toyota.

I tried to look at the faces of the people I saw lying on the streets, even though I had no idea what I expected to find there. And I was immensely grateful that I had a baby, a house, and a nice warm bed to get to.

That train of thought got me worrying about my baby. I wondered what kind of a world I’d brought her into, and whether there was any hope, whether there was any point to it all. Several hours later, I still don’t have an answer for that one.

I think everyone should watch Nairobi Half Life. I could go on about the amazing shots – shots I’ve never seen on a Kenyan film, shots that made me wonder, “How [and when] the hell did they do that?”

I could talk about the soundtrack that was so smooth and unobtrusive that I only noticed it when I was singing along. I could talk about the characters that were so real they could be you or me. I could talk about the storyline that was anything but cliché.

But what I loved most about this movie is also what scared me about it. The people in the movie are real. So real that I might think twice before yelling mwizi the next time someone grabs my phone. Might.

iCon talks about getting so involved in the story that he became afraid of the police. I’ve lived in Lang’ata my whole life, and was first affronted by cops when I was 14. My brothers are routinely arrested while making the ten minute walk from my flat to their house. So for me, fearing cops more than robbers is nothing new.

But after watching this movie, I was angry, because I had so much … understanding for the thugs that I felt cheated. I felt the movie had somehow made it okay to steal, and found myself getting irate at the matatu crew that overloaded and bullied us all the way home. I felt like they were worse crooks than the hardcore gangsters in the movie, and that made me sad. I felt confused about a movie had somehow left me rationalizing crime.

But there’s a line in the movie – Mwas talks about choice. Every character in that movie – just like every character in real life – made a choice, and the film doesn’t romanticize those choices. It just shows all sides of the coin, and makes everything real in a way I’ve never even considered.

At some point, I was worried about how the story would end. I mean, there are only so many ways you can resolve a tale like that. But I can confidently say that it ended at exactly the right scene, and as a fussy snobby writer, that’s saying a lot.

So, I know it’s been said a million times already, but if you do one thing this year, watch Nairobi Half Life. Shows are at 3.20 p.m. and 7.30 p.m. Weekday tickets cost 350/=, weekend tickets cost 450/=, and I swear, it’s worth every cent.

♫ Ha he ♫ Just a Band ♫

I have periods where I think it would be cool to be a girl. And by girl, I mean a girly-girl, with make-up and handbags and stiletto heels. I also think it would be cute to have some flowers in my hair. In the past, these periods have faded quietly into oblivion. But this year has been different. Maybe it’s because I turned thirty. Maybe it was down to my bio-clock. Maybe it was just time. Whatever the reason, this time, I crawled over to the dark side. *dun dun dun duuuuun*

I got myself a make-over, complete with girly shoes and make-up lessons. It’s so much a part of me now that this morning, with no power, I made a lamp using a candle and my Mulika Mwizi phone. Why? There was blackout, and I needed the light to put on my make-up *shudder*.

Because I haven’t mastered the art of 2-Step-Mascara, it takes me fifteen minutes to put on. The extra twelve minutes are for scraping it off and starting all over again. I match my shoes with my bag with my scarf, all using a carefully prescribed recipe that was put together by my stylist. Yes, I have a stylist.When she banned four of my jeans and replaced them with four more, I couldn’t tell the difference, so she had to show me what went with what, complete with photographic tagging.

I like the new me. I feel classy, glamorous, and confident, and it only cost me 5K. I do feel bad though. For one thing, I no longer look like a creative. Sure I have the purple dreads and the requisite tattoos, but I look more like a consultant than an advertising pro.

When I first got into advertising, I wore a pretty black skirt and heels for my interview. The boss gave me a sideways look, but said nothing. On my second interview, I showed up in a t-shirt and jeans. As soon as the man opened the door, he sighed and said, ‘Phew!’ When I asked why, he said my earlier outfit had them worried. They didn’t think I was the right fit for the job. Apparently, creatives don’t dress up.

There don’t seem to be many girls in the Kenyan ad industry. No, let me rephrase that. Most girls in the ad industry are in client service or finance. We don’t have a lot of female art directors and copywriters. So as a girl in a mostly-male field, I’ve been getting away with jeans and hoodies. It’s one of the things I loved most about my job.

But now I’ve sold out and can routinely be seen in little skirts, stockings, and heels. Always with the heels. This week I even threw in a scarf. I do wear jeans, but they go with scarves and ribbons too. It’s a completely new thing for me, and it’s also a little … awkward. I mean, I do feel beautiful, but I also feel a little guilty and out of place.

My mum loves that I finally look like I’m going to work when I’m, you know, going to work. And it’s cool that my neighbours no longer think I’m a clueless college kid. But I can’t help feeling like I’ve lost a piece of myslef. I quite liked looking like a 22 year old. I took a twisted pleasure in rebelling against attempts to get [me and] my wardrobe to ‘grow up’. I feel sad that now I’m just like everybody else.

I suppose there’s some good in letting go of bad habits that don’t serve you. But sometimes, those bad habits are part of who you are, and it’s hard to drop those parts. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I think, “Wow! Pretty!” But I also think I’m not quite me anymore, and that makes me really sad. I feel like I’ve lost a major part of myself, and even though that part wasn’t particularly useful, it was still me, and I miss it.

I suppose the outward change is really just a symptom of the growth I feel inside. My self worth is improving, and for the first time in my life, I feel it’s time to stop playing the field and settle down. That could just be my hormones talking, bio-clocks and sell-by dates and things like that, I don’t know for sure. All I know is it doesn’t seem so bad that someone somewhere might want to put a ring on it. I just hope I won’t have to cook.

In related news, my baby and I attended an event over the weekend. It involved pizza, macadamia nuts, and cake, and she got a touch of indigestion … which ended with her throwing up in a matatu. Luckily, the makanga was very kind and didn’t make a fuss. When we alighted 200 metres from our house, I saw my gorgeous neighbour a few feet ahead. I thought long and hard about whether or not I should say hi. After all, I was covered in puke, my clothes were a mess, I was exhausted, I had tons of baggage (from the party), and I looked anything but glamorous.

Before I could think, I had called his name, and he turned. Here’s the thing about being a girly-girl. You do not want the hot boy to see you looking less than stellar. And that boy is HOT! Still, the damage was done. I managed to keep a plastic smile on my face while he ooh-ed and aah-ed over my beautiful daughter, and didn’t say a word about the mess. Adorable.

Still, after that mishap, I do feel like I have a point to prove. I feel the irrepressible urge to dress up just to go to the kiosk, in case I bump into him again. Of course I could always knock on his door and ask for sugar. It’s what I would have done a month ago. But that would be way too obvious, and classy ladies are never obvious. Everything has it’s downsides I guess, and I have to learn to fit into the role. Sigh.

I was talking a to a good friend, and he pointed out that I’ve made a career out of being a rebel. I’ve done every possible thing to be ‘different’, even when the actions themselves didn’t serve me. I didn’t feel like I fitted in anywhere, so I went out of my way to prove that I was out of place. I embraced the tomboy image even though I don’t like sports or beer and I punch like a girl. There’s nothing tomboyish about me except the refusal to wear a skirt. Or do my hair. Or wear pink.

From that frame of mind, it makes sense that I feel like improving myself is a betrayal. By adjusting into society’s idea of a sophisticated, self-possessed woman, I feel like I’ve somehow sold out. I suppose you could call it a fear of success, even though I’m cloaking it as a fear of blending in, an aversion to no longer being ‘different’. Or maybe I just finally grew up, and my Inner Petra Pan won’t let me go.

One aspect of being girl that I have issues with is smart-freezing. As part of my new beauty regimen, I wear a dress every Friday. So last week, I threw on this pretty patterned thing with brown tights and beige flats. I looked and felt absolutely gorgeous! The compliments helped, and I was literally walking on air, if you’ll pardon the cliché.

I was a bit bothered about the (lack of) heat factor, seeing as I generally live in heavy jeans and padded hoodies. But I had a little girly sweater, and the tights kept my feet relatively warm. Plus, being a girly-girl does have its upsides, like random lifts from long-lost friends. So I was fine for the first half hour at the office. Then, we had to go to the studio for a recording. Also, it started to rain.

I’ve always been on the other side of this equation. I used to be the girl that tsk-tsked at my beautifully laid out sisters as they pottered around in their teeny-weeny-minis and their crazy heels in the rain, while I lumbered by in warm sweatshirts and jeans. I used to snigger as they wobbled by in their dizzy 6-inch wedges while I sprinted past in comfy canvas sneakers.

So maybe it’s just kharma. Or maybe there are some secrets that I’m yet to discover. Like how to wear a skirt and not have goosebumps on your legs. Or how to fit an umbrella [and trench coat] in a teeny tiny purse. Or how to get that hot guy over there to surrender his jacket. Or how to shiver with a smile, make no sound, and keep your lips completely closed.

♫ Breathe Slow ♫ Alesha Dickson ♫

I have few good memories of alcohol. I remember liking the taste of altar wine. The thought was quickly eroded when I overheard the pastor inviting good-looking ladies to the vestry after service. Apparently, there was a lot of leftover wine and they needed some help lapping it up.

I remember being at a close relative’s house. He had invited me for music lessons, with my mum’s approval. I was happily listening to classical music records when he staggered into my room. Nothing happened – he was just checking on me, he said. My room had no lock. In fact, it had no door. There was no one else in the house, and I was way too scared to sleep that night.

I remember having a family gathering at home – it was a wedding reception. My dad came home drunk and kicked out all the guests. I’ve never seen my mum more angry or embarrassed. It was the first time I ever saw my parents in a fight.

Another drunken family party found us sitting in car in Eastleigh. It was after midnight, and we were parked on the curb. My dad had been reckless, and when we challenged his driving, he took out the keys, slammed the door, and stormed off into the darkness. I don’t recall how we got home that night, and I’m really glad my dad doesn’t drink anymore..

My princess has been equally unlucky. She’s had to deal with drunkenness too. Her father was an alcoholic, and she’s found herself in places she should never have been, and seen lots of things that a child should never see. That’s why she’s terrified of alcohol. She gets upset when anyone around her drinks.

The past three years have been really hard for me. I’ve had moments when I drowned myself in Malibu and Baileys. But because I know how much it bugs my daughter, I made sure she never found out. Sometime last year, I had a glass of wine at an office party. I ended up arguing with a makanga for dropping us at the wrong stage, and trying to kick-box on River Road. I swore never to touch alcohol again.

So when I started my new job and found out about the induction ritual, I was pretty upset. I went along with it, because I was new, and I felt I had to follow the crowd. It made me sad, because I’ve lived a life of going against the grain and doing exactly what I pleased, only to be swayed by peer pressure at 30.

I’d been warned that my new workplace had a strong drinking culture, but I tried to ignore it. I figured I’d be safe, since I’d made it pretty clear that I don’t drink. But last Friday, we received an email from the boss. It announced a staff meeting at 5.00 p.m., and when I saw two bottles of Olmeca on the boardroom table, I knew I was in trouble.

The meeting was fairly serious, with PowerPoint slides, client prospects, and progress reports. Then we had a hearty toast to welcome the new staff members, followed by a shot of rum for the creatives. It was our reward for working through the weekend. I tried to shrink in my seat so they’d forget to fill my glass, but that didn’t really work.

On my way out of the boardroom, I was offered a parting shot by the lady at the door, who wouldn’t let me out until I had one. I looked to the boss to save me but he just grinned and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll make your words flow better.” “Sure,” I said, “but which ones?!?’

In total, I had four shots of tequila and a shot of rum, all neat, no salt. Then I crab-walked to the kitchen to drown myself in tap water, because the dispenser was empty. I had planned to meet a friend for swaumu that evening, but I couldn’t see straight, and the room was spinning. I asked her to come get me because I didn’t trust myself to cross the road, but she had an errand to run, and no car.

I called the boy I love, and did a lot of wailing on the phone. Finally, I called my little brother to come pick me up. Then I looked at my workmates giggling because I couldn’t stand straight, waddled over to my desk, and tried hard not to fall asleep.

I don’t remember much of what I said or did that night. I remember telling my workmates they were pretty, and adding #NoHomo quite a lot. I remember making a speech about my alcoholic ex, and how mad my baby would be to see me drunk.

I remember asking people how this could possibly be fun – walking around like spaghetti and seeing the world in doubles. I remember drinking lots of water from the tap, gobbling a couple of bananas and a whole lot of gum. Everyone else thought it was hilarious though, including the people that I called.

I suppose there’s fun to be had in watching other people get drunk, especially when they’re sober, sensible types, no pun intended. A lot of my workmates and friends said that my drunken behaviour made their day. I also know nobody forced me to drink. I had a choice to say no. But I didn’t want to look snobbish or self-righteous. I wanted to be a part of the team, even though I knew I’d hate myself in the morning.

When I got home, I was walking while tilted a little to the left, so my brother made sure I got safely into my house. My princess was in bed, and she gave me a sleepy hug. But she woke up instantly when she heard my voice. “Why are you smelling beer? I told you never to drink. Go brush your teeth!”

I dragged myself to the bathroom and spent half an hour scrubbing my mouth, because I didn’t want her to see me crying. I couldn’t stand the fact that she was ashamed of me. When I finally came back to bed, she gave me another hug and noticed I was still crying. I tried to fib my way through it but she said, “Don’t worry mummy, even if you smell like beer, you’re still my mum.”

I told her I didn’t want to drink, and that I was afraid that I if I had refused, my workmates wouldn’t like me. She suggested we pray that next time there’s an office meeting, I would find it easier to say no, and so we did.

As I drifted off to sleep, I sent a few texts apologizing for my asinine behaviour. They all laughed it off, told me what fun they’d had at my expense, and suggested that instead of seeking their forgiveness, I should seek my own. After all, I’m the only one that seemed upset by the whole episode.

Then I looked at the little girl lying asleep next to me, and wondered what it would be like for her. I wondered how she’d cope when it was her turn to say no. I hope it will be easier for her than it was for me.

♫ Promises promises ♫ Incubus ♫