SAGGING TROUSERS = SHOWING BOOBS

I have a friend.

He's the kind you want to talk to when things get tough because he makes everything look a lot less serious. Can't pay rent? The streets are nice and we've got January weather. Legs aching? He once saw a man with no legs handing it across Thika road. Mother annoying you? He adopted two orphans in 2008 - they watched their mother being hacked to death, like Dexter Morgan did.

A two minute sit-down with him and you realize how problem-less you are.
But when it comes to men who sag their trousers, he is ruthless.

"You know," he says, "I was watching a video of Eddie Griffin [comedian] telling his audience how he cured his son of sagging."

He cringed and frowned, frowned and spat, spat and sneered until he really made it [sagging] sound like a disease. What Griffin had told his son, was that "sagging began in the penitentiary"and that they did it "to advertise they butt crack". The kids in the hood "thought it was sleek" and started sagging as weel

His [my friend's] argument: if women do it to attract men, why the hell else would men do it?

Understanding dawned. 

I thought about all the sagging drawers I'd seen recently and thought "surely this kid had no idea what he was doing, had he?"

While none of us can really condemn a man for wanting to attract another - and don't pretend like you haven't done disgusting things when no one was looking - it's a bit disturbing to know, that along with styling hair femininely and wearing earings, our brothers, friends, boyfriends have turned to advertising their goods a the most unsightly way.

A woman's mounds are something, I understand, men enjoy looking at. But really, a man has none, so why the sag? This is why Griffins' and my friend's theories made sense.

FEELING GOOD

It's a fucking shame that all this time I've been singing along to Michael Buble's version of  Feeling Good, I didn't know that Nina Simone was the original singer. Listening to her just now, I teared up, heart swelled and I swear, I felt as high as I did when I sat next to that blunt-smoking, dreadlocked guy at a reggae concert once.

Ever had one of those experiences that you tried to find an explanation for, then tried to find words to share that explanation through and found that it was impossible? Nina Simone did that to me. 

If people don't discover this on their own, it's very likely that they'll miss that little trip I just had. Now I know how Jimi felt when he was on stage... or high... which could mean the same thing. 
Now that I know Nina exists(ed), don't know how I'm going to not want to buy - illegaly download is the word I'm looking for - everything she's ever sang.

In a miniscule way, I guess we need to thank God for Slavery, for without it, Nina Simone might never have caught my ear. Then where would I be?

THE LUNCH... WITH... THE MEAT

I had a very good lunch with Schwester who is looking, might I add, ever more like the yummy mummy she is. Thank God for the wide, wide world. Without it, we would all have been stuck in the rut of despair, swimming through meat - imagine how 'easy' that would be.

Speaking of meat, we decided, that since it would be just one of those, once-in-a-while type of situations, we would do meats. She had liver and I just had beef on bone. Ossobucco they call it (wonder if they'd still call it that if that joint specialized in human and dog meat.

Anyway, I'd gone through one piece of my Ossobucco and almost all of my rice and herbs before, my extra-large stomach began to protest. Shyly, I asked the waitress to pack it. She did. We then walked slyly out of the restaurant and into another building, stomachs bulging in which we had to take the lift.

Now the Nyama was in my bag, and since my sister's sense of smell is like that of 10 wolves condensed, she could smell it very well in that enclosure. She began to giggle. I began to giggle too. We giggled until the people in the lift thought we were mad. My 'dread' locks didn't help any and neither did the kitambaa she had on her head.

"A couple of loose-screwed women" they must have thought. One of the best laughs I've had in a while. As I prepare to indulge once more - this time on foods of a light and liquid nature - with my brother, I hope I'll be able to laugh and make laugh for this is just one of those days to be happy and ravenously so.

  

THE GOOD BREAKFAST

I just tried to have a 'good' breakfast - not cooked by me - at a place called Farmers. All I got was late for work and high blood pressure. If you're in a hurry, don't go there. If you wait for ten minutes and nothing is ready, don't bother waiting, it's not worth it.

Not looking down on farmers in general or anything but man, that place, all its workers, cooks, blah, blah are nothing short of the rural Kenyan farmer defined. 

They're slow, ill-mannered and do not understand the concept of time. Granted, it is a Monday morning and everyone is still half asleep, a business like that needs to hire people who 'get it'.

"Hakuna Toast..."

"What?"

"Tukupatie mandazi instead ya Toast..."

Flummoxed, I say "fine" then "no".

"Ama tukupatie an extra sausage?"

I like that idea so I say:

"Sawa."

But now that I think about it, how do they stay afloat? it's somewhere I have been before and gotten pretty horrendous service. And for two years, I stayed away. Didn't remember why I'd stayed away all that time until this morning.

"Juice gani? Mango ama Passion?"

"Passion," I say.

For a few minutes, I'm anticipating the taste of passion juice, sausage, eggs and bacon on my tongue. Then she comes?

"Hakuna Passion. Kuna Cocktail, na Mango."

"Ah! You people!" I say. "Leta Mango."

She takes about five steps before I look down at my coffee. So I call her back and say:

"Wachana nayo. How much is this coffee?"

"40 bob," she says.

"Sawa," I give her a hundred bob and tell her to hurry up with my change. I sip the coffee in the meantime, it tastes like dirty water was used to make it. I put it down and think of all the homeless people I'd walked by near the old Globe roundabout brigde. They'd probably not be as choosy as me.

She stands next to me with stained coins. Looks like they've been through a fire. I take my change and don't realize that instead of 60 bob, she's returned 30bob.

I attempt one more gulp of my hot coffee and give up. I'm annoyed, it tastes bad, there's no way I'm going to sit here without breaking something. Some poor fool comes in just as I'm standing to leave. He has no idea. Or maybe he does but does not mind the mediocrity Farmer's offers.

Never mind. I've had enough and I walk out and towards Moi Avenue. I stop next to the magazine stand where that old fuck tried to steal from me once. I look at the 30bob in my hand and head back to the restaurant, ready to call my waitress and bloody thief.

I'm stopped short when they produce a receipt. It's stamped. I take it and walk away saying something about their efficiency and service and how much it sucks. The cashier calls me back and says:

"Take this one, it's not that one."

I take the one she's offering me, and study it. it's exactly the same except, it's not stamped. Just to piss them off. I reject it and pretend to huff off with the one they'd given me first.

Only I'm not pretending, I feel cheated. 70 bob for dishwater-coffee and bad service. Next time, I'll just give my money to the homeless and drink free waiting room coffee. At least there, you always know what to expect.

And thus, my February begins.                      

I DO NOT HAVE PROBLEMS

I have no problems.

And neither do you, if you are reading this. I'm watching a BBC Documentary about the torture of Syrian women in Homs. They were tortured for helping rebel fighter.

One woman, Maya, is 23 years old. She was 19 when they, the Syrian Army, got her. She describes what they did to her but, I can't quite picture it. How can I?

Another, a film maker, talks to children about their lives on the war-ridden city. At one point, they are playing with bullets and one boy says:

"These are the bullets they kill us with."

I have no problems.

All shrunk down...

I consider myself a child today because, while I should have been frolicking in childishness - a right that was denied me - I was busy being the adult I should never have been.

Oh my Bollywood

It's an addiction.

Star Times TV may not be as well favoured as DSTV, or have the American FOX channel but, It's got Bollywood TV.

And I am nothing if not impressed.

Everyone I know who loves movies has something nice to say about Bollywood pictures. They're emotional, they're hilarious, there is always a message in their wake, the camera work is top notch, action scenes in them are as believable as any of the best from Hollywood. And the actors/actresses...oh my! Beautiful doesn't begin to describe them.

And something else.

India is the South Africa of Asia; everyone is born with the dancing gene. "I can't dance" is not something you'd expect to hear from any Indian. Oh the envy. I'm green with it. The best I can do is a side-side step... which is why I avoid clubs.

But...

And there is a but, sometimes, when the story is so sad or so violent, it's a bit of a smack in the head when a character or twelve suddenly break into song. Sometimes, it just doesn't fit.

But not even that can tear me away from my screen once I start watching.

Let me see. What do I remember watching? Ghanjini, Wake Up Sid, Murder2, Chalo Dilli, Son of Saardar(trailer) and English Vinglish(trailer).

There hasn't been a single one that hasn't left me teary-eyed.

Off to get my next fix and pray that Riverwood too, with its Tosh's and Kibinge's will someday be as well loved.

IT FEELS LIKE MAGIC

I now have all these little saplings I feel I must care for.

It's no longer the burden I thought it was. It's become a ritual to guide them, tell them they look silly when they do, tell them they're awesome when they are. 

These days, when I wake up, it's to the sound of a Bollywood movie and rapidly spoken hindi, and with the expectation that I'll encounter a task whose ass I can kick big time.

It's a bit like magic. 

I don't get tired. The day just bloody ends and I have to go home, eat, sleep or watch TV when insomnia kicks in.

But it doesn't.

Ever felt, like you had a purpose on this earth, and then woken up and realized: "fuck! I have no idea what the hell I'm here for.".

That's still me. So nowadays, I make it up as I go. Having a goal was awesome. But being surprised is okay... I guess.

You never quite know how your day is going to start or end, you just know that it's not yet time to die. And because of that, you do all you can until you can do it no more. That's how it is now. 

Like I said, a bit like magic.

Dementia... I do not welcome you

David was right. You should never stop because if you do, it gets taken away from you. You forget how to do it. You lose your touch. 

I understand now because it's happening to me. I haven't played (guitar) in two years. I haven't sang in public for two years. I've been writing less and less and I can feel my talent atrophying. It's a bit like suffocating. Sometimes I dream about myself becoming irrelevant. And I wake up all sweaty, breathless... choking actually, as if some murderous hulk had been trying to to fill his quota with me.

Been reading about depression and aging and come to the conclusion that, approaching thirty is driving me insane. I'm depressed... been depressed for all of 2012. I'm overweight - and it's not going anywhere (:D). That smile does not mean I am happy. Far from it.

When I was younger, I swore to myself that I'd be working towards being a millionaire. By the time I was 25, I hadn't even hit point two of a million. Am I a failure? Sure fills like it.

But then I look at all the other things I've accomplished that, had I been so focused on the mulla, I wouldn't have achieved. Still, it feels so small compared to what I thought I would be to the world by now. I feel, like I said earlier, irrelevant. Like a nobody. Like if I died today, no one would notice and if they did, it would be to brush me off their shoulders; like a speck of dust.

Lately, it feels like I'm struggling to do things. Talk, think, walk... did I say think. I guess everyone has a unique experience while aging but, it feels like I'm losing my mind. Dementia, Alzheimers, bloody fuckin' brain bleeds or a tumor that hasn't been discovered yet.

Whatever it is, it's consuming me and I wonder...

I wonder if I'll be around much longer. 

(David was a guitarist/vocalist for The Beathogs... wonder if he ever had that baby he wanted) 
   

Random Thoughts about TPF, Pirated Movies and other things

Had a very strange dream about my boots, my "challenge accepted" T-Shirt which Spyder so kindly thought to make for me, and Tusker Project Fame Season 5 (TPF5). So when I woke up, I made sure to wear that T-Shirt, yesterday's sweat and all, and those boots and to go to the TPF dome tonight. Not sure what will happen but, I'm excited to find out.

It must be something to do with the recent BBC reports I've been listening to. Don't know how, I just feel it's connected. I remember wondering - while listening to BBC features - why all our radio stations waste their airwaves playing just music.We could be doing pieces on Kenyan, African history even, but no! We're busy feeding ourselves and our children with American music, American slang, American bullshit. 

I'll admit, I'm envious of their ability to do the kind of stuff they do. The traveling, the hit music, the epic action movies, their version of Anime. It's annoying to say the least, that I'd rather watch Big Bang Theory than Mali. I really would. It's terrible that I spend hundreds and hundreds of 50bobs a year just buying pirated American and European movies.

The only thing I pride myself in as a black skinned African, is that when I find something useful in those foreign pictures that I watch, I share them with my peers in the hope that we shall be able to adopt and Africanize. Unfortunately, we only ever mimic... like monkeys. Not all of us, but most. I mean, have you heard some of the accents people have. 

Even those afflicted with the mother-tongue influence insist on emphasizing the twang. God help us!