KENYAN RAMBLINGS

Men of My Dreams

2009-08-28T00:35:00.000-07:00

I've been dreaming again....

I wouldn't normally think twice about what I dream about, let alone share it with blogosphere, if the theme in the dreams was not recurring. For the past 1 week or so, I've been dreaming about men. Big deal, you might think, women dream about men all the time! But my dreams have been strange and steamy. Every single dream I have had this week - and they have been coming every day with unnerving consistency - has been of me doing things with a man. Every night I have dreamt of a different man, and all of them except one have been men from my past....

And this is where it gets interesting: in the dreams, there is very little talking between me and the men. There is a lot of kissing and making out though, although it never leads to sex. For some reason, I seem to make sure that we don't cook the ngengede*. Wednesday's dream is a case in point: the man with whom I was enjoying fleshly relations with was a clone or a twin of my boyfriend - he spoke, looked, walked, and smelt like my boyfriend but was not my boyfriend. Anyway, this clone (imposter, some would call him) suggested, when things got really spicy, that we get a room at a nearby motel. I did my tribesmen justice (we are known for short necks and short tempers) and gave him a few ideas on where he could go and stick it, and walked off in a huff hence ensuring that the ngengede would not be cooked. I mean what did he think I was, a flesh peddler??

What do you know? I manage to be self-righteous, even in my dreams.

One recurring thing though - besides the making out that never leads to sex - is the overwhelming sense of guilt I felt while dreaming. It's almost like I felt that what I was doing in the dreams was wrong; you know, a subliminal knowledge of infidelity.

Anyway, when I woke up this morning after dreaming of a serious make-out session with the first boy I ever kissed - whom I haven't seen in almost ten years - I started wondering if maybe there's something that my sub-conscious is trying to tell me. So I went to my trusted friend, Google, to see if she could help me find out what my dreams meant.

I found a couple of dream interpretation websites and tried to search for interpretations of dreams on 'ex-boyfriends and sex' but I could only get interpretations on 'sex'. Go figure! Well apparently, at least according to Predictions: Dream Dictionary, men dream more about sex than women and the way women dream about sex often reveals the conflict that many women feel about the good-girl/bad-girl taboo. Also, sexual dreams are not about sex exclusively. Often they are about how we perceive people and how we think others are perceiving us. The Dream Moods Dictionary offers a more direct interpretation of sexual dreams: this may be your libido's way of telling you that it has been too long since you had sex. It may also indicate repressed sexual desires and your needs for physical and emotional love. To dream that you are having sex with an ex or someone who is not your current mate denotes your reservations about embarking in a new relationship or situation. Apparently, it is common for people who are getting married to 'experience especially erotic adventures with partners other than their intended spouses'. This may be due to the intensity of one's sexual passion with their fiance(e) or it might relate to the new roles that the dreamer will be taking on and the uncertainty that may bring.

So, it turns out then, that this Kenyan has a libido that is crying out for lack of sex, repressed sexual desires, an ambivalence about sexual taboos and some reservations about embarking into a new relationship or situation?? Hmmmm.....

Right. What do you dream about?
-----------------------------------------------

*Cooking the ngengede - an Urban Kenyan slang phrase used to refer to the art of making love; first heard of on Capital FM's 'the Jam' show!

The Highs and Lows, and Ups and Downs, and Ins and Outs of Travelling as a Black, African Woman

2009-05-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

(This post is dedicated to Mo, who recently figured out what little corner of the world I live in.)

What was it that Maya Angelou said about travel? Oh, yes: ".......being exposed to the existence of other languages increases the perception that the world is populated by people who not only speak differently from oneself but whose cultures and philosophies are other than one’s own. Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try to understand each other, we may even become friends.”

This evening, I had dinner with my two South African friends at an Indian restaurant in a city in South-East Asia. Oh, the joys of globalisation! One of my dinner companions was a young, 19 year old man whose parents are diplomats. He has had the opportunity to live and go to school in different parts of the world, he has traveled to various countries both with his family and alone. The fact that he is able to confidently have conversation about various issues with two older, intelligent women (i.e. my friend and I!) made me realise how his traveling and interaction with people from different cultures has shaped him into an open-minded, well-informed, interesting young adult. I decided right there and then, that my child, when I have one, shall see the world and will most definitely attend multi-cultural schools from day care to university! Inshallah. But I digress. One of the things that came up as we enjoyed our prawn korma and nan, was travel. We talked briefly about some places we have been and our young friend observed how important travelling is. I told my friends that I would not date a man who is not travelled. It doesn't matter to me if he packed a backpack and took the Akamba to Dar es Salaam for the weekend, or if he bought a plane ticket to Jamaica. If a man is inquisitive enough to travel and enjoys to do so, then he is my kind of man.

Anyway, this evening's conversation made me think of a list I made some years back. When I was about 16 years old, I made a list of my dreams, hopes, plans and expectations for the future. I just stumbled into this list when I was home last December hidden in a drawer in my old room, and was pretty amazed at how introspective I was as a teenager! Besides my career goals, what kind of man I wanted to date, a vow to buy my mum property and build a school for underpriviledged kids, in the list was included my hope to see the world. And boy, hasn't that dream come true in the past few years! I have been very blessed because in the past four years, I have traveled enough to make up for the previous 22 years of non-travel. I have travelled because of school, I have travelled because of work and I have travelled because of a never-ending thirst for new and different experiences. In four years, I have been to the Americas, Africa, Europe and Asia (am still working on Antarctica and Australia! ). I have developed a love for traveling alone; although I also love to travel with people, so long as we are compatible travel-wise. Believe me, you don't want to tour the world with some rigid, controlling person who imposes her time-table of what to do , see and eat on you! A voyage is rubbish if you are not travelling with the right people, I always say. For me, those right people are my siblings.

The purpose of this post, as the heading suggests, is to share a few of my experiences of traveling as a young, African woman. Mo recently symphathised with me when he found out that I live in the Asian continent. While I found Mo's well-meaning condolences unnecessary, I understand that they stem from knowing how difficult it can sometimes be to live in a place where you stand out like a single kidney bean in a packet of haricots. Yes, I have been stared at, pointed at, laughed at, and frowned at. There have been times when people of Asian and Caucasian descent have looked at me in utter disgust, or have asked me the world's most irritating and ignorant questions. I've had people, much to my amusement, touch my skin and my hair in amazement. One of the questions that my South African friend frequently gets is whether it's very hot in Africa. Reason? Well, surely the African sun must shine very harshly otherwise however would we get so tanned?! My friend is patient enough to explain that she is black, not because it is extremely hot in Africa, but because of her genetic make-up. Somehow, no one ever asks me this, which is too bad because I would concoct a long wild and lively tale to explain my pigmentation! A sense of humour helps in such situations. As I was saying, I've had people come up to me and ask to take photos of me like am some sort of tourist attraction (Japanese tourists can be super annoying!). And this is just in Asia.

When I was in grad school not too long ago, I had the chance to transit through Cuba while flying to Europe (the Americans wouldn't give me a visa on time so the only other way to travel from where I lived to Europe was via José Martí International Airport, La Habana, Cuba). Being the opportunistic Kenyan that I am, I jumped at the opportunity to spend a few days exploring La Habana before moving on to Europe. Two things that you should know before I get to the meat of this storo: first, rather foolishly, and perhaps because I was to meet some acquaintances who were there on holiday, I did not research the country I was going to visit. I guess I figured I would play it by the ear. You know, kupotea njia ndio kujua njia, and that sort of thing. The second thing to note was that I was a student, and like most students, living from hand to mouth. That is, sikuwa na dough nyingi, maze! So I got to La Habana, and as it happens sometimes, I was the only black person in the plane I travelled in. Not only was I black, I was also African, female and travelling by myself and on a Kenyan passport! The Cuban immigration officials did not know what to do with me! They couldn't figure out which box to put me in, and when they found out that I was staying at a hotel that is almost decent by Havana standards they decided that I was a drug dealer or at the very least, a drug mule. And so the immigration dudes and dudettes, all of them interestingly Afro Cubans, singled me out and out of every other passenger in my flight, called only moi aside. Big shocker there! After idiotically sending me from one corner of the airport to another to see this and that immigration officer, the boys and girls of the airport immigration department decided that time was ripe for a drug check. And of course because my mama brought me up well and because I do not believe in the easy way of doing things, after checking my luggage and doing some silly test, they did not find even an iota of drugs in my baggage or self. That to me, was one of the worst things I have ever experienced in my history of travel, not because I had to go through some thorough and humiliating body search but because the whole experience reeked of a discrimination and insolence so blatant, so obvious. She's black, she's African, she's female, she's young? Oh, she most definitely must be a drug mule because there is no way she would have the guts let alone the financial and intellectual ability to travel so far from her own country all by herself! Yes, that's me being ironic! Anyway, things have a way of sorting themselves out and within no time, I was in Havana exploring, surviving on one big meal a day and spending the little cash that I had on souvenirs for my family. I was not worried about how I'd survive in Europe because I was visiting someone very close to me; someone who would take care of my every need during my vacation there. In spite of my airport experience, I fell in love with Cuba and Cubans, and was sad when time for my departure came.

Now here is the moral of this story, besides demonstrating that ignorance and discrimination are rife in places like Asia where there are few black people and also in places like Cuba that are full of people of African descent: never, ever travel without doing a bit of research on the place you are traveling to! Never, ever burn all your money in a trip! I got to the airport to check in, and lo and behold, found out that I could not leave Cuba without paying airport tax! By George! And of course I had used my meagre savings on souvenir shopping and my last penny on the taxi to the airport! Latin American countries must be the only ones in the world that impose an airport tax on travellers. Anyway, to cut a long story short (a few tears were shed....double cringe), a fellow passenger, God, Allah and Murungu bless him very much, paid my airport tax and I was soon on my way to visit my loved ones in Europe. People, please learn from my mistakes: never ever go anywhere without reading up on the place. You don't have to read the Lonely Planet cover to cover but tafadhali, research on the basic, important facts about your country of destination before you get there! Also, be wise with money: always put some money aside for contingencies when travelling!

But, I do not have to go very far from home when talking about the annoyances and stresses of travel. I was in Lamu just the other day (yet again, I decided to travel alone) and two recurring questions I got were: I kept on being asked what tribe I was (a question I have come to loath, mainly because since the 2007 post-election violence, every other person I meet both in Kenya and abroad asks me this), and I was also asked many many times especially by locals I met while walking around Lamu town if I had a mzungu travel companion cum lover (I guess they couldn't bring themselves to imagine how it is that I could be able to travel alone). By the way, I get that last question a lot where I currently live (surely I must live with a husband or boyfriend?!). Goes to show that ignorant, sexist people are the same the world over! Lamu is gorgeous and I plan to go again soon, unless or until the Kenyan government acts on its threat to construct a big, new port in Manda Bay. If that happens, am taking my money somewhere else! Besides being asked annoying questions in Lamu, one experience that stood out for me was dinner at Peponi House hotel in Shela. Not because of the actual meal (the Swahili dish was both over-priced and forgettable), but because for the first time in my life I was propositioned not by one, not by two but by many beach boys! Which in itself was quite amusing...until that is, the beach boys decided to call me the worst imaginable Swahili insults as I left the hotel after my dinner, apparently because I had ignored their come-ons. Perhaps I was called names by the beach boys because I was a black Kenyan woman and able to afford a meal at an over-priced hotel at the Kenyan coast. But then again, maybe the beach boys insult every woman, regardless of colour and nationality, who turns them down. That is neither here nor there. What I don't get, what really irks me is this: why would the proprietors and the management of Peponi House allow such characters into the establishment? Of course I complained to my travel agent when I got back to Nairobi. Of course she gravely promised to do something and proceeded to do nothing (Kenyans, hey?! what can you do?!). Of course I am never stepping foot again into Peponi House hotel in Shela, Lamu Island, Kenya!

The world is a crazy yet beautiful place, but you have to get out of your comfort zone to discover this. Apart from the pain of having to deal with evil and weird people, flight delays and flight cancellations (damn you, KQ!), jet lag and a few dangers here and there, I've always enjoyed travelling and I plan to do it until the day my bones are too old and fragile to allow it. I have learnt to grow a thick skin, turn a blind eye, ignore the bad and embrace the good, forget the bad experiences and to take lots of photos! I've met such a fascinating and interesting mix of people in my sojourns. From the talkative and charming lady with a rare, life-threatening disease I met in an Emirates flight two months back (she was travelling to India from the UK for treatment and was so alive!), to the creative soulful globe-trotting Latino artist I met while exploring Gamla Stan in Stockholm (he told me that he was always a traveller, an adventurer, never a tourist), to the old gentle German artisan I met in the Caribbean coast (he talked of spirituality and family, and told me of a ritual he has together with his ex-wife and children that involves beating of drums in some beautiful green mountainous place at dawn), to the charming Kenyan man I met at a hotel in Dar es Salaam (he was working as a consultant for the hotel, we got into talking and it turns out I knew and had in the past helped out a good friend of his...the world is a village I tell you!); I have met many people of different colours, sexes, races, shapes and sizes and they have all touched my heart and taught me a thing or two about this thing called life. Many times, I never meet these enchanting people twice. Such is life.

I could go on and on, but I will stop here for today. And so my friends, I end this post by encouraging you to travel. It matters not whether you are leaving Nairobi to tour North Eastern Kenya, or travelling from Limpopo to Cairo! Go out there, listen to new languages, try different things, admire that which is different from yours! For as Mark Twain put it ever so astutely, nothing so liberalizes a man and expands the kindly instincts that nature puts in him as travel and contact with many kind of people.

Love Thy Neighbour

2009-04-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons why I moved into the building I live in, besides the excellent view it offers of the river, is how quiet and peaceful it is. The building is half occupied, and even then I never seem to bump into, see or hear my neighbours. Not even in the lobby or in the pool. It works out very well for me. But this evening, something out of the ordinary happened. I met my new neighbour in the lift. Our conversation went something like this:

New Neighbour (NN): It's you! I wanted to talk to you!
Me: (Wondering who the hell the stranger with the pink face is) Me? You want to talk to me?
NN: Yes! I just moved to the building. Am on the 5th floor. I've seen you a couple of times...in the pool or walking around.
Me: (Puzzled, because I have never laid my eyes on that pink face. Admittedly, I am the only black person in the building so I must stand out like a sore thumb) Well then!
NN: (Confidently) So you are from India?!
Me: (Laughs and silently questions his IQ) Do I look Indian?
NN: (Shrugs and points a finger up) She told me you are Indian......
Me: The landlady?! She knows that I am from Kenya
NN: (Looking confused) Is Kenya in South Africa?! (Draws what suspiciously resembles the map of England in the air) Or is it in North Africa?!
Me: (Surprisingly, laughs hard. Usually, I have no patience with people who don't know their geography) Kenya is in Eastern Africa. It borders the Indian Ocean.
NN: Well, my name is Frank. But you can call me Frankie. What's yours?
Me: Tafsiri Hii
NN: Te....?? (leans so close I can smell the cheap local brew in his breath)
Me: TA.F.SI.RI HII
NN: Ta...?? Could you please spell it out for me?

I spend the next 2 minutes teaching him how to spell and pronounce my name. I surprise myself sometimes.

Miss Mboch

2009-04-17T12:04:00.000-07:00

Let me begin by saying that I find the word 'mboch' derogatory. That also goes for 'mbochne'. Refer to your maid as anything else (hauzi, house-help, domestic worker), just not 'mboch'. My Sheng is a bit rusty so am not sure what they call domestic workers nowadays in the language (is Sheng a language?). I cannot claim to know the origin of the word, but whenever I hear 'mboch', I think of a group of spoilt, middle-class Nairobi kids who patronise those that they deem beneath them. To me, the word is quite discriminatory, sort of like calling a Kenyan-Indian "chuuti" to their face. Diction aside, I find it interesting that almost everyone in urban Kenya hires someone to work in their home. And this is regardless of social class and income. Some time back, I worked with a women's group in one of Nairobi's smaller informal settlements, or if you like, slums. What always used to fascinate me is that some of the women I worked with, who were themselves maids in nearby suburbs, sometimes hired people to work in their homes. So really, literally everyone in urban Kenya from the woman in Mathare to me, has hired a domestic worker at some point in their lives.

************************

I was brought up in a middle-middle class home (although there were times when things were very difficult and that first 'middle' would change to 'lower'). As far as I can remember, we always had domestic help, sometimes when we were younger, as many as two or three house-helps worked in our home. I've already mentioned here that my family is big. My mother has been very active in our upbringing, but let's face it, when you have seven young children, you need a helping hand. Sometimes, four helping hands. Especially when you are juggling parenthood with a career and school. So yes, I guess my family, just like the next Kenyan family, has been blessed in this way. From the lovely ladies who used to make pumpkin-leaf porridge (one of the best things in the world) for us when we were small kids, to crazy Priscilla to the lovely Ann who is currently working for my mum, we've had a long history of house-helps. I will be honest: without any one of these women, my life growing up would have been a lot harder.

I always took it for granted that there would be a maid to do the dishes, wash my clothes, chop up the vegetables for me to fry, etc, ad infinitum. That is, until I grew up and started noticing some things. The first time I found out how much our house-help was getting paid, I was saddened. Because what she earned in a month, I could at the time, spend in two days. I had just started working then, and now and then out of guilt, I would sneak a 500KSh note to Naomi. And even after the Kenyan government increased the minimum wage, our dear Naomi was still underpaid. Had she been asked why this was the case my mum, like any other respectable mother in Kenya, would have said that she was doing her best. That she could not afford to pay Naomi any more than she was doing. And this is a valid reason as any because, didn't I say mum has raised seven children? While I can not speak authoritatively for the whole of Kenya, I can write about what my experience and that of those around me. So yes, my mum paid Naomi (and now pays Ann) below the minimum wage. For the brief period that I lived alone in Kenya, I paid the lady who used to do my weekly cleaning below the minimum wage. That, I believe is the norm. I can confidently say that if I went to the streets of Nairobi today and did a random survey, 98% of the respondents would answer in the negative to the question of whether or not they pay their domestic workers above 6,299.75KSH ($79) a month.

Because things are not always black and white, I refuse to be simplistic and start arguing here that Kenyans pay their domestic workers (and this includes watchmen and shamba boys) below the minimum wage because they are a bunch of ignorant mean-spirited people. The reasons for this are many and they range from economic reasons to a lack of awareness on the law and the rights of domestic workers. But of course, there are those 'thousandnaires 'and millionaires who can comfortably afford to pay their help more but refuse to do so.

*********************

But besides being guilty of underpaying, how else do we treat those who work hard day and night in our homes? Well, according to a research that was recently carried out by the Kenya Union of Domestic, Hotels, Educational Institutions and Allied Workers together with the American Centre for International Labour Solidarity, many of us exploit our domestic workers and 'treat them as slaves'. Earlier, when I was thinking of today's topic, I googled 'domestic workers in Kenya' and was pleasantly surprised to find that some research has been done on this issue. There seems to be a recurring theme in the few reports and articles I have perused: many maids in Kenya suffer abuse in the hands of their employers. From being physically abused, to being paid little or nothing at all (some people even pay their house-helps in kind i.e. give them clothing or food as 'pay'), Kenyan domestic workers go through a lot. It would be wrong, very wrong, not include to this list of wrongdoings those men who assume that relations of the bedroom kind are included in the maid's job description. Like this crazy fool on Mashada who talks of how it is "just too wonderful" to have sex with his house-help while his wife is in the house, then asks readers for "advice". One can only imagine what kind of "advice" he expects to be given by fellow Kenyans. Perhaps, tricks on how to have "just too wonderful" sex with the maid without being caught by the wife?

Anyway, that is a whole different story and maybe one of these days I will do a continuation of this post and blog on the baba watoto and hauzi issue. For now, my dear blogren, I will leave you with a few questions because I think the time is ripe for some introspection. Do you treat your domestic worker as well as you would like to be treated? Why are so many house-helps being mistreated? Don't Kenyans view house-work as 'work'? Are you, whether knowingly or unknowingly, directly or indirectly, involved in perpetuating the problem? Are you aware that domestic workers are recognised as employees by Kenyan law? Which in essence, implies that the Employment Act applies to them and they are entitled to annual leave, sick leave, maternity leave, etc just like me and you.

I think change, and even decency, comes from within. We cannot claim to be righteous wanainchi when we treat strangers with kid gloves only to degrade those who are in our homes. How can we claim to want positive change in our society if we, ourselves, are not part of this change? Go on, give your hauzi some love today!

______________________________________________________________________

On a totally unrelated topic, can some Kenyan please jog my memory: what is the meaning of chapa ilale, and even more important, how do you use the phrase in a sentence?! A few examples would be nice! Cheers!

Of White Dogs, Thunder and Witches

2009-04-08T09:29:00.000-07:00

I like to think of myself as a rational, analytical person. You know, someone who is logical. Which is why I have never believed in witchcraft, black magic, wizardly, ghosts, juju, kamuti, Mombasa jini and UFOs. Of course, there are times when my unfaltering non-belief of 'outside forces' and things supernatural, like all beliefs, has been tested. Like when I was 11 years old and staying at my family's dark, uninhabited house in shags (rural area). I was lying on the bed peacefully thinking about whatever it is 11 year olds think about, when my sister - all covered in a white sheet - crept up on me. Convinced that I was seeing a ghost, I froze in fear. That is, until i heard my sister's donkey laugh. I blame my reaction on that occasion on a combination of watching too many horror movies and a high imagination. Not to mention I was only a child.

As I was saying, you will have to show me some concrete evidence to sell me on the idea that juju works, or as my Cameroonian friend was trying to convince me with a straight face the other day, mermaids exist. But something strange happened in the not-so-recent past that made me think twice about this whole thing. I was living off Thika Road at the time and worked on Waiyaki Way (independence has a price, my friend!). Anyway, going home every evening was well, a bitch. Anyone who lives or works on Thika Road can testify that traffic is the worst in that part of the city. On the evening in question, I decided to hang around my aunt's place of business in town, and wait for traffic to ease before jumping onto a matatu and heading on home. My aunt lives on Thika Road so I had company. This was about 9.00 - 9.30 in the p.m. and it was clear that my plan to 'wait out' the traffic had not worked as there were still quite a number of vehicles on Muranga Road (for the uninitiated and the babis, Murang'a Road is that road that joins Thika Road at the Muthaiga Roundabout).

We went past the cemetery by Forest Road/Murang'a Road roundabout without incidence. Everything was as it should be: genge was blaring from the matatu's speakers, the tout was as rude as they come, and passengers were shouting over the music into their cellphones. Just before we got to the bottom of the dip of the road, there was a loud thud in front of the vehicle followed by the screeching of brakes and the feeling that someone heavy had pushed me from the back. Our driver had hit something in front; and the car behind us, another matatu, had rammed straight into the matatu I was in. The driver behind the matatu that had hit ours was also not able to hit his brakes fast enough. As it were, neither machines nor humans were seriously injured. I was just about to on my aunt, when one of the passengers shouted "Ngai! Ni mbwa imegongwa?!" On looking ahead, I noticed a white dog moving away from the outer lane where our matatu had stopped and walking drunkenly smack into the middle of the busy traffic. The cause of the accident? A dog! Somehow, the dog managed to dodge one or two cars but then a lorry drove right into the silly canine, leaving it frozen on its back with its legs pointing towards heaven. By this time, all the passengers had gotten out of both matatus to watch the drama unfold, the accident forgotten temporarily. "Imekufa?", a rhetorical question for the dog was clearly dead. Or so we thought. Five minutes did not go by before the dog got up and defiantly walked across the road to the petrol station. A collective breath was held. There was no trace of blood whatsoever; the dog's fur remained white. The dog continued its deranged activity: it walked from the petrol station to our side of the road and back, and went on with this back and forth, back and forth business , and then finally disappeared into the bushes just before 'utumishi kwa wote' arrived. Thankfully, there was no other accident although there were a couple of near-misses. This is one of those experiences that I cannot forget. Was this just a simple case of a crazy dog suffering from mad-dog disease or was it a ghost/strange force looking for blood? I can't help but wonder, especially as this place where it all happened is both a black spot where many accidents have been known to happen, and also near a cemetery.

Speaking of which, my friend from Cameroon (of the mermaids legacy) recently entertained me with tales of witchcraft and juju in her country. Apparently people in her country strongly believe in juju; and different regions practice different forms of juju. In her region, it is believed that thunder can be used for evil purposes. So that a relative jealous of my friend's Masters degree may 'send' thunder to harm her. But my friend only needs to click her fingers over her head when she sees the thunder and declare 'back to sender!' to protect herself from the intended harm. Not wishing to be defeated, our Tanzanian colleague told us how politicians in Tanzania include a visit to the 'mganga' in their campaign strategy.

But let us not go too far from home. Was it not just last year when the dailies carried a story about the lengths that Kenyan women are going to in order to get men or keep their unfaithful men at home?!

Incidentally, did you know witchcraft is illegal in Kenya? The Witchcraft Act criminalises witchcraft, sorcery, enchantment and the possession of charms. Clearly, this law is not being enforced as signs advertising the services of 'waganga' all the way from Tanzania are unashamedly posted in the streets of Nairobi and Mombasa. But of course, as things go in Kenya, wanainchi have been known to take matters into their own hands and play judge, jury and executioner as recently happened when a group of people suspected to be practicing witchcraft were lynched to death in Kisii and burnt to death in Pokot.

Truth is stranger than fiction, I always say.

Answer Me This...

2008-12-07T08:58:00.000-08:00

You look around you and all you see are small girls: small frightened girls, small girls that are hurting, small angry girls, small confused girls...

Yes, they may be laughing and joking with you, wearing the latest designer suits, working in positions of leadership, living independently without relying on any man, and may even have small girls of their own. But beneath those power suits, behind those smiles and grown-up demeanors are sad girls. Girls who grew up never knowing how a woman should be treated by a man. Girls whose only male role models were drunken, violent, neglectful fathers. Girls who were told again and again that they were not as important as their brothers. Girls who thought the world of their fathers, until they grew up and discovered how badly they treat their mothers. Girls who readily give their all to the first man who tells them they are beautiful and shows them some affection, because they never got this at home in the first place.

And then it begins to make sense: why more and more of the young women you know seem scared stiff of the idea of marriage, why relationships all around you seem to be falling apart, why the rates of infidelity seem to be on the rise, why the rates of HIV infection are increasingly becoming higher among married couples in Kenya.

You look within yourself and suddenly you realize: you are one of those angry little girls inside the body of a grown woman. Your thoughts are running around your head faster than 'lightning' Bolt and you really cannot think straight. But in a moment of clarity you decide to ask your readers for their thoughts and opinions on a matter that is the reason why you are not your normal rational self. Your readers are bound to provide you with some insight.

And so you pose the question:

Dearest Blogren,

Assume that you are above the age of 18 and legally speaking, an adult of sound mind, body and spirit. Assume again that for whatever reason, you need a place to stay for one or two weeks. Most importantly, that place needs to be quiet because you are working on something important that requires all your concentration. You weigh your options. Do you call up Cousin Mark and ask whether you can stay with him for a while? You have always liked Cousin Mark - he's easy going and good humored: he seems to float through life effortlessly. Most importantly, he lives alone. Yes, he does smoke some weed one or two times a day and no one seems to know what he does for a living (you suspect that he could be one of those crazy, hymn-singing thieves who robbed a bank in Westlands the other day but you do not voice your suspicions to anyone). Your mother also did mention that she would be taking her chama to his house to pray for him. 'Prayer is all that is left for the boy,' were her exact words as you recall. But no one is perfect, right?

Then there is Aunt 'Vodka' Valerie. A pleasant lady really, except for her 'situation' as your mother likes to call it. Her children are in boarding school and she is usually blacked out by mid-day so her house is bound to be quiet.

Your mother's house is not even an option: as usual, it is full to the brim with live-in relatives, children of relatives, your siblings' friends, Mzungu exchange students, and stray cats and dogs all of whom your mother has taken under her wing.

And then out of nowhere, a brilliant idea: why not ask your father? You haven't seen him in a long time and you are not on the best of terms but he is still your father, right? And so you give him a call and ask two questions: one, whether he lives alone, and two, whether you can stay with him for one or two weeks. He answers in the affirmative to both questions and you quickly pack your bags.

When he picks you up, he tells you that he bought a house in Nairobi West. As he drives you to his new house you make small talk. You mean to ask him who does his cooking, cleaning and washing but you forget. The question you never asked is quickly answered: at the door of his brand new house stands a brand new lady. A quick glance at her manner of dress confirms that she is definitely not the house-help: she wearing tight black pants and an expensive pedicure. It is also very clear that there is no one else in the house. Your father nervously introduces her as Nini, quickly ushers you in and even more nervously informs you that the Nini's room is downstairs, although you have not inquired as to what the sleeping arrangements are. He takes you on a tour around the house, starting with where you will be sleeping. In your new bedroom, your father continues with the introductions: this time he introduces you to the girl. As he talks, the two share a look that can only be described as amorous. That look confirms that Nini is not the sister you never knew of.

And then you look closely at Nini: she is young. As she talks to you and your father, she does something with her eyes, lips and entire head: a cross between rolling of the eyes, shaking of the head side to side and saying 'psssst' like your West African friends. Definitely younger than you.

Your father goes into 'Too Much Information' mode and immediately you know for sure: iko kitu. He only goes into TMI mode when he is trying to impress someone (usually, a woman), when he is nervous, or both. He tells Nini that you work in Asia and from the expression on her face, you are convinced that she would not know Asia, well, from the shape of her a-hole. Then he turns to you and goes on and on about Nini. When he tells you that Nini is in college, a bitter taste forms in your mouth. You are all still standing inside your new bed room and suddenly, you begin to feel suffocated. Your eyes shift from your 60 year old father to the skin-tight clad 20 year old ndogo ndogo, and involuntarily, you begin to clench and unclench your fists.

What do you do? Do you...
1. Go Karucy on him, shout 'bradi hell, I know what is going on here!' and proceed to upchuck your lunch. On his expensive Italian shoes?
2. Take your phone, call your brother and ask him to keep his girlfriend FAR AWAY from his father. Then call your sisters and ask them never to introduce their female friends to your father?
3. Calmly inform him that you are utterly disgusted that a man his age would still be so insecure about his manhood that he would need a 20 year old piece of arm candy, a girl younger than his daughters, to enhance his ego. And that he has a lot of nerve to expect you to live under the same roof as his ndogo ndogo. And furthermore, why can't he be like a normal middle-aged Kenyan man and have short secret affairs? Which man shacks up with his post-teenage gachugwa, really? Then pick your bag and go to your mother's house?
4. Shake your head, observe the two in amusement, somehow make sure your father knows that you are not fooled that Nini is 'a girl whose financially-strapped parents asked him to take in' but avoid getting hot under the collar because after all it is his life and his mess?

********************

Aa we mama we, ingekuwa we ungefanya je?! Awaiting for your words of wisdom, peoples!

Eti mama nifanye nini???

2008-09-05T05:02:00.000-07:00

My mother, God bless her.

She is one of the most illustrious and determined people I know. In fact, I can confidently say that she is a superwoman in her own right. And I am not just saying that because she carried me in her womb for 9 months, went through hours of excruciating pain to get me out of that warm womb into this cold world and went through another form of pain while bringing me up for the past 20-some years. Perhaps if I told you how many children she has borne and raised single-handedly you would understand. When I was growing up, people would refer to my siblings and I as 'the football team' or 'the basketball team' much to my anger and consternation. If you are a sports fan you will appreciate that a football team is composed of more than five people. Anyone who can give birth to and bring up seven well-adjusted, almost-normal children as well as a number of relatives' children, and do so while juggling school and a career deserves an accolade. In fact, she deserves to have a statue erected and a street named after her a la Dedan Kimathi.

This blog, however, is not dedicated to my mother's many virtues. Rather, it is dedicated to her sometimes quirky traits, one of which is her difficulty with the Kiswahili language. With my mother-tongue (which I refuse to disclose for the sake of national solidarity) and Kiswahili being Bantu languages, one would think that my mother would speak Kiswahili with ease. Alas! This is not the case. For as long as I can remember, my mother has been struggling with Swahili. However, she does not know this. She thinks, NO she believes, that she speaks Kiswahili as well as the next ordinary mwanainchi. But, she not only mispronounces words (lala, for instance, becomes rara), she also mixes up her native language with English to come up with incomprehensible words that she passes off as Swahili.

But perhaps her most endearing trait is her habit of mixing up the meanings of Swahili words. In other words, she often mistakes the meanings of certain Swahili words. To my mother's knowledge, dara is one of those flexible words that can be used to mean almost anything.
So, my mother would say to a naughty child who is asking for a beating: nitakudara!!
When streetboys come too close to her shopping bags for her comfort, she threatens them
by saying: ukidara hizi mifuko nitakuchapa!!

Those of you who are familiar with the Kiswahili language know that the word kudara means "to feel", "to caress" or "to embrace". And as for its meaning in Sheng, well, this is a child-friendly blog!

****************************

Enter Priscilla. Do you know those people who are in the wrong profession? Like that attractive accountant who was meant to be a model cum body builder? O.k., I realise that the phrase "attractive accountant" is a bit of an oxymoron so how about another example? Or that petty thief who is always running away from the cops when he really should be running in the Olympics 1500m race and doing Kenya proud? Well, Priscilla is one such person. She was not meant to be a maid, a domestic worker, a hauzi! She was born for bigger and greater things. And boy, does she know it! Her dream is to leave the country and start a new life abroad. She believes that money not only grows on trees in the land of the wazungu but also that the roads are paved with it. I try to tell her that life is hard abroad, that she can make a good life for her and her son in Kenya. But she believes that everyone she knows who has been outside the country, including her cousin and I, is conspiring to make sure that she does not have her share in the gold mine that the West supposedly is.

Priscilla is one of a kind. She is big and loud, and can drink any man under the table. She is not afraid of any man, any woman or anything...except maybe a frothy beverage know as Whitecap that causes her to become slightly catatonic once she has partaken too much of it. She is also wont to have theories about life. Her favourite is a strange one about families like ours that have many girls. She often declares that in such families, by some strange hand of fate, one girl never moves out. Every time Priscilla says this, she stops whatever chore she is doing to look directly at me:
Nakwambia Tafsiri, ni lazima msichana mmoja abaki nyumbani. (Am telling you, Tafsiri, one of the girls in this family will not leave home.)
Pause. Long pointed look at me.
Hivyo ndivyo mambo yalivyo. Hayo ndio maisha. Kwa kila familia kami hii, ni lazima
kutakuwa na msichana ambaye hataolewa kamwe na yeye ndiye atakaye saidia wazazi.
(That's the way life is. In every family like this one, one girl always stays at home to take care
of her parents when they grow old.)
Pause. Long pointed look.
Hata huyo msichana akiwa na mtoto. Hataolewa! (The girl will never get married, even if
she gets pregnant!)
Pause. Another pointed look at me.

(Well, Priscilla, just so you know, I am no longer living at home. I may not be married, but I
am not living in my mother's house, damn it! So, there!!)

***********************************************

My mother comes home after a long day of hustling in the City under the Sun. She puts down her handbag, briefcase and kiondo (any guess what her profession is?), removes the godforsaken pumps that have been biting at her tender ankles all day and then proceeds to sink thankfully into the couch. In a few minutes, she will make herself a plate of ikwacie - the sweet potatoes that my grandmother sent to Nairobi with my uncle, the truck-driver, specially for her. She will also boil a pot of tea and mix it with fresh ginger and garlic, so she can have something to wash down the ikwacie with. But just for two minutes or so - and especially before my noisy siblings come home from school - she plans to sit down in silence, gaze ahead and rid her mind of any thoughts. She has succeeded to do just that. That is, until her gaze shifts to the right and she notices that her precious curtains are exactly the way that she left them in the morning: unwashed.

She stands up and goes to do a closer inspection. She touches the curtains and brings the material close to her eyes: dust is interfering with the silkiness of its texture. And is that a dried-up piece of ugali stuck to the embroidery?! My mother turns around to face the kitchen and in a loud formidable voice, calls out for the maid:
Priscilla! Priscilla, kuja hapa! (Priscilla! Priscilla, come here!)

I do not like her tone of voice. It brings back painful memories of my youth; those days when my mother would bring out an assortment of father's belts, ask my siblings and I to carefully choose our instruments of torture and then proceed to demand that we assume the position. I call it the I'll-beat-your-puny-butt-into-a-pulp intonation.

Needless to say, I decide that it is safest to bury my head deeper into my book. Any movement on my part - however slight - might cause me, not Priscilla, to bear the wrath of this woman whose curtains have been treated with scorn. Priscilla takes a long time to come to the living room. Not that my mum's house is so gigantic that the kitchen is one kilometer from the living room. No. There must be some really urgent business that Priscilla is taking care of in the kitchen. Either that or she does not realise, or for that matter care, that she is at that moment my mother's least favourite person. I must say that I secretly admire her courage. She is the only person I know of who has the guts to keep my mother waiting. When she finally strolls in, mum is fuming. She is not only seeing red: she is seeing all the colours of the rainbow.

Oh, mama umerudi? Habari ya kushinda? Eh, na leo kumenyesha! Sasa unajua hizi
matatu zitaongeza bei kwa sababu ya mvua. Hawa makanga wamekuwa wabaya sana!
Sanasana hawa wa Kangemi! Hata afadhali nitembee nyumbani leo, mama!...Sijui kama
umeniita? (Oh, ma'm I see you are back. How was your day? What a rainy day! Do you know, the matatus will definitely hike up the fare today. Evil turnboys! Especially the ones on the Kangemi route! I would rather walk home today. Did you just call out to me?)

Priscilla, the queen of small talk. Any other day, my mother would have indulged her. But on this day, she could only think of her curtains and of hard-headed house-helps who never listen to their employers. Hence, the only thing she could say was:
Priscilla, si nilikuambia udare hizi curtains??!

I am already on the floor laughing when Priscilla, hands akimbo, looks at my mum with puzzlement and queries:
Eti mama umesema nifanye nini?!!

******************************

Someone should really tell mum what the word "kudara" means. Someone like, say, my brother M. That's right, M! Man up!

PMS Blues

2008-09-02T04:54:00.000-07:00

Am lying, frozen in bed. I. Cant. Move. Torturous pain....

He comes home, gives me a perfunctory kiss, sits to read the paper then realizes that am in bed wearing a strange expression.
Everything ok, he asks.
NO! Cccc....cramps, I manage to get the words out.
Oh, it's that time of the month! He observes. Anything I can do, asks he. Sweet man.
Yes, a towel soaked in very hot water will help ease the pain.
Ok, he says....and then goes back to the paper.
Tic, toc. Tic, toc. Minutes go by. Nothing! The longer he looks at the damned paper, the more agitated I get. The more agitated I get, the worse the pain. The more the pain, the blacker my mood. After about 5 long agonizing minutes, I can't take it any more. Involuntarily, I jump out of bed and let out a loud scream: actually, what comes out is a sound that is a cross between a lion's roar and the screech of a hyena. I clench and unclench my hands, and grit my teeth. Am beginning to look more and more like a lion...or a hyena. He looks up, surprised.
What's wrong, honey? The poor sweet ignorant man asks.

What's wrong?! WHAT IS WRONG? A million wicked mini-devils are inside my womb: poking one side with their red-hot forks, and biting and tearing the other side into tiny bite size pieces. Their cousins are slowly working on my lower back. I was perfectly fine, suffering my torment silently...until you came home and offered to assist! Why you would offer to help me and then sit there reading your paper is beyond me!

His cheek looks like a good place for my palm to land and my teeth are itching to do a Mike Tyson on him...Murderous thoughts. People have killed for lesser things.

Before I do something I might regret, I stalk out and use my own two hands to get my self-sufficient self a towel soaked in steaming water to place on my tortured womb......

For those who do not know what am going on about, or for those men who do not understand why their women turn into pit bulls once a month, listen to Angie Stone's "It's the time of the month" or to these words by Dolly Parton.

Even better, how about this hilarious letter written by blogger Wendi Aarons to Proctor and Gamble's Brand Manager:

Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core™ or Dri-Weave™ absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?

As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.

Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."

Are you fucking kidding me?

What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness—actual smiling, laughing happiness—is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreens armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong"? Or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,

Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX

The African: Some of the most IDIOTIC statements ever made!

2008-08-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

Yup, it is that time of the year again. That 7-day period when we celebrate our dear ignorant and idiotic brothers and sisters who persistently pester us with foolish questions about our backgrounds and make statements about.....wait for it, wait for it..."the Dark Continent". Let's call it Tafsiri's List of Idiotic Statements and Questions on Africa (with Tafsiri's remarks beneath every statement, naturally). Here goes:

1. This, from my younger sister's American or Canadian penpal (needless to say, she never wrote back): "So, do you guys like live in caves or trees or something?"
(Yes, we co-exist peacefully with monkeys. It's very environmental-friendly. Try it some time. I hear being friends with the environment is all the rage where you are from)

2. Looking perturbed, scratching his head, a young caucasian man asks his African colleague: "You are from Africa?! How did you get to Europe?!"
(Well, Sah! It is a long story, see. I walked a great distance from my village in the Highlands to a village along the shores of the great sea known to you as Indian Ocean. On my way to this village by the sea, which we call Mombasa, I had to battle a few savage tribesmen and be on the lookout for wild animals. I even killed a lion. Upon reaching Mombasa, I made a raft, climbed it and steered it to this here your great land)

3. A young, energetic student who clearly greatly believes in her own intellectual abilities puts her hand up to make a comment in a class of students from multiple regions: "The fact is, in the country of Africa...."
(The fact is, Africa is a continent not a country. Hard to believe, seeing that ALL Africans look alike, walk alike, think alike and even talk alike, right? I would suggest that you look at a map of the world.)

4. I kid you not! My Japanese colleague asked me the following question after seeing some photos of wild animals I'd taken at a Game Reserve in Kenya. One of the photos was of a leopard devouring some poor tiny furry animal: "Are these your pets in Africa??"
(Sweetie, does money grow on trees? Do pigs fly? Does the sun rise from the West? Do cows bark? If you answer 'yes' to any of the above questions, then those. are. my. pets.)

5. George Bush, Jr. on some State business in Sweden in 2001: "We spent a lot of time talking about Africa, as we should. Africa is a nation that suffers from incredible disease."
(Supra note 3!)

Dark and Light; Black and White

2008-08-22T19:34:00.000-07:00

"There are two wolves fighting in a man's heart. One is called Good. The other, Evil."

- from a movie whose name has escaped me

I took an interesting course recently. It involved sitting cross-legged on the floor, chewing thoughtfully on popcorn, watching movies and documentaries intently, and having heated, stimulating discussions about said movies and documentaries with about 10 other like-minded individuals. 'Film and conflict', the course was called. Until then, I would never have considered 'G. I. Jane' a topic for intellectual, or at least scholarly, debate. Which brings me to the subject of today's blog. One of the war films we watched was 'Apocalypse Now'. No words can truly describe how brilliant that movie is. That is my opinion, of course, and you do not have to agree with it. And no, I do not work for Francis Ford Coppola. But you will at least agree that it is one of those movies that one watches at least two...or five times. But I digress.

In one jungle scene, the Director plays with lighting to expose one half of the protagonist's face and leave the other half hidden by shadow, by darkness. This, to me, is the ultimate representation of the human psyche and serves as one of the most striking thing about 'Apocalypse Now': it captures the battle that goes on within every living human being - that between good and bad.

I have grown up hearing - from mother, father, church, school, society - about the virtues of doing good by others and the dire consequences of doing bad. At some point during my tender years, I actually believed that God allocated everyone a large white sheet at birth. Commit a sin and God would place a tiny black dot on your sheet. By the time I was 10, I strongly believed that my sheet was already half black. Not that I sinned much then. As I grew up, I started questioning what mother, father, church, school and society fed my young mind. When I was about 19, I went through a major "Does God really exist and how do we know it" crisis. Well, it wasn't really a crisis but at 19, everything is a crisis. Anyway. I questioned religion, I demanded proof, I wanted answers. Did we have control over our lives or was our fate already decided by some powerful external factors? If God existed, why did bad things happen to good people? Why did innocent children suffer; why did evil people get prosperous? How could a poor man who stole a goat to feed 7 hungry mouths get 14 years jail-time, while a greedy pot-bellied politician who stole a billion from tax-payers went scot-free? My mother grew irritated; my friend suggested that I read a book that apparently had the answers to my questions. My mother got over her irritation and I did not get around to reading the recommended book. Eventually, however, I stopped questioning.

I decided that some people are good, that some people are bad, that sometimes good people do bad things, and other times bad people do good things. I decided that God existed; but in different forms and with different meaning for different people. I decided that every human being has free-will: the independence to decide on how to act and how to treat others. I also realised that luck, opportunity, attitude, hard work, and more luck do play a role in bringing good (success) to a person's life. However, I am still convinced that perhaps we are all sinners. But in the spirit of the proclamation by the pigs in George Orwell's Animal Farm, I would argue that all people are evil but some people are more evil than others.

Still, sometimes I do wonder. Are human beings infinitely evil or ultimately good? How can a man rape a two year old girl and yet stand tall, put his head up and call himself a man? How does a woman who benefits from trading in other humans sleep at night? How could you ignore me at my moment of suffering? Why didn't I help the man who was being beaten by muggers on the streets?