Boring my company, not Elon's

My cakes don’t talk back. That never stops me from speaking to them. As I place them in the oven, I tell them things like tembea na Yesu or see you in an hour, or please don’t backfire on me. To be fair, I also don’t take *things that make the baked goods seem like they talk back. Hehe. When they’re out of the oven, I douse them in words of affirmation especially cupcakes, those cute little things. I tell them that they've done a good job and how proud I am of them. On the other hand when they backfire (which happens a number of times in baking) I say to them 'I can't believe you've done this to me. I'm both mad and disappointed'. I'm always the victim even if I'm the one who maybe forgot to add in the baking powder. 

By now, maybe you can tell that I spend most of my working time alone, talking to inanimate things that don't talk back. The result is this: 

I’m slowly growing into an even more boring conversationalist with people.

It’s a painful realization and what’s even more painful is when I just know that I’m out of stories in the middle of a conversation.

At the beginning of this year, I went for an interview for a position that’s client facing therefore it needed someone who is bubbly. I tried and pretended that I was the perfect fit, saying how my friends describe me as extremely talkative and that they are always begging me to shut up, which is a lie. Okay, sometimes my friends usually beg me to shut up because I’m the type to use a phrase repetitively and incessantly when I learn of it. I used “cut the cameras, deadass” for almost everything when I first heard it. So in such instances, they're like "okay Lizzie we get it". Having conversations with my friends isn't too hard because well, they're my friends. Other times, there’s this juice we take that causes us to talk a lot, but that’s a fair playing field because it’s everyone who’s talking a lot. But sometimes a call with a friend can go like this

Hi Liz, 

Hiiiiiiiii, how're you?

I'm doing great, you?

I'm good. Yeah I'm good. 

Ehee, what have you been up to? 

Umm *silence* baking and writing. *Silence* I'm good. Yeah... Mmh... *Silence* Been good.

Haha okay that's nice to know. Sawa, was just calling to check up, bye. 

Bye

Yet another person I've bored with my 'many exciting' stories lol. 

 

Anyway, back to the interview, one of the ladies interviewing me could see right through my bull because guess what guys? In the middle of the interview, I ran out of stories halfway and I couldn’t redeem my 'bubbly' self.

 

About a month ago, I went for lunch with a former colleague and after he finished updating me on his life, for like an hour, when it came to my turn, I had little to say. I felt sorry for him. I tried guys, I did. The muscle is weak! What has made it even worse is that I apply the notion of hearing to listen rather than to respond more often than not. So what happens is that as someone speaks, I'm processing what they're saying to me, getting their perspective.

People I haven't seen in a while are the ones who suffer the most. Sometimes with strangers it's easier cause you can tell them anything, you can make up your own story. Like with Uber drivers / boda guys. I'm always a different person. A doctor or I work with refugees or I'm a manager of a very big musician in Kenya. Anything. I back up my knowledge with what I've heard from podcasts. I spend a lot of time listening to podcasts as I bake and clean.

Sometimes my small bro will come from work and ask me how my day was. I sometimes go like "men, I feel like a 1954 old school traditional house wife cause there's nothing stimulating I can talk to you about. My red velvet today didn't talk back, so you just tell me about your day. Mmelipwa?" Lol

All of this to say, my company has become boring and not the Elon Musk one. It’s made me fearful, that I’ll always be like this and leave the legacy of being a boring person, that's all I'll be remembered for. 

Remember Liz? 

Liz, which one?

The boring one. 

Of course I remember her, she was boring AF.

Sigh. I even have a feeling that this story has bored you. I'm sorry. Is there like a dawa one can take to help with this? This is my cry for help. If I haven't called you in a while, it's because I don't want to bore you. I'm protecting you, and my legacy. Otherwise, non boring people, please give me tips...

Enjoy your holiday guys :) I hope this is the only boring thing you get to interact with today.

The special house

This is how it’s been happening; by Sunday, I have a rough idea of what I want to write about. Stray sentences start to form in my head, they float about. By Wednesday early morning, all the words have already settled into the womb of my mind. The doctor declares I’m 10 centimeters dilated in words. I push as he pulls out the baby, he then cuts the umbilical cord and these sentences are freed into our tiny world of this blog. So I press publish. However, that’s not what happened this time round. By Monday morning, I still had no idea of what I wanted to write about, my mind was shooting blanks, nothing had been conceived and so I started to panic. I lay in bed helplessly for a while, my head rested on my bicep.

I then started scrolling through my phone lazily. I wanted to retrieve some information that I knew was in the text messages between Davie, my small brother and I so I started going through our exchanges.

 

On Saturday, Jan 14 19:55, one of the text messages from me to him read;

‘Please keep for me my chapos’

 

I smiled at this message. Sometimes, the text messages or even phone calls between housemates can be peculiar and they only make sense to those living in that house. Am I right guys? And they can sometimes be embarrassing if someone who doesn't have the context stumbles upon them. I was asking for my chapos to be spared on that Saturday because one, I’m a certified foodie and two, I was going to be late getting home. Sometimes the biggest mistake you can make in our residence is be late kwanza on a weekend, so people will assume that you’ll be sleeping out, then they'll just eat your chapatis. Gosh.

 

Speaking of conversations that only make sense between housemates, the chapo one is a very mild one in our house.

 ***

I always grew up knowing our household was different. There was no exact moment that it hit me, but I always knew it, just like how I always knew I was a girl. I knew it was different because of my big brother Steve, and more importantly, I knew he was different. He was different in the way he spoke, the way he acted when he was angry, sad or happy or anxious. He expressed himself differently. There were no other kids like him in the neighborhood, or in my school, or in Sunday school. Neither were there any family friends or cousins that were similar. And so with his difference, came a difference with the way things were run at home. As a young girl, I used to think that this was something to keep secret because all I wanted was to be like everybody else and have the same experiences.

I always measured the closeness of my friendships as to whether I’d told them about my brother and in turn how our house system runs. Then, as I grew older, I realized that many of these differences come with a lot of vituko. The more my friends enquired, the more I realized how interesting things really are.

  

Davie, works an 8-5. I can’t tell you how many times to date, I’ve called him  in panic mode, not caring if he’s in a meeting or not. He says he usually leaves the office to pick my calls, thinking it’s a matter of national urgency. "Msee, mi hufeel ka Jimnah Mbaru niki step out of the office, thinking you're about to ask me something serious like to dispose my shares (which ones? hehe) or something, only to be met with `we msee, tomato sauce iko?'" Haha.

Naturally, you guys keep your tomato sauce in your kitchen right? Either in a designated cabinet or on a designated tray sometimes placed on top of the microwave, or most times, in the fridge. I know this because when I go into people’s homes, those are a few of the things I take note of. A few of you, like my mum in her house keep them on the tray in the middle of your dining table, together with tea bags, jam and coffee sachets and other condiments.

All those placement positions make sense, not in our house though. I’ll tell you where we keep ours and why.

Where

In the corner of my room, sit four musketeers: the laundry basket, a humongousgous suitcase, a yoga mat and a beautifully colored kiondo. They keep each other company all year round. The yoga mat is supposed to be excusing herself at least three mornings in a week for 20-30 minutes but the owner (me) hasn’t done yoga in a while so she just chills there waiting for the day she’ll be commissioned. *Bombastic side eye*. The laundry basket usually leaves once every two weeks when the cleaning lady comes to get it and returns it almost 1 hour later. The suitcase is forever there, it's where duvets and bed sheets za wageni are kept. Then there’s the V.I.P: the kiondo. In there is where you'll find our tomato sauce, ketchup, jam, peanut butter and sugar. These condiments are then covered with my mum’s maroon shawl that smells like her throughout the seasons.

Why

We have a gentleman in our house called Mr. Stephen. This guy operates on an abundance mindset without ever reading any self-help book. Everything, especially sweet, is to be had in triple if not quadruple portions. If it’s tomato sauce, he puts it on everything. And by everything, I mean every. damn. thing, including ugali/managu, yes, even on chapati/beans or dengu as well. He kent be ciriaz. The real problem here is the quantity. Guys, half a bottle is just about enough for one meal. So if you want the sauce to last for all of one and a half days, just leave it in the open.

***  

You know what I wanted to be so badly when I grew up? A shop keeper. Why? So that I could eat sweets all day. Patco was my thing. Kumbe God was to answer my prayer haraka upesi, not so much to be eating sweets the whole day, but to keep certain items in my room and dispense them to Steve while monitoring his movements very closely haha. (Heh! Okay God, now I’d like to be a successful writer and baker).

So this is what happens if you need any of these items: you come to my room to get them on a need basis. My room is the most secure because I work from home and spend a lot of time there. If you live in our house, you get used to this system pretty quickly. Sometimes, someone, let’s call him Davie, will carry say tomato sauce to either the sitting room, the dining room or their bedroom, (if eating from there) where he has his own hiding place of said items. Because mambo ni mengi, it’s very easy for someone to forget to return the sauce to my room. So when I'm ready to use the sauce and it's not in the kiondo, instead of going through the hustle of trying to find out where it is, it’s easier to call him -even if he’s in the middle of a presentation- just to ask him where it is. If he says he left it in the open, uuwii, Mayday! Mayday! We just count our losses and take that L haha.

Let’s not even talk about sugar because that’s Mr.Stephen's favorite thing in the whole world. He can take three tablespoons of sugar in one cup of tea. Dead ass.

You may want to woiye us, but there’s no need to. You may also feel relieved that you don’t have such a dynamic in your household, fair enough. If you live with an autistic person or someone with a disability or disabilities, you know how you guys operate and how you're used to that system. Do you ever get used to the system though?Many times, Davie and I find ourselves laughing at ours. On the other hand, Steve will tell us live live "weka hii in your room (sugar), because someone can be tempted to finish it". Haha umm hello? Someone is you. 

I’ll be honest with you though, when I think about moving out, I always imagine of the freedom I’ll have, of leaving certain items in the open; abandoning my career in shop keeping. I’ve already decided where I’ll put my sauce, in the fridge :) I won’t have to hide my sugar for baking, wow, I’ll be such a free girl lol.

  

I was talking to my girlies the other day and I was telling them about how one time, a non-related housemate was finding it difficult to have to deal with the logistics of coming to the ‘shop’ every morning to use these items. So they aired their grievances to my folks. This is what my mum said to her and I’ll never forget: for as long as we’ll have a special-needs person in this house, this house will always remain special, even in the way we operate. I really liked that, it stuck with me. The acceptance of it. It is what it is and we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do.

 

I’m writing this from my bedroom. We just celebrated Dad’s birthday yesterday night and there’s some left-over cake that dad has purposed to carry and take to mum later today. Let me just go and confirm that the piece I hid for her nicely behind a sufuria in the fridge is still there and that man like Stevo didn’t find it last night. Otherwise, itabidi tu mum amekula story. Lol bye my guys…

 

Also, if you live with someone with autism, especially like in their teens or older, I'd really love to connect :)

Sh*t, real sh*t

Nothing ever prepares you for the moment that you find sh*t in your desk, especially when you’re 13. Sorry for the graphics on this Wednesday morning but then again, am I really sorry? Hmm, I don’t think so. I’m the one who had the pleasure of bumping into the crasness of stool sample that morning. For the record, no I was not a lab technician then. I’m still not one and I doubt I’ll ever be one.

 

Before we get into that, I have something to say. Thank you for reading. Really, thank you. You guys also give me feedback and it’s humbling until it’s almost embarrassing. At some point in time, when I allow myself to be more vulnerable on this platform, I’ll explain to you guys how in my teens and early twenties, I thought that I could probably be a writer, but as I settled into my 20’s, it reached a point where I had accepted that writing would be one of those dreams that I’d die with. I had made peace with that fact. Writing and playing the guitar. (Guitar is a story for another day) For me to have revived this blog and to have you guys read it, it’s like, in Steve’s words, maji baridi kwa the soul. When I omoka, I’ll buy you guys something nice. Promise.

 

Back to the matter (literally) at hand.

 

There’s something heartwarming about bumping into primary school mates especially if your primary school experience was great. If like me you struggle with initial conversations, the clurrb is a great place to bump into people you haven’t seen in a long time. It’s already noisy so more often than not, the interaction has to be brief. It also limits the time for someone to realize wow, she’s still quiet and boring. Most likely, the both of you have taken some happy juice, so you’re just happy to see each other.

 “Oh my gosh, Elizabeth Litali?”

“Haha yeah, hi *Edwin Mwamba”

You always remember your primary school mates by their two names.

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d recognize me, kwani I haven’t changed much”

“No haha, you still have the same face. It’s so nice to see you”

“It’s so nice to see you too, my goodness. What do you do now?”

“I sell cakes” (and I’m now … you know … a writer. Okay, you don’t say that out loud, you feel shy) and you? What do you do?”

“I’m in tech. I should get your number, I’m always eating cakes”

“Yeah sure, I should also get your number, I’m always using tech haha” *crickets*

Then you exchange contacts and never talk again, but it still felt so nice to see and recognize someone from your childhood. I remember my primary school days with a lot of nostalgia. Apart from a lot of homework, I mostly enjoyed my time there. Our school had a lot of visa na visanga.

 

At the beginning of this year, I received an Instagram DM  from one of my former primary school classmates (Hi Steff) with a link to a WhatsApp group for our school year. Umm, immediately yes. I joined the group when it was still a bit new so there was a lot of reminiscing going on, especially about the visa and visanga. Fun times. As I'm there laughing at other people recount their escapades, ala, kumbe my time was coming.

“Btw who’s desk was sh*t on?”

It was mine people. It was mine. And in case you’re wondering whether it’s because we used to study in fields so that a bird would take a dump in my desk, you’re wrong. Even then, a bird would have to open the desk with its beak and then conduct its business, which seems like a lot of work for a bird born in nature. Such bad manners sounds like what a monkey would do, but no, it wasn't the monkeys. Also, we didn’t have our desks in the field, we had them in classrooms.

 

It’s 2007, I’m in class eight, spending a lot of my time doing things that class eight girls do. Reading, having a boyfriend in the next class, having friends, going to Nakumatt Junction on the weekends (to just walk around), complaining about a lot of homework but still doing the homework, you know, just typical class eight girl things. At some point in time, pranks have become a thing in our class. Fake fart spray is the in thing and one time, my desk falls victim to that, but after a few hours of airing it, the smell is gone. I’m irritated, but it’s nothing to stop my life. One day, I find dead kumbekumbes in my desk, this time it’s just not my desk. We’re kadhaa. Maybe we mention this to our class teacher, or we don’t, I forget. I don’t even mention it to my folks at home because I don’t want the drama of them coming to school, I figure that this is something that will be handled by the teacher.

Then one morning, I get to class early as usual, before assembly time. There’s a few people in class, doing class eight people things, mostly reading. Then as I open my desk, OH MY GOODNESS! THERE. IT. IS!

I scream

“SH*T!”

Then my classmates look at me, so I scream again

“REAL SH*T”

It’s there, smeared all over my books, and then on the side, a nice gift of a dirty piece of tissue and a dirty handkerchief is left. Btw I’m really sorry if you’re eating or drinking something at this time. But then again, am I really sorry? Hmm... Anyway(z), I instantly shut the desk then go to the window to process what I’ve just seen. Kupunga hewa. (Hi *Minah.) This time, my classmates have also come to bear witness of the surprise left in my desk. There's commotion now. So after catching some air, I go to look for the teacher on duty and find him charazaing some boys in the stair case corner. Teachers were always charazaing boys in that school. I say to him that I need you to come and see something. He asks what it is and I just tell him to come. This time I look visibly annoyed. So he follows me and once he opens the desk, he immediately slums it shut. Nothing could prepare anyone for such a sight.

Then the questions from the teacher begin, who did this? I don’t know. When did you find it? Just now. Oh my goodness. Are all your books messed up? I think so.  We need to have this desk taken to the field (hehe) as we figure out how this happened and who did it. Okay. For today, sit with a friend as we figure this out. Okay, but can I call my mum? Just give us some time to figure out how this happened and who did it then you can call your mum. Okay. Could it have been a scorned ex-boyfriend? No, I don’t have a boyfriend or an ex (a lie, because dating those days was a criminal offense) Are you having problems with anybody in the school? Not that I know of. Are you having problems with any girl because of a boy? Haha no. Okay, has someone asked you to be their girlfriend and you have refused? You know what, come to think of it, there’s someone who asked, I refused, and they seemed to take it badly, they even stopped talking to me. Okay what’s his name? I tell them, they write it down.

For the whole day, it’s a pandemonium. That’s all everybody is talking about, I’m in and out of the principal’s office, being asked the same questions. The school turns into a police station, people being questioned everywhere. Major suspects as well as minor suspects. Mostly it was boys. Nobody comes clean and nobody snitches either. At some point, we were even called for an assembly to address the matter. The drama! Whoever did it won’t pass their K.C.P.E unless they come clean, our headmistress threatens. She was/is lunje haha

Despite all of this, there was one item that was 'unfortunately' giving away the suspect. Remember the OJ Simpson trial, if the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit, us guys had our glove in form of the handkerchief. It was a very unique and expensive looking handkerchief, the owner had to be from a certain tax bracket so that was a big giveaway. If the handkerchief doesn’t match, you must acquit haha. On that day, no suspect was charged with the crime.

 

The following day, my folks came to school, made noise, I was asked if I was okay, if I needed a break from school, I didn’t. Back then, school was the only place you were guaranteed to see your boyfriend vizuri, so no I wasn’t going to take a break from school. Apologies to me and my folks were made and the school got me a new desk from their workshop and new books from their bookshop lol. I remember I was only angry for just a while but more than anything, the overwhelming feeling was that of inconvenience.

 

If we were in the States, I could have stated that I suffered from emotional distress, we  could’ve sued and gotten compensation. Ama we could have even settled. A quick one wakilis, can I still sue? How can we lenga the statute of limitations? Lol I’m kidding. Hmm, but am I really?

 

Remember how the headmistress had threatened failure on the culprit? Just before K.C.P.E, the culprit came to me, confessed and apologized. I accepted the apology. He was quite remorseful.

But since then, I've never said no to any man who's asked me to be their girlfriend, lest I find poop at our house haha. I'm REALLY kidding.

I used to tell people this story all the time, especially in high school. Also during those “tell us something that people don’t know about you” moments. Those awkward questions. So in the WhatsApp group when guys were like whose desk had been pooped in, I remembered this story haha. (Heh, 'I’ve suffered in this world for 19 years')

Shourourt to my class of ’07 Makini people. When is the reunion? :)

 

Also, I ‘fixed’ the comment section. Now anybody can comment, even anonymously. You have to stan women in tech.

Don't fight it, man

Ummm guys, yaani your Wednesdays went on kama kawaida? You guys didn’t feel like it was missing something? Perhaps a blog post from yours truly? Damn… A lot of my internal talk yesterday was like oh my gosh, I haven’t posted today, people are gonna be so devastated, then worried, they’ll blow up my phone asking if I’m okay and wondering where their post is, let me even put my phone on silent because I’m sure the vibrations will be too many. And then… nothing! Haha not even 1 person texted regarding that. Heh, earth is hard yo. Anyway, I’m baaack, like I never left. Yesterday the cow had refused, but milk, sorry, joy comes in the morning.

Something my pops don’t identify as: Jeff Bezos. Which is fair enough because neither did his pops identify as Miguel Bezos (Jeff Bezos’ step-father. I was going to use his biological dad’s name here but it doesn’t have Bezos at the end, and I like that name, Bezos, so I chose his step-father instead). As you’ve correctly guessed, my birth certificate doesn’t’ read Liz Bezos. All of this to say, capitalism is beating my ass, inanitwanga. In between running a baking business and writing, because I’m now… you know… a writer, I’m also searching for a part-time gig. From how I’ve already explained my family tree above, my career as a professional international people-watcher has to wait. It’s my dream to travel around the world and just watch people and sometimes come up with stories for them in my head. Then other times, listen to their stories, kind of like the Humans of New York guy. Then I’d write about them, but in my own format. Oh, another job I imagine I’d enjoy, writing lyrics for artists on streaming platforms especially spotify. Whenever I’m listening to a song then go search for its lyrics and don’t find them, I’m like they should have given me that tender. Who usually writes those lyrics btw, anybody know? 

Realistically though, to add some color to my life, I’ve been reading more articles, blog posts and books. I really enjoyed spending my time in between … the pages of Will, the book. I easily found my laughter across the chapters. I without a doubt like Will Smith the writer because he is funny, silly, reflective, real and there he doesn’t tell us to you know, keep his wife’s name out of our f**king mouths. I’m not quite fond of Will Smith the slapper, especially because it was Chris Rock on the receiving end. Chris (first name basis) is my guy ever since Everybody Hates Chris. He was the master of exaggeration on there, which makes it one of my top favorite shows to date. Also, to me, his body size is just so woishe. But we move, innit? Especially because even though they’re not from the Bezos family, both their bank accounts are prime targets for fat shaming.

The story of how Will comes to be a very rich and famous guy is quite interesting and it’s thanks to all the cliché attributes of hard work, discipline, talent, luck and all those nice things that Malcolm Gladwell talks about in Outliers, the book.

One of my favorite parts in the book is when he’s in his early 40’s. His movies are doing so well, they’re the highest grossing at the time, he’s successful. He also has a ‘perfect’ family. This should mean him and happiness wake up together smelling each other’s morning breath, right? Wrong. After Jada’s 40th birthday party, things between them start to really fall apart, mambo yanachemka and they decide the best thing for both of them is to take a break from each other. During this break, he calls his ex-girlfriend who they’re still friends with, and tells her that he needs a favor from her; he needs to borrow her husband, to take him to Trinidad. The ex-girlfriend’s husband, Scotty, is cool with it and it’s the first time in years that Will travels somewhere without security or delegation, he has to carry his own luggage lol. Anyway, this is what got me, the first day he got there, he spent the night at kina Scotty’s friend’s. The people in that house especially Scotty, didn’t treat him like he was a famous guy, in fact at night, Scotty left him there and he (Will) slept in the guest room on a platform bed (love those), nothing too luxurious, not what he’s used to. In fact, the curtain in there was a white bed sheet. That night, he slept for 12 hours straight, something he hadn’t done in a long time. For some reason, that spoke to me. It all seemed so pure. Maybe it’s because I struggle to get consistent long hours of sleep, but that’s not it. I guess it was the simplicity of that human moment, him being away from being a VIP and just being another guest in someone’s home. Think Uhuru spending a night without bodyguards, p.a’s and all, okay for some reason that’s easy to imagine. Think Beyonce, away from all the hype and glitter or Obama just being in your SQ or guest room, or even on a mattress in your living room, away from all the noise, wearing red patipatis to go to the bathroom lol. 

Anyway, so while on this trip, one day Scotty takes him to the ocean where they’re just there to chill in the ocean, but Will Smith, because he’s a guy used to a lot of stimulation and is also competitive, starts to ask “ehee, what’s the plan? Where are the jet-skis? Let’s do something.” Then Scotty tells him that that was the plan, to just chill in the water, but he uses Trinidadian lingo, ‘recconectin and limin’. Will Smith, who’s not a great swimmer at the time and a bit foreign to the concept of just chilling eventually dips himself in the water and the waves start to slightly toss him around. Then Scotty says to him one of the most profound things, according to me. He says, “Don’t fight it, man. It’s a flow. It’ll carry yuh out, but it’ll bring you back.” I really liked those words. So much. I feel like that’s what I should always remind myself when I’m feeling extremely sad or experiencing hard emotions or even sometimes, extremely happy emotions, “don’t fight it, man. It’s a flow. It’ll carry yuh out, but it’ll bring you back.” To keep afloat in this world, sometimes all I have to do is surrender.

What a beautiful book Will wrote about his life and his healing journey. … and then afterwards, he slaps Chris Rock. Lol. I guess healing isn’t linear. (Also, not arguing with those who thought that Chris was on the wrong) 

 Acknowledgments

 1. To my home girl for life, Masich, who in a heart-warming turn of events texted me to ask me where the blog post was yesterday (this is after I was already done with the draft copy of this post) You sweetheart and avid reader! 

2. To my friend who gifted me the book. Always nice connecting with words.