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.

May I waste your time?

 

Tell you what; some words were born knowing what their life purpose was going to be. In their 20’s, they didn’t wake up at 3:37 in the morning, their bodies drenched in cold sweat, feeling like their hearts were going to explode out of their chest. They didn’t have to regulate their breaths while having to whisper to themselves ‘be still my beating heart’. They didn’t stay up all night or morning wondering if their dreams would one day love them back. In one of the sessions with their therapists, they didn’t break down about their job path/progression, and then be told that they needed to separate their identity from their career. No, they knew exactly how and when they would achieve their purpose, and that’s exactly what they did. These words married within themselves and named their children after them, no suffix ‘jr’ at the end, and their children named their children after them. They were simply born into generational self-actualization. (Stay with me Mirish*, I’m heading somewhere with this, I think)

 

I have this thing where there are words that mean exactly how they sound while others, not so much. Take the word diarrhea for example, such a violent word. You can’t confuse it for any other action than… err, diarrhea itself. The act is just as strong as the word. Let’s say you’re in the waiting room of a train station, and then you happen to eaves-drop on a conversation between two friends.

 “Babe, you look so tired kwani what’s up?”

“Heh! I’ve been having serious bouts of severe diarrhea”

 

Even the non-English speakers will know that something nasty has been mentioned. Everyone who happens to hear this, you included, will contort their face and try to ambiguously move one step further from our poor babe. In the train, after our girl visits the toilet, no one goes in after her. Even though woiye she was just in there for a short call. Nobody is willing to risk it. Simply because of a word that means what it says. For purposes of historical record, that’s the time period that people came up with euphemisms for the word, because for all her life, the train girl was known as diarrhea girl and lived an isolated life. No one else wanted that trauma, so from then on, people referred to it as driving, the runs, but my favorite is: I was riding round the block. (Also, there’s no need to Google this, I did my research well). 

Another word like that means how it sounds is Kisirani. The Swahili word. It’s not a word that I would say rolls off one’s tongue, it more of summersaults out of one’s mouth to immediately attack the person on the receiving end. The last time I heard this word, I was in the salon, two weeks ago. Thankfully, it wasn’t directed towards me because otherwise I would have needed said therapy, to be told to separate my identity from the word.

 

First of all, at that salon I went to, the women there were savages, not only to my head, but also to each other. I went to those Kenyatta Market types of salons, the ones where there’s a main lady who does the installing of braids, then the others who are in a paid partnership, do the finishing up of the braids. I love it because it means less time in the salon. Anyway, while they were working on my scalp, I could feel that there was a bit of power play going on amongst the ladies. The main babe would keep commanding the others, “songa hapa”, “malizia hizi kwanza” and from her tone, these others weren’t particularly feeling her vibe. So they’d all sort of stay in one section together, which meant for a bit of the time, my hair was really being pulled. Remember that fahali wawili methali? Okay, let me remind you, since I’ve been doing my research (and also I got an A in Kiswahili, plus I’m Luhya, we know our Kiswahili, ref: Bien). The methali goes like ‘Fahali wawili wakipigana, nyasi ndio huumia’. So in the salon, my poor tiny head was the nyasi at different points in time, but I didn’t really care because they were moving quickly. It was the cost I was willing to pay because of this methali : mapema ndio best.

 

Okay, back to the kisirani word. One of the ladies had come with their baby, about 2/3 years old. At some point, toto started getting fussy and would rub her eyes while crying loudly. She continued this for a while and that’s when the bomb-shell was released.

 

“Huyu mtoto wako anakuwanga na kisirani, si umnyonyeshe”

 

Whoa! I felt that one. Everyone in the salon went quiet for a while, even the baby. The mother didn’t say any word back, nor did she breastfeed her baby, but I could tell from the silence that it hurt her. Thank God my head was bent and I didn’t have to meet her eyes in the mirror at that moment, because I don’t think she would appreciate me telling her ‘wah, pole’. Moral of the story, don’t tell me or my kids (which ones? lol) that we have kisirani, no matter how kisirani.ish we behave. This also means that my esteem wouldn’t survive one day as a Coasterian, or worse of, beefing with one of them because we all know they're the heavy word champions.

 

Moving on swiftly, we have another word: blouse. It just sounds like a… blouse, and something I never want to wear. It sounds like wearing something that has too much print and makes you sweat easily despite the weather.

 

In this world of many scares, my biggest nightmare is this conversation ever happening, and me having to hear it;

 

“Did you see Liz in the afternoon?”

 

“Eish, yeah, si she was the one wearing that purple blouse?”

 

“Yeah, kwanza the way she was complaining in that gava office, she usually has kisirani”

 

“Sana. By the way, I even heard her say to her friend that she was battling severe diarrhea?”

 

“Oh goodness, not the runs! I understand being unwell and getting impatient at Nyayo house people, but I wonder what life has thrown at her that she had to wear a blouse, kwanza a purple one”

 

Guys, how sad is that exchange? Three triple threats used in just one conversation. This world would seize to be my home.

 

There are other words like the ones above, they sound exactly how they mean. They do what they were born to do. Some of them are not necessarily harsh. I have a list of them, like onus, staccato, (I love that word, but when can I ever use it in a sentence?) clumsy, temptress, etc. I would have gotten more into them but I feel like I’ve already wasted enough of your time on a Wednesday morning, plus I imagine you guys are trying to beat deadlines before tomorrow’s public holiday. However, do you guys have such words? The ones where when you instantly heard them, you knew exactly what they meant without even having had to be explained to.

I know the comment section here is messed up for some reason, but you could dm me on IG. I’m curious to know.

 

Assuming this a book, since I’m now.... a writer, here’s the foot note lol

 

Mirish*- my home girl for life, who texts me the sweetest things on Tuesdays e.g. ‘today is Tuesday, which means tomorrow is Wednesday which means we get a post.' So if a post has 10 views, 9 are mine, 1 is hers.

I will never not understand you

 

For as long as they’re both alive, there’s nothing Ray will do that Betty will never not understand.

I’m about to tell you guys about The Whittakers - Ray and Betty-  but before I do that, I first have to tell you about Mark Laita. There’s this guy called (you guessed it) Mark Laita who has a channel on YouTube called Soft White Underbelly. On there, he interviews people that we as a society would deem ‘social misfits’: prostitutes, pimps, drug addicts, homeless people, sex addicts, in-bred families, the roster is extensive. I like to watch his videos as it humanizes these people, but I can’t view too many at a time because they mostly weigh me down, seeing how at the core of so many human problems, it boils down to the love, care and acceptance people lacked as children. And it’s generational. None the less, I remain curious to hear their stories and sympathize because in the grand scheme of things, as humans, we’re more alike than we are unalike.

There’s a lot I can say about Mark, about how I admire his genuine curiosity in people and the acceptance of them. It’s how these people feel heard when they go for these interviews. Every human will always want to feel heard. Over the years, there’s this family of in-bred people called the Whittakers, that he has now formed a relationship with. 4 siblings, they have several genetic disorders. It’s interesting to watch them and see how they interact with one another and with Mark as well. Their living conditions are poor, they have challenges in verbal communication, but they’re always together as a family, chilling on their patio. (Patio? Sounds so American. I’m comfortable calling it a Verandah.) In this family, Betty is the oldest, 70 something years old, and the one responsible for her brothers and sister. When she speaks, you have to be keen to listen otherwise the words will fly past your ears especially if you’re not; a) American and b) American from the south.  Lorene and Timmy, the other siblings don’t really talk much, they either smile or stare at you with a blank face. Then there’s Ray, oh Ray, he has my heart, his primary way of communicating is by barking, grunting and pointing and he's usually all over the place.

On Saturday morning, I was in one of those moods for watching something deep, I wouldn’t find that on IG reels, so I went to scroll through Mark’s channel. I saw that he’d taken the family for haircuts and thought that would be an interesting watch. It would be my first time seeing this family somewhere that’s not their verandah. I just wasn’t prepared for the emotions I was to feel soon after I clicked play. Mark and his friend drove them to the barber shop and explained to the hair experts these guys’ condition. The ladies got their hairs trimmed, washed and straightened, while the gents got their hairs and beards trimmed. When it got to Ray’s turn, he started feeling uneasy towards the end, especially when they got to his beard. So he started moving away from the clippers and removing his cape. Betty knew what this meant and translated to the people there that he didn’t want his mustache to be shaved. For me, there’s where the water works began. In that instant, I immediately felt a strong connection with her, and how deeply she understands her brother. Ray doesn’t even need to talk, Betty will get his language and interpret this to people. There’s nothing Ray will do that Betty will never not understand.

Guys, I couldn’t stop crying. I had to pause the video, wipe my tears, then proceed to watch it again, but I just couldn’t stop sobbing. So I gave in to what I was feeling and dug my face into my chest and let it all out. It reminded me so much of the relationship I share with my brother Steve, that in this world where it takes time for him to be understood and accepted, there’s nothing he’ll do or say in his language that I’ll never not understand. So when I was able to gather my thoughts, I wrote this letter for him.

Letter for Steve 001

Just before the global pandemic struck, in January of 2020, you fell and hurt your shoulder late in the night. Since Ma & Dad weren’t around, you woke Davie (our small 'big' bro) and I up, asking for Deepheat. At that time, neither of us knew how bad it was, so when we couldn’t find the spray, we asked you to wait till the morning, then we’d get it for you. But you kept coming to my room, asking that I please look for the Deepheat, even after I gave you painkillers. That’s when I knew that something was up, so in the morning, I called Ma and she said that I take you to hospital. You were in so much pain my brother, you didn’t have your usual stories, about America is color yellow or me having uso moto, which is rare for you.

From the reception, to the triage, to the doctor’s room, I was the one who would explain to the people first that you’re autistic, then second, translate some of the things you said. Like when asked about your pain level, you said it feels like kuchinja ng’ombe. That meant extreme pain, and sure enough it was because the x-ray revealed that your shoulder was broken. The one week of you in hospital after surgery tugged at the strings of my fragile heart. How innocent you were and how bravely you tolerated the pain. I remember the nice doctor lady who would take her extra time to listen to you, she’d always say ‘what does that mean Steve?’ and would be patient to hear you go on and on, while you spoke in your metaphorical language. You would also always tell her that you find her beautiful. Hehe.

It dehydrated my heart that none of your friends, the people you spend a lot of time with, came to visit you. However, they asked about you, asked where you were whenever they saw me. In those days, it was all family by your bedside. We’ll always be here for you, we'll always be your home. 

Your healing journey took about a year, so I’d spend a lot of time with you, taking you for check-ups, cast removals and wound cleaning and dressing. Many times, I’d have to translate your words and actions to various professionals. Like that one guy who was so rough removing your cast and despite how much we told him that you still felt pain, he still continued to mishandle your hand, half ignoring us. Times like those, my heart would also end up wounded.

The hospital staff used to get so annoyed with how you’d wear your mask under your nose lol. There’s nothing you say or do that I never not understand. You’re claustrophobic, you can’t even stand a room with closed windows. Even when it's mid-July, at 6:00 am, you'll wake up to open the windows in the house. So the mask was your biggest nightmare. Lakini when they'd harshly tell you to cover your nose, I didn't advocate for you, because Lord knows how much I feared that COVID. 

You make me laugh a lot, most of the times it’s unexpectedly. I remember that day you were with Davie at one of your check ups and when I came to relieve him so that he could go to school, immediately you saw me, while looking at my hair, you (in a loud voice and in a waiting room full of people) said “Mmmh that’s a wig. Yes, a wig. You didn’t have that farasi in the morning” I couldn’t even be embarrassed because it was just too funny. That’s the thing about you. You’re honest. You say what’s on your mind. Everybody in the family has a story about you being honest about them to the public. Like that time Ma shouted to a boda guy ‘jangili!’ then you told that story to the larger family, mum’s in-laws hehe.

You are six years older than me, but I feel like your big sis. I annoy you, I’m sure of this especially because of how anal I am around the house, giving many instructions. “Steve, please don’t make a mess” “Steve, please come and clear your mess!” “Steve, it's 3:00 am you're talking too loudly, we're trying to sleep” but Lord knows, you’re quite messy and loud, and it drives me up the wall. So that’s a dynamic that I think we’ll always have, me asking you not to make a mess, you making a mess, me asking you to clean your mess. We'll always feel frustrated at each other. You call me mkali, but I'm cool with that. I still love you and tell it to you and show it to you. And you have your way of showing that you love me. Like when I travel from home for some time, you beam when I return and say 'where were you? Ei, I missed you because you're the one who knows how to panga things and you always tell me to use both my hands when I'm doing something' 

 

When I was younger, I used to say things like “If Steve were ‘normal’, he would be the cool big bro” or “he would be the one I’d be going out with”. But how silly were those thoughts, wanting you to be different. As if God didn’t know what he was doing, as if you being how you are isn’t a gift to us. I realized the less I had those thoughts, the more I enjoyed your personality and your nuances. When you say things like a dog has scissors teeth, or green tea ina taste kama fujo or Americans wako na Nairobi, I immediately know what you mean. I'll always understand you.

It used to bother me a lot when people were uncomfortable around you, it still does to an extent but not so much. One time I’ll tell you about something Ma told me that she learnt from the support group she’s in - a WhatsApp group of mothers of children with autism – that changed my life in consideration to people judging you. I have so many things I want to tell you, so many moments I'd like us to relieve, so many things I hope I can do for you, not enough to fit in this letter. For now, just know that whatever you say or do, your family and sis over here will never not understand you...

Monkey business

 

The plan wasn’t to go to Arboretum, but when I got there, the plan was to read. This past Sunday, it being mother’s day, I was meant to go to City Market in the afternoon and get flowers from Ken, my plug, then we’d be presenting them to Ma after the family dinner that night. It was about 2:00 pm and the weather was beautiful so on my way to City Market, I decided to take a detour to Arboretum, be in my introverted bag, chill and read the book that I currently carry with me everywhere, ‘Will’. From the entrance, the way I started people-watching, that should have been my first red flag that I wasn’t going to read sh..

 

 

I got there, found a bench, ate my fries and pizza slice and started taking pics, texting how I’ve come to read. I read only 1 paragraph after that. Then I looked around and started observing couples. I have this thing where I unfairly judge couples who don’t touch. My love language is silly, followed closely by touch, so I project that on other people. If I don’t see them holding each other, it’s not real. If I’d never seen Obama and Michelle dance wakikumbatiana, it would’ve all been a lie to me. It’s nonsense, I know. Anyway, I started counting the couples, three out of the nine were in love (according to my umbwakni metric) then I didn’t read. I noticed the shoes I’d worn had some wear and tear, so I texted my friend - who got them for me as a birthday present- a photo and told him to prepare my next birthday present, I’d be needing (not wanting) the exact type of shoe. We engaged kidogo, I didn’t read. Haiya, then I tried to video call another friend of mine, who’s not in the country, just to show him how beautiful the weather was and how I’d come to read, he didn’t pick, I didn’t read.

 

 

From the time I got there at 2 something to 4:39 p.m. , I only read a maximum of 2 pages. I was distracted the entire time, but I mostly blame some SDA peeps who were I think recording a choir music video. It was so loud yo, I was praying that the song didn’t stick in my head and start playing at night as I was trying to fall asleep. Thankfully, it didn’t. As I left the park, (do we call them that over here? Oh, Uhuru Park. Anywayz) I had one question, where were the monkeys? That whole time, I hadn’t see any. I concluded that considering the weather, they’d gone for brunch or swimming. Typical Nai behavior. Ama they’d gone out of town, to Lamu or Watamu, to take IG pics at those nets at Lichthaus. Some of them had taken M-shwari loans to join them. I’ve been to Arboretum many times, and the monkeys there have never given me grief. They’re well-adjusted and know all about diversity, inclusion and equity. Sasa I imagine the Karura ones to be super woke, those ones even do psyches hehe.

 

 

And then, there’s the vienyeji monkeys, the National Park ones. The ones who don’t give a sh.. about anything, or any one and those, baboons included, are bad news. How do I know? I’ve had first-hand experience with one of them. This one time after Uni, I was an intern there at KWS. I thought that the animals I should fear most are the roaming warthogs, I thought wrong. Ata hazina ubaya na watu. As I got introduced around as the new girl, (hate those moments) everyone kept warning me about the baboons. “Hi new girl, be careful with the baboons, don’t carry food ovyo ovyo and if you can, make sure you walk around with a man” I thought ai, si it’s 2015, kwani they don’t know about gender equality? The baboons i.e. They don’t. Or even if they do, hawajali.

 

 

So this one time I’m chilling in the office solo, doing what interns do best, playing candy crush. Okay, not all interns, but that’s what I mostly did there. So I’m trying to find a color bomb then behind me, I hear heavy footsteps, and can smell something strong and pungent, worse than jasho sugu. From the sound of those steps and the heavy breathing, I immediately knew it was a baboon. I was alone in the office with a kienyeji! Swiftly, it jumped on the table on my opposite side, mimi I jumped on my chair and screamed. My scream didn’t scare it. Damn… Then I tried to shoo it but I was scared of extending my arm because I’d heard of how they’d grab ladies’ arms and slap them haha. It’s not funny but it is. I also contemplated on doing that God’s must be crazy thing with my index fingers but I was scared that it would trigger big guy over here. All this while, I’m wondering why the recce squad hasn’t come in to rescue me. I just continue shouting shoo! Shoo! While this thing stares at me so unmoved. It simply looked at me, checked under my desk to see if I’d stashed some Ugali and Kuku there, I hadn’t. I was an intern lol. Then, very slowly, without attacking me, walked out of the office. I didn’t know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, that I had no food, I thought ah sh… he’s mad at me so he’s gone to plan his revenge. So I quit the internship haha.

 

 

Immediately he left, with his stench still strong in the room, that’s when ladies from other offices came saying “we heard you scream and knew it was a baboon but we couldn’t come because it would attack us and there was no man in sight” Haha. Kumbe the screaming is normal huko as I later came to realize. There was no need for me feeling that I disrupted the office block with my screaming and shooing. It’s a daily occurrence, they attack women for food those baboons. After God, they only fear men hehe.  So nowadays, when I see baboons, I just get anxiety, thinking that that 2015 kienyeji is still looking for me, ready to revenge. Heh.

 

 

I have a proposal, we start an NGO where we provide therapy and awareness to these male primates, we teach them on being gentlemen, that nowadays, people don’t choose violence. We tell them how they don’t want to be labelled as chauvinists or be known for toxic masculinity. That in this era, we talk and negotiate and sometimes guys receive texts like “I just think it’s funny how…..” or “how do I say this….” Or sometimes, we, both genders, just become passive aggressive and engage in protest behavior like silent treatment, but never violence especially because of food. Then Lang’ata people can pay us extra for us to teach these animals house rules cause of the absolute messes they usually leave in their kitchens on the days they accidentally leave their windows open. Then tuomoke, like Sonko lol.

 

 

Ama for that we just need to become suppliers for the Karura monkeys? Monkey business. Hmmm…

Visa na Visanga, Honda Civic 1999

 "Leo ni Friday, unakunywaga kamnyweso?"

"Haha weh Simo. Hapana haha"

"Kuja leo nikubuyie, although ata mimi sikunywagi bt ukikuja nitajipea kwani Iko nini"

"Haha hapana"

Sends 3 crying face emojis

That's the last text exchange I had with my mechanic, it was at the beginning of this year. For a long time, I'd wanted to have my car tinted, not so much for the aesthetic purpose, but mainly for its function. The way the sun and heat would always hit me without the tint, I considered it a sauna, only without the essential oils, and instead of feeling relaxed, I'd always feel like I was about to pass out. I also hated those awkward stares between myself and especially lorry drivers. So as part of my 2023 resolutions, I called Simo, he came with another guy and they put the tint. I was happy, and seemingly so was he, seeing that he was ready to risk it all, in the WhatsApp message above. 

In 2018, before she got here, that's all I could think about. How I'd finally be a car owner and experience the freedom and convenience that comes with that. But my journey with her begins way before that. My mum had this car, and she'd call it a ramshackle, and I'd laugh with her whenever she'd recount the vituko that it would show her, I'd also laugh because I knew, could never be me. And we all know that the moment you say that, the universe says "Bet!" I knew that after Uni, I was going to buy a new car with my 1st job. God laughed until He got a stitch, cause first things first, I wouldn't be wanting a 'corporate' job imminjet after Uni.

I started a baking business and needed a car for deliveries. Ma graciously offered her ramshackle. Since she (Honda) had been dormant for a while, she needed a lot of fixing, which meant a lot of money, just to have it move from the parking area to the gate, then all the way to Nairobi (from Kakamega). I said "How much? Sawa, anything to own a car". Then to have it brought to Nai, it took a village. First my bro, from Kakamega to Kikopey ish. His character was thoroughly developed, she wouldn't stop over-heating. Imagine that hustle of having to chill, then add water, then chill, then be on the move again. Today, 4 years later, is when he'd be getting to the Southern Bypass, and because he had sh** to do, that night at Kikopey ish, he said to her, "Nimeboeka, Gwaheri". A week later, my bro, my dad and myself went to get her. Come to think of it, she's always needed her space. So that's how I officially became a car owner.

  

When Bien sings about visa na visanga, I think that's me and Honda. Because the things we've been through! Both good and bad. Today, I remembered this time when I needed her to come through for me the most. Check this out.

I was talking to a guy, who we'd had some chemistry for a while. One day, in a Black American accent, he said, "I like ya and I want ya, we either do this the easy way or we do this the hard way" haha okay he didn't say that, that was in Boondocks, but he said something like "I really like you and I want you to be part of my life, come hang out with me and my people" so what did I do? I drove Honda to the promised land. We ate, hang out, listened to music and took some shorroz. As the night progressed, said guy disappeared for a while. When asked where he was, I said lemme go look for my man. Kimbelembele. I found him alright, with his lips deep in another girl's lips, and his hands properly grabbing her behind. Heh! Lost for words, I turned right back and returned to where I was sitting, trying to process what I'd just witnessed. I'm pretty sure my face looked like that upside down smiley emoji (: (it's my current fave). So after a few minutes of shock absorption, I went to Honda, ready to 'gerrarahia' and turned it on, but it just wouldn't come on. I thought HERE THE ..... WE GO! Guys, I was so disappointed and annoyed at Honda I can't even explain. Long story short, it was a night she needed space, then she'd waka the following day after being jump started. 

There are many other times we've been in situations with her because of my own fault. Like delayed service. I legit thought that one does it after a year, that those kilometers they write hapo are a nice suggestion. So I'd always wait a year, plus I didn't trust my kms gauge, including the fuel gauge. When she got here, the fuel gauge never used to work, but that wasn't my number 1 priority to fix, remember we had to deal with the over-heating first. What was my solution in the meantime? Put like 2k of fuel and keep refilling per week. It worked well, I knew my car. This one time, one of my bros sent me 3k for fuel and I felt like a Man-U fan, because ile kiburi iliniingia, I kent explain.

So I drove around Nairobi like the boss I was, and a week later, I didn't refuel. I think 2 weeks had even passed, then as I was on Uhuru Highway headed to Mombasa Road (pre express way) during peak rush hour traffic, Honda said "We hunijui wewe. Unaniskianga tu" and she went off. Haha. Without even questioning it, I knew it was the fuel. That day I was with Steve, my 35 year old bro, who's autistic. When it happened, he was so unmoved. I was sweating, cars were hooting, I was trying to get a boda guy, trust that he wouldn't hepa with my kibuyu. (Kenyans are really helpful, even though they'll hustle you afterwards) Oh gosh, I just knew those were masaibu ya kujiletea. Amidst all this madness, Steve just had one comment, "you need to get a new car." I really laughed and then went for therapy afterwards. Okay I'm kidding, I didn't go to therapy cause of Honda, but I should have.

I have some trauma. The maximum speed I drive in, no matter what car I'm in, is 100km/hr. 110 ikienda sana. However, I realized my comfortable speed is 70km/hr, because of my exhaust pipe. One day it just dropped and started dragging along the road haha. The horror! Something to do with the suspensions. So mechs would fix, but kumbe do a bad job, then randomly, it'd drop again. Oh my. So I started driving slowly just in case, and I've never stopped. I suspect that even in a Tesla, I'll always shuku that something will fall off, so 70kmph it will be. Lakini I'll be the first one laugh at f1 P15-20 drivers and say "gari ya McLaren this season ni mayai" Damn...

 

Actually, finding a good trustworthy mechanic was the bane of my existence. My Dad has just fallen out with his so we were both on the search. I also needed an affordable one, cause I know some of you rich people are just thinking 'si you could've taken it to the Honda sijui workshop'. 'No!'

Simo is one of the few mechanics I liked cause he got me. When he first looked at her, he didn't scare me. Most mechanics would be like 

"Wa wa wa madam unatembea kwa highway na hizi miguu?"

 

"Madam! Hii engine yako italipuka siku moja, nunua oil"

"Unatembea na hizi brake pads hivi? Otis, kuja uone vile huyu madam anataka kujimalisa"

So because of those high level threats I was always replacing parts, sijui spark plugs, mara ang'oa, (shourourt to my Luo peeps, I like that word) I've even forgotten those parts. Then, they'd charge me so much and I'd only realize this when I'd mention it to someone else. So I was always switching mechs, then the next one would be like "ai, kwa nini ulireplace hizi spark plugs, hizi mzee bado ziko poa." Oh men! 

But when I met Simo, he was calm. He'd tell me the brake pads could go for another 2 months, the spark plugs were fine. I didn't need a new engine, just to replace the kifuniko for the radiator, the car would stop over-heating. To top it all off, he was fairly priced. That's why I gave him the tender of the tint. He was/is my guy. When I told him to come do the tint at home cause I hadn't replaced my insurance yet, he said "Sawa, ntakam, lakini usiwahi ogopa ati huna insurance, bora tu unaendesha polepole, kwani iko nini, na niko na number ya OCS wa ..... Mimi juzi nimeenda Nakuru na nikarudi bila insurance" haha what? My nigga! 

(Don't try this at home, road safety is key)

Where is Honda now you may ask? We're on a long break. Simo included. After putting the tint, it started having issues for wheel aligning. Took it for aligning and balancing then sijui turns out it's the rod something something. I decided my mental health is more important. Just like she needs her space, so do I need mine. It's been 4 months and I've been sleeping better. Juzi, there was mention of selling it and I felt nothing. (That says a lot, considering Joeboy's body & soul has been making me tear, which can only mean it's period week, anything is bound to make me cry) As for now, dear Honda, ka uko sawa mi niko sawa. 

Like I said, we've had good times and one day, when I finally move on from her, I'll remember her with more fondness than frustration, because in all truth, she made me experience freedom and the best times, jamming in the car solo, as we go and leave places. My literal ride or die. 

Tough, but also soft

There was a time I was obsessed with wanting to be a a girly girl.

But, I grew up with 4 brothers.

At some point in time, we even had houseboys, plus my mum would travel a lot for work. So for many times, it was just me and the boys, my dad included. Testosterone part raised me and watched me grow. I looked up to my brothers and wanted to do the things they did, and be strong like them. They used to have so much fun and adventures. I learned how to ride a bicycle from them, I remember being among the 1st in my class to know how to balance on the wheels. Even though I always lost, I was always down to compete in a game of arm wrestling, just so that I was on the strength metric. Till today, if you challenge me to arm wrestling, I'll accept it. We watched wrestling together, played Super Mario on the Nintendo, played bano, played mchongoano and we sometimes physically fought when we disagreed. We used to do our homework in the car on our way to school in the morning haha.

We had fun. My childhood was adventurous and I was competitive with the boys or at least tried to be.  Their friends were my friends. I remember one time for my birthday, asking my mum to pay for me ligi-ndogo membership just so that I could be better at football than the boys in my estate. I was going to blind side them, they wouldn't see it coming. She didn't pay for it, she just read through my b.s. Plus also, who would drop and pick me? Parents those days were so bisi, ain't nobody got time for dat.

In our photo albums, there are a number of photos of me wearing what's considered an entire boys' outfit. A loose fitting shirt, buttoned to the top, baggy pants and chunky sports shoes. When I asked my mum why, she said sometimes the housie would ask what to dress me in, and she'd just tell them "mvalishe za brother yake" and it would make me happy.

Fast forward, to upper primary, I started liking boys, being attracted to them. I realized however that most of the boys were attracted to girls that were different from me. They liked the girly girls. The ones who had nice, long and permed hair in pussycat ponytails, tied with pink ribbons. The ones whose sweaters smelled of sta-soft and their socks were always bright-white and fitting. Their black toughees, always shiny. They carried pink bags and pink pouches and were so organized. Their books didn't have dog ears, or stains from leaked cocopine juice or worse, Quencher's strawberry juice. So I went on a mission, to try and be like them. I was also curious how it felt to be extremely feminine.

I started observing my mum more, she wasn't much of a girly girl either, (only girl with 6 brothers) but she had a dressing mirror and would wear lipstick, plus she was/is beautiful with glowing skin. She also used to shower with a different soap from ours, I remember it was called Palmolive. So when I could, I'd sneak and shower with that soap. Then, I asked to have my hair permed, but mum was hesitant. I started protesting hand-me-downs from my brothers, their sweaters, their P.E shorts, their casual shirts. I wanted more dresses and hipster jeans suits (gosh)  and on Sundays, would request to have lipstick on. To this, she agreed. We also had a lady cousin living with us at a time and I would steal her tu things here and there. Sorry cuzo.

When in school, I gradually started hanging out more with the girls, and copying their tendencies. I even remember pretending to fear insects when they'd appear in class, while deep down, I didn't. But this was a new me. I was becoming. I started playing less bano and going on less bike adventures in the estate. All this while, I remember being aware of how dresses were uncomfortable for me and I found kati boring. I still envied how the boys played rough, but I had a mission and I would stick to it.

One time, in class 5 or 6, I spent the whole night tonging my hair, I had a ciriaz crush. Because I didn't know any better, I slept in a shower cap ati to protect the hair. Ladies, imagine my disappointment the following morning. Tears. That crush never ended up liking me back, but the boys that eventually liked me, did so just based on who I was (not who I was trying to be) plus their raging hormones. Lol

It's truly when I started to grow boobs that I grew out of wanting to be exactly like the boys. Playing rough would now physically hurt. Then, I also got my period and boys didn't know much about that, plus then, we were conditioned to believe that if boys knew you were on your period, they would collapse and die. 

I grew up, then I settled into being comfortable with womanhood while still embracing the male influence I had in my younger years. Nowadays I don't pretend to fear tu insects. Even spiders. I just throw a slipper, it's all about aiming, or I smash them with a paper towel. They're just disgusting, not scary. Can never be tsiswa though, those, we eat. 

Here's some things though, that till today, remind me that I grew up with the mandem:

Food 

I'm those babes who can easily finish everything on my plate. Hakuna kubakisha. Pizza? Tuatapelekana. This is because in our house, there was nothing like saving some food for later, you'll find it eaten by one of the boys. But I've learnt about portion control, I guess. Also, I found a nice hiding spot in the fridge.

Verbal Expressions

We intrinsically know we have each other and that we love each other more than words can express, so we take it literally and barely express that love in words. That's influenced how I relate with guys, even in a romantic set-up. It's only till recently that I stopped using the word bro as a flirt word. 

Banter 

I get along with both boys and girls alright. My closest friend group is of girlies. Although when it comes to initial conversations with people, I gravitate towards guys. I appreciate their careless humor and banter. I listen to male podcasts for that. 

This one time, juzi tu, we (girls and boys) were  playing this game for 'Verbal Expressions'. The question read 'how best do you express self-love?' You can imagine to what extent the boys took it, not being serious at all. I really laughed. 

Shoes

My favorite shoe category are still sneakers, I love the comfort and functionality. I'll still wear heels and sandals, but my go to is sneakers. (My birthday is December 29th, I'll send the delivery address as the day approaches) 

Salon

I hate being in the salon. My brothers would go on bike adventures and I'd be stuck in the salon being braided all day. To date, if any hairstyle or mani/pedi takes more than one and a half hours, I'm not getting it. But that could also be a function of my impatience.

Adventure

One of my bros rode a Motorcycle for a while, in our adulthood. I was excited and ready to learn but he got an accident and sold it soon after. Otherwise I'd be a biker babe. I enjoy boda rides. I want to own a quad bike one day but where will I ride it constantly? In Naivasha, ama Kakamega? 

I still seek adventure. In one way or the other. 

I'm happy with how I've turned out to be. I'm tough, but also soft. What wonderful brothers that God gave without measure. Shout out to each and every one of them. I love you all, more than words can express.