KPI/Progress report

There's a difference between knowing your car and trusting you your car. I know my car but I sure as hell don't trust it. I'm well within reason. You know how toddler boys can be unhinged, one day you can find them summersaulting from the top of the stairs. A really nice lady once narrated how she found her two year old nephew on top of the water tank? Okay not quite the tank itself but you know those concrete structures that are built higher than a house so that the water tank is placed there? Yeah that's where the nephew was found. That's an incident worthy to have you almost collapse. I'm not likening my car to a child, but I'm just saying on many occasions, Honda has made me want to collapse. Because of that, we've been on such a long break. I'm the prodigal owner. I'll return to it one day. Mothers never entirely give up on their children.

Now that that's out of the way, I'll introduce you to a conundrum I had on Tuesday. Only on one condition though, that this post will never reach my pops. The oldest person you can share this with should be 50 years old. That's the age cap. Promise? Okay. Thanks guys. We could now proceed. On Tuesday, I had to go teach a baking lesson in Tatu City. (I also had to come back home afterwards hehe). The whole of Monday, Tatu City was registering in my mind as Konza City. I've never been to either place. So the whole of Monday, I'm dreading how far and expensive the journey will be. I'm picturing the whole of Mombasa Road, imagining that I might as well head on to Mombasa afterwards to see my nephew and sister in law. The thought of the commute had me already feeling tired. 

Thankfully, I looked up the maps on Tuesday morning and saw that Tatu City is the one on Thika Road sides, not Konza City. Oopsie. However, it was still far, maps showed an hour drive from ours. So here comes the conundrum. I can't use Honda. I can't boda all the way there, I wasn't feeling like catching pneumonia, plus that's too far a commute for Boda. I could Uber there, but with a discount, it's still more than 1 thousand. So that means 2400/= for a return trip. I'm to have 3 lessons, which totals to 7200/= Can't charge the client that. However, pop's car was around and he wasn't. In his absence, we are forbade to drive it. It's never been said, but it's how in a household, some rules are intrinsically known. Unwritten constitution kind of thing. Fueling it for all those trips would total to three thousand. Now that, I could charge the client. What would you guys do? 

Decisions decisions. I just had to be very careful. Let all matatu and bodas have their way and my chances of returning the car safely would be high. Plus like I mentioned on a post here before, my comfortable driving speed is 70 kmph. So that's what I did guys. I did what a Gen Z would do. I borrowed it without necessarily borrowing from him. Plus it's for work, it's not like it's for sherehe or luxury. (That's what I kept telling myself on my way to Tatu City) 

First things first, can we talk about the Museum hill MTC expressway exit? You avoid traffic all along only to be met with traffic at that exit. To put it simply, it's annoying and sometimes beats the purpose of using the express way. So anyway, once I got past that, I started sweating. Here's why. I was to use the museum hill ramp to find myself on Thika Road. That area stresses me. It has the Muthithi road exit, which if using you have to time properly. It also has the Ojijo road exit where sometimes drivers nyima you a chance to exit. Then you can still go slightly on your left to go sijui where. But this time, I was to go straight to get to Thika Road. Which I did guys. And I'm proud of myself. Because before getting to Thika Road, there's many tu side roads which one can take and confuse you. Especially if you're on the outer most lane, because "stay on the left" could mean you take that ka left that's just ahead of you. Not this time though. I didn't get lost, not even once. And I feel like I deserve a lifetime achievement award. 

I'll tell you this though. Sometimes on my way there, like maybe once or twice, I was the driver on the wrong. Have you ever tried to stand or wave in front of a toddler while they're watching cartoons or when they simply don't want your stories? They ignore you. It's like they look through you by just fixing their eyes on one spot and remain unmoved. How rude. That's me as a driver when I'm on the wrong. You can hoot, make hand gestures, yell, but I won't even for a second, look at you. I'll just look ahead and continue driving. Also, for the longest time, I never used to remember that the keep left unless overtaking was a serious thing until one time I saw Bencyco really ranting about it on Twitter. I was like oooopsss! (you guys should hear Steve say OOPS. It sounds so sincere until it's funny). 

Anywayz, I made it there safely, had a really nice session teaching baking. The best part about me teaching is that I don't have to wash the dishes. That's one of the worst parts of baking for me, washing the dishes. But as a teacher, I don't do that. It makes me enjoy teaching even more. I also made it home safely even though Kamiti Road matatus gave me a number of scares. I just stayed hooting. What's the word for someone who is trigger happy, but now for hooting? That's me. Also, do you guys take speed bumps seriously? Or maybe it's because 70kmph isn't that fast or furious to begin with. 

Also, shourourt to that Twitter image of the Thika Road junction? That professor Wangari Maathai road and the other one. The one that people use to segregate markets. Most recent one was the Sol fest Vip show and the Sol fest fan show hehe. Because I see it so many times on my timeline, I now know which one to take even though maps can be misleading and tell you to continue straight. There's no straight there. It's either a left or a right. Or if you take the nearest straight, you end up on the left side yet you're meant to take the right side. Sigh. 

All this to say, kumbe this is how you guys feel driving long distances and not getting lost. Or not fearing to get stopped by police citing that your car is an unroadworthy vehicle? Hehe. Feels good. 

Have a lovely rest of the week and weekend my guys :) 

This image has saved my life.

I'm Rambling

"There, on April 12 1945, while sitting for a portrait, he collapsed and died of a cerebral haemorrhage" 

My small brother and I couldn't be more different. Despite that, on most good days, he's one of my besties (although he denies this vehemently). And no, that's not who I'm talking about in 1945. For purposes of clarity, my brother wasn't born then, and to be fair, neither was my dad or mum. Although he acts like he was alive during that period. My small brother that is. He is an old soul. For instance, this is the title of the book that he's currently reading : Post American World and the rise of the rest. I could never touch  that book. Even if just to move it, I just couldn't. It would make me fall asleep faster than a joint could. This is the title of the book I've just finished reading : City of Girls. He also could never open the first page to this book. 

The guy who died in 1945 is FDR. Okay, Franklin D. Roosevelt. The then president of the U.S.A. I was interested in this information because in the book I just read, the main character's life is set up just as WWII begins, and she briefly mentions how before the war ended, FDR died and they really mourned his death as America. My curiosity led me to question his death, so, naturally, I asked the guy who knows World History, my small brother, what happened to FDR. He wasn't so sure, but his guess was that it was Poliomyelitis. Polio. So we had to Google. 

Sometimes history stories would sound like story za jaba to me, but after the 2007 P.E.V and the COVID-19 pandemic, they're easy to believe or rather, picture. Especially those of wars and pandemics. Anyway, FDR collapsed and died while sitting for a portrait. That's not so relatable to me (a sitting president dying) because, you may be shocked to find this out, I wasn't alive when Jomo Kenyatta was collapsing in his toilet in Mombasa. (Wait, I've just googled to clarify and it explains that he died in his sleep. Where did I hear this toilet story? And am I the only one who thinks he died while in the toilet? Wait, which story do you know?)

The first sentence of this post is from one of the sites and I've only inserted it there because of how beautiful a sentence it is. 

Anyway, after finding out how FDR died, we just talked about history for a bit then went back to our books. Exciting stuff hehe. 

I discovered a thing only on Monday. Reading a book with the background of 'fireplace' playing on YouTube. There's something comforting about the windy sound of the flames then the crackling sound of the firewood. My Dad once found me in that setting and asked me what's that burning? I said it was just a video on YouTube. He said if only it was real. I avoided his eyes entirely. If I entertained him, he would have asked me to light up our fire place. That sounds fancy and cozy, only that in our house that means to light up the jiko and put it in the fireplace. Ai. I wasn't feeling that story so I didn't show any interest. Thankfully, he didn't pursue that mission any further.

There's no moral of the story to this post. Or something interesting that I have to say. To be quite honest, a number of them have been boring. I'm sorry guys. I just have to post because I know myself. Once I stop, I may stop for a while and right now I'm really trying to build my muscle of consistency in writing. Discipline and what not. I however wonder what advice a Gen Z would give me. Maybe they'd be like writing? Why writing? Just make videos on TikTok or something. Don't stress life. 

Inshallah, I'll be hanging out with a couple of them tonight. (They still make plans despite maandamano). So maybe I'll tell them about the things that I'm struggling with in life then ask for their advice, then come report it to you guys. Maybe that will be interesting...

Otherwise, stay safe my guys...

And for those asking, my Honda is still there, but I haven't touched it in a while. I was meant to wash it last week then I kept on postponing. I still haven't washed it. Maybe I will today. Or tomorrow...

Mhandaji

 

I don’t think I’m the ideal housemate. I’m anal about a lot of stuff and in the mornings especially, I can be moody. Especially on a cold morning. Last week was a particularly bad one to be my housemate because; 1. It was cold and I have the tendency to be umm, what's the word for when you feel  depressed.ish when it's cold? and 2. I was on my period. 

This time round, my period took me out. When Tupac sang hit ‘em up, he  wasn't mincing his words. He was out for blood. Especially at the end when he goes incredibly explicit. Yeah, that was my period to me this time round. I could hear it say “ain’t one of you ni**as got sickle cell or something?” when I was just about to respond that actually it’s low iron, I heard it say to me, very loudly, “well f’ you” and out I was. This time, it won. My period 10 Lizzie 0.

 

So needless to say, I was sad and tired and moody last week. I was a poor housemate. I only left my room to do the very necessary chores and I gave those chores the bare minimum effort. That includes with the conversations I engaged in around the house. However, even when the weather is beautiful and African (sunny) and I’m not on my period, I’m still not the ideal housemate.

I’m what my small bother would call, a mhandaji. I handa guys in this house. And I handa them for a number of reasons. I want us to analyze them together, you guys can tell me whether I'm being unreasonable or you're sighing in relief that we aren't housemates.

 

1.     1. Walking inside the house with shoes that you’re from wearing outside, even if you vigorously wipe them on the entrance mat.

 

2.      2. Leaving left-over food on a plate on the sink or leftover liquid say tea, in a cup on the sink.

 

 

3.      3. Leaving a teabag in a cup in the sink.

 

4.      4. Leaving a serviette or bones on a plate on the sink

 

5.      5. Leaving the door of the room I’m in open. I like closed doors. Even in the kitchen.

 

6.      6. ‘Unguzaing’ / burning food that you’re cooking for everyone.

 

7.     7.  Making a mess in the kitchen or bathroom and not cleaning up after oneself (only applies to Steve)

 

8.      8. Leaving dirty socks in the crevices of the couch.

 

9.    9.  Leaving shoes in the middle of an entrance to a room or the house. Previously I used to kick them away but I went for therapy and now gently put them on the side

10.  Hoarding many dirty dishes in one’s room then when you're looking for a bowl or side -plate, you can't find

So these are just a few of the things I handana for. And when I'm complaining about these, my tone is harsh. Which means I'm not the most popular person in that house. I understand that I also have my fair share of flaws or things that annoy people of the household. Here’s some of the annoying things I do; 

 

1.      1. Can wake up Moody Awori which happens a lot.

 

2.      2. Play my music loudly especially when getting ready

 

3.      3. Have a favorite cup, plate, bowl and glass that I expect nobody else to use. I bought them for me.

 

4.      4. Use the blender, hand mixer and stand mixer a lot, all are very loud.

 

5.      5. Talk very loudly especially if I’m in a good mood.

 

6.      6. Talk and laugh very loudly on phone especially when talking to my girls and a story is very funny or juicy.

 

7.      7. Handa people for the reasons aforementioned

 

8.      8. Open doors with a lot of vigour, aka fujo.

 

9.     9.  Kumbe sometimes my open hair sheds when I comb it then I don’t catch every strand as I clean up. Oopsie.

 

110. I can't figure out the 10th one. I'm almost perfect hehe.

 

 

Anyhow, as I’m approaching 30, I’m thinking a lot about moving out to a space of my own. There, the only person to handa is going to be me. And I won't feel like an a** about it. Plus I won't do things that annoy me lol. 

 

Are you the perfect housemate?

Also I'm just not ready for the July weather. I'm okay if global warming makes the sun stay this month and the next. 

Also, shout out to all my girls for being the sunshine in my life. Love y'all to death.

Ma's sweet tooth

 

Now I get it. How inconveniencing it can be to leave for work in the morning, then just before noon, get a call from your child’s school that they are unwell and you have to take them to the hospital. This is the early 2000’s in Nairobi, pre-superhighway so we can’t even talk about the expressway. That means as an adult Nairobian, who works far from home, a good number of hours in your day are spent on the road, certainly not in the musician's way. But bless my mother, the few times when she got those calls from my primary school, she would come for me.

I remember her  coming for me and taking me to the hostol (nang’o my Luo peeps). On our way back home, we’d pass by the supermarket and as a ritual she would get me Delmonte juice or Dairy Fresh and a slice of Swiss Roll. She introduced me to Swiss rolls, and for the longest time, that was our thing.

 

As a young child, I have vivid memories of watching her make banana bread in the kitchen using a food processor and then letting my brothers and I lick the batter off the paddle fixtures. We would always fight over it. Kids are almost always fighting over something. She didn’t know it then, neither did I, that her simple act of making banana bread with so much love was inspiring a whole career: mine.

 

There’s a supermarket which we frequent with Ma, that has a section of desserts and on the wall it's written 'Temptation Corner'. She is always tempted by it. By always, I mean just that. Always. Btw, I'm glad to report that she received her slice of cake the other day, that Steve didn't get to it. So alikula both story and cake.

Perhaps you can already tell from this that Ma identifies as a sweet tooth hehe. (Okay and as a good Christian pentecostal lady. Added that for her incase she ever reads this blog) Anywayz. When I started my baking business and had to name it, it was a no-brainer for me that I’d either name it after her or by something inspired by her. Sweet Tooth was what was most obvious but there are 54 thousand other businesses called that. Because I’m Luhya, you guys already know that we love our Kiswahili, ndiposa I translated sweet tooth to Jino Tamu, ilimradi the essence of it being inspired by her remains.

Running that business has been one the most challenging things I’ve done in my 20’s for a number of reasons. I'll definitely get into those with you guys some day. On the flip side, it's had its fare share of exciting moments. Till today, I still enjoy the act of baking; measuring the ingredients and mixing the batter. Pouring the batter into the baking dish then inserting it in the oven. (Wait, do I sound like Aunty wa keki? Damn.) You get the drift. A business is however more than that and involves washing a lot of dirty dishes if you're solo. 

A few years back, I used to teach people how to bake, the innocent act of it. And I used to have a lot of fun. It would take me back to the days in the kitchen watching Ma bake for us and being amused by how the cake would rise in the oven then settle into a beautiful golden brown color and come out smelling heavenly and tasting really yummy. Over the years, I've developed my recipes especially so that they don't use so much sugar. Some cakes can chock you from being too sweet which takes away from the experience of enjoying a treat. Americans are wild when it comes to sugar and really everything else lol.

In short, I'm back to teaching again, and I wanna share the fun. If you're interested or know someone who's interested, let them hit me up. Especially Gen Z cause Gen Z are fun to be around. Haha. But even baby boomers are welcome. 

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.