tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307714612024-03-13T03:01:07.072+03:00How Did I Get Here?No one has ever accused me of being sane. And they're not going to start now.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-68930491195863727312008-01-18T03:25:00.000+03:002008-01-18T04:49:07.656+03:00Finding JoyI've received emails from people I've never met, who don't care what tribe I am, how I voted or <span style="font-style:italic;">if </span>I voted. They've offered me shelter (should I need it), hugs (because I need them), prayers (because we <span style="font-style:italic;">all </span>need them), and drinks (because... oh, you get the picture). I felt better. A bit wobbly, but I was getting there.<br /><br />Then today I went to the supermarket. And a man who is "from my tribe" elbowed me, <span style="font-style:italic;">shoved </span>me, and I slipped and almost fell. Then this other dude that I'd never seen before - who is from "that other tribe" - grabbed my elbow. Steadied me. Picked up my groceries from the floor. I thanked him. He smiled and said:<br /><br />"But I was right here. I couldn't let you fall."<br /><br />Just that. And I was back in love.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/R4_49E63cmI/AAAAAAAAAB4/EjDdWex78jc/s1600-h/Praise+the+lord!.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/R4_49E63cmI/AAAAAAAAAB4/EjDdWex78jc/s320/Praise+the+lord!.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156613826538861154" /></a><br /><br />I'm back. And I still believe.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-37691678859357695572008-01-09T02:52:00.002+03:002008-01-09T02:57:37.840+03:00You know what?I'm sad. I'm really, really sad. I'm very rarely sad.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/R4QNe063cjI/AAAAAAAAABk/MYMzd9z2mpQ/s1600-h/crying.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/R4QNe063cjI/AAAAAAAAABk/MYMzd9z2mpQ/s320/crying.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153258696871473714" /></a><br /><br />Please make this all go away.<br /><br />So, my blogren, tell me a story. Seriously.<br /><br />Help me out here. No politics, just tell me a story.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-6106287739708802192008-01-03T14:00:00.000+03:002008-01-03T15:58:47.611+03:00WHEN TWO ELEPHANTS FIGHT...... IT IS THE GRASS THAT SUFFERS.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/R3zE1063ciI/AAAAAAAAABc/pimXQLYGzB8/s1600-h/Bendera.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/R3zE1063ciI/AAAAAAAAABc/pimXQLYGzB8/s320/Bendera.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151208502822662690" /></a><br /><br />Daima mimi mkenya, mwananchi mzalendo.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-6052102357997215432007-11-14T15:18:00.000+03:002007-11-14T15:42:28.959+03:00I've been away...Again.Where have I been? Oh <a href="http://www.ziff.or.tz/"><span style="font-style:italic;">here</span></a> and <a href="http://www.masaimara-migration.com/"><span style="font-style:italic;">there</span></a>.<br /><br />And I know I owe you answers to the questions that I aggressively made you ask me.<br /><br />But I simply had to share something. I went to access my account at Equity, and was told that it had been "frozen" because there had been no activity for five months. Had they written to inform me? Of course not. Just waited 'til I needed some cash... then they gave me this form to fill out.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/RzrstVSDt4I/AAAAAAAAABM/h5MGDu5KL4o/s1600-h/Equity.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HK-Hz6j6tv4/RzrstVSDt4I/AAAAAAAAABM/h5MGDu5KL4o/s320/Equity.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132674988893255554" /></a><br /><br />First of all, I have to give a reason why I haven't "operated" my account? What if I'd wanted to SAVE MY MONEY??<br /><br />And then - wow - the manager writes some "remarks" and can then "Approve" or "Decl.." sorry, "<span style="font-style:italic;">Deline</span>" me access to my money?<br /><br />That's it. I'm starting my own damned bank.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-85114511556385462582007-05-28T14:03:00.000+03:002007-05-28T14:33:57.562+03:00Ask Kenyanchick!Look, I'm bored. And so, because nobody tagged me (I'm looking at you, <a href="http://mwanamishale.wordpress.com/">Archer</a>), I've decided to take matters into my own hands, throw down the gauntlet, take the bull by the horns...<br /><br />(See? Told you I was bored).<br /><br />Anyway, I've decided to invite y'all to <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ask Kenyanchick</span>.<br /><br />However, don't bother asking me dumb stuff like my real name, bra size, or what I really think about Kenyan politics. I'll just lie.<br /><br />But - because <span style="font-style:italic;">some </span>people didn't tag me - I've decided to get the ball rolling and insistently answer one of the questions I wasn't asked (me? bitter?).<br /><br />So, by force:<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><br />Three things (that you probably didn’t know) about Kenyanchick</span></strong></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:100%;">. <o:p></o:p></span> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;font-family:arial;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:100%;">You know a thumbs up? I can do that with my toes. Seriously.<br /></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:100%;">I can write legibly with both hands. I used to be able to write backwards, but I must have bumped my head again, because now I can’t.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:100%;">I hate rap/hip hop (there’s no difference as far as I can see). But there are few songs on God’s green earth that I despise as much as George Michael’s “Careless Whisper.” I will do anything – confess to killing JFK/Gandhi/Lumumba/<span style="font-style: italic;">anything </span>– to make that song stop.<o:p></o:p></span></li></ol> <span style="font-size:100%;">So, that should get you started. </span>Knock yourselves out.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-30523973367812978772007-04-23T15:12:00.000+03:002007-04-23T16:18:46.278+03:00Random WhatsitsThis is an homage to my blog <a href="http://ernest-bazanye.blogspot.com/">hero</a>. (We’re so tight I call him Ernie. Actually, I call him that - in private and under my breath - only because we live in different countries and he doesn't know what I look like. )<br /><br />Anyway here are some things that have kept me preoccupied:<br /><br /><ul><li> I don't understand Kenyan newscasters. More to the point, I don't understand their accents. Actually, even <span style="font-style: italic;">more </span>to the point, I don't understand what they think they're saying. There's this new trend - Winnie Mukami are you listening? - of flattening the "ea" and "ee" sounds in a word and pronouncing them as an "i." So, according to Yunia Amunga, you are not in fact tuned in to "Capital News Beat." It's the "News Bit." In which we inform you that Raila is "sicking" the ODM presidential nomination.</li></ul> I stopped listening all together when they tried to tell me about some Peace Talks...<br /><br /><ul><li> I don't understand Kenyans. Do we have a gene that makes it impossible to line up for stuff? Go anywhere - supermarket, government building, swanky 5-star hotel; <span style="font-style: italic;">anywhere </span>- and try and form a line. Your efforts at order will be looked at with sorrow and head-shaking pity - by those who notice them at all. Then there's the fact that we also must have a "shameless" gene, as evidenced by the guy who came flying past me at the supermarket checkout line. I wasn't in a good mood, so I reached out for his arm and said, "Did you not see me standing here?" His classic, shameless response? "But I'm in a hurry."</li></ul><ul><li> Wait. More on those newscasters. I've been keeping a journal of all their Crimes Against Language (TM). Some examples (and folks I have soooo many more...):</li><ul><li>KTN on Bishop Wanjiru's infamous marriage plans: "The Bishop’s wedding is on track, but her trip to the ale is not without huddles."<br /></li><li>Yunia Amunga again: "A gang of urmed thags was today ganned down..."</li></ul></ul><ul><li> Then, when they're not wenging/twenging etc. they're murdering grammar, inventing new languages/words/countries, and subverting logic.<br /></li><ul><li>How else to explain KBC's contention that a car "fell into a cliff?"<br /></li></ul><ul><li>How else, indeed, to explain KBC having a graphic on the screen informing us about Elections in Penin?<br /></li><li>My personal favourite, however, was the solemn "Special Report" from our national broadcaster's prime time news broadcast. The graphic at the bottom of our screens?</li></ul></ul><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><span style="background: yellow none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 million Kenyans are Illitrate</span>.</span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p> Must have been an insider's story.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1173432045875957512007-03-09T12:00:00.000+03:002007-03-09T12:29:19.566+03:00I'm awake, I'm AWAKE!And I promise I'll post something soon. I haven't blogged since LAST YEAR and look what happened:<br /><br />My <a href="http://nathansavage.blogspot.com/">baby daddy</a> decided to call it quits; <a href="http://madandcrazy.blogspot.com/">Iwaya </a>came out as <a href="http://jmataachi.blogspot.com/">Mataachi</a>; <a href="http://2bnileavenue.blogspot.com/">Degstar </a>disappeared and <a href="http://chantal-sayin.blogspot.com/">Cherie </a>got transferred to who-knows-where...<br /><br />This is unacceptable, people. So I'm back, doing my bit for the cause. Which really means that I'm tired of long afternoon naps and a life generally spent pretending that I have money and a job. But more on that later.<br /><br />Oh wait! I did meet my beloved <a href="http://midnightfrisco.blogspot.com/">Archer</a>, and he doesn't seem to be suffering any long-term effects from said encounter, so I guess I'm not <span style="font-style:italic;">that </span>toxic...<br /><br />I'm working on an explanatory post, heh heh.<br /><br />So... Degs and Magoo, will you come back now? Pretty please?Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1166800098515330752006-12-22T16:17:00.000+03:002006-12-22T18:54:52.293+03:00Free at Last! Free at Last... Etc.I did it. I quit my job. I’m free! Unemployed, but free.<br /><br />So this post will have to do double duty: a farewell to the parallel universe that has been my work place, and as a Merry-Christmas-Let’s-Kick-Major-Ass-Next-Year to all my blog pals.<br /><br />But first: <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Goodbye, Cruel Workstation.</span><br />For some reason, they’re in denial about my resignation. They keep talking about the projects “we” are going to work on next year. Whatever.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/322012/dilbert2030542061205.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/400/406084/dilbert2030542061205.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/247665/Reptile.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/828559/Reptile.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Goodbye, Mr. Almost Sexual Harassment (MASH)</span></span></span>. This man has been the bane of my existence since Day 1. He's ugly and short, with narrow, evil reptilian eyes. Incredibly, he imagines that he can use his high-pitched, slightly nasal voice to seduce the female members of staff. Which means he's stupid too. He got into the habit of saying my name every few minutes. I counted once: he said my name FIFTEEN times in half an hour. When I asked him to stop, he purred, "But why? It's such a beautiful name." But now he's in my past, Hallelujah! Take that, MASH!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/297868/Crouching.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/240873/Crouching.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />And then there's the <span style="font-weight:bold;">Internet & Radio Choir From Hades</span>.<br />For subjecting me to an endless parade of sing-alongs to the "music" of Michael Bolton, Shania Twain, Dolly Parton, Mariah Carey, Kenny G, and Celine Dion, here's my Christmas wish for you:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/942804/kitty-kiss-my-butt-for-xmas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/93432/kitty-kiss-my-butt-for-xmas.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />But now to be nice (stop barfing!). I've come across so many excellent people since I started doing this blog thing that I'm quite choked up right now just thinking about it (I know. I'm laughing too.) But seriously, have a good one, y'all, and Merry Christmas!<br /><br />But just one quick questions before I go (I know, I blog like once a month and now all of a sudden I can't shut up). Anyway. Has anyone watched the Last King of Scotland? Did you notice that Forrest Whitaker was in blackface? How messed up is it when an African American wears blackface to play an African?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/82559/Forrest%20as%20Amin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/509180/Forrest%20as%20Amin.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/920031/Forrest%20as%20himself.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/998193/Forrest%20as%20himself.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />Ok, I'm done now. Merry Christmas!Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1166086218514714182006-12-14T11:33:00.000+03:002006-12-14T11:50:18.530+03:00Some Random thoughts...This was a dare. I’ve been keeping some strange company lately.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On my mind this week:</span><br />Why…<br />• Do Kenyan highways have pedestrian crossings?<br />• Do some Ugandans say “thouthand?”<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">When fools collide</span><br />Overheard at a bar in Nairobi. The cast: two black prostitutes, one white potential client.<br />(This really happened, I swear. I was bored and eavesdropping.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">White guy</span>: I had a friend who was eaten by a crocodile once.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Both women</span>: <span style="font-style: italic;">What</span>?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">WG</span>: Yes, he was in the Congo. It was weird. But you know how he died? He was bitten by a cat. It had some disease.<br />[Stunned silence]<br /><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="" style="font-weight: bold;">WG: </shttp:><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="">But it’s like I always say, “when your number’s up, it’s up, you know?”<br />[Slight pause]</shttp:><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Woman 2</span>: </shttp:><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="">Who’s number?</shttp:><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">WG: </span></shttp:><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="">It’s an, um, just a<span style="font-size:85%;">n expression, it means,</span> <span style="font-size:78%;">um, you know…</span><br />[Awkward silence]<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Woman 1</span> [brightly] One time, we were in Naivasha. You know Naivasha? It’s where they grow flowers. Big bucks. Anyway, one time me and my friends went there. We hit a donkey with a stick. It died.</shttp:><shttp: insert="" bold="" tagspan="" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /></shttp:>Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1164802842089632482006-11-29T15:02:00.000+03:002006-11-29T15:20:42.110+03:00Is This Thing On?I’ve been tied up. My apologies. I know I’ve made the excuse before – shut up <a href="http://nathansavage.blogspot.com/">Mr. Magoo</a> – but I’m in transition, about to embark on a major life change (It's not what you think. And I’m not getting married either, tch.) I’ll be making it public soon. You wait with bated breath, I know. But cut me some slack, I mean, I’m freaked out enough as it is. Anyway, so, I’ve missed blogging, and after some major badgering from some blogger pals (and <a href="http://ernest-bazanye.blogspot.com/">they </a>know <a href="http://midnightfrisco.blogspot.com/">who </a>they <a href="http://mywordsonly.blogspot.com/">are</a>), I decided I’d just share some thoughts. And since I haven’t been feeling very charitable of late - you know, just for a change - I decided to share…<br /><br /><strong>Some of the most delicious disses I’ve ever heard.</strong><br /><br /><strong>Drink in the Competition…</strong><br />“The asshole dumped me. He <span style="font-style:italic;">dumped</span> me. And the worst part? You should see what he left me for. I was expecting some stunning, statuesque model type. God, you should see her. She looks like a glass of milk.”<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><em>Some miscellaneous British writer. Publication unknown/forgotten.</em><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/269822/milk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/557852/milk.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>… But Not The Entertainment.</strong><br />One time a friend comes to visit me in New York City. We go to Tower Records where she picks out several CDs. The bill is huge and, although she has the cash, she decides to use a credit card. So she turns to the Goth-looking, nose-studded clerk and asks,<br /><br />“Can I use my Diner’s Card?<br />Clerk: “Why, you gonna eat the CDs?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/550550/eat%20cd%202.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/626269/eat%20cd%202.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>Meet the Diaspora.</strong><br />Then there was the time I met this black British woman at a conference. She was very, very strange. She had a bizarre purple-hued weave and a jarring accent, and was prone to making cringe-inducing statements. For example: “My family’s orijn’lly Ghanian. I’m British, of course, but I still feel weally, <em>weally </em>African, you know? (That wasn’t a typo, by the way. She weally said “Ghanian.”)<br /><br />Then she gatecrashed the opening ceremony, after which she sought out the jaded African journalists that K.C. was hanging out with. The encounter led to this breathless and unfortunate outburst:<br /><br />“I met the President of <em>Ghana</em>! And I told him that me family’s <em>Ghanian</em>! Then, <em>ohmygod</em>, I saw the <em>Queen</em>!! I was <em>shakin’</em>! I could ‘ardly <em>speak</em>! I called me mum and woke ‘er up! Told her I met me past <em>and </em>me present in one room!”<br /><br />After she left there was a stunned silence. Then the South African shook his head and sighed, “That one? That is not a brain drain.”<br /><br />It’s now My Favourite Diss of All Time.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1161947793478926222006-10-27T14:13:00.000+03:002006-10-27T14:16:33.493+03:00The Unseen Guest at Every Meal...<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/1600/MindIssues.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/320/MindIssues.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />This ad was in two Kenyan newspapers all week. Intrigued, a journalist pal called the number and spoke to the dude. What's the ad about?<br /><br />"Ever since I realised that my mind was being controlled by other people, I decided to form a support group for all the people who's minds are also being controlled. I think we can help each other."<br /><br />KC wants to know: who'll control the meetings?Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1161157382728512662006-10-18T10:26:00.000+03:002006-10-18T10:55:56.420+03:00D'Angelo, leather Jackets, and the lethal Long Pinkie NailFirst, an explanation: I’ve been away from my own blog for almost a whole month. I must apologise. And explain. When I wrote the <a href="http://howdidigethere-kenyanchick.blogspot.com/2006/07/kenyans-guide-to-kenya-vol-i.html">Kenyan's Guide to Kenya</a>, I never imagined that it would take on a life of its own. At first I looked on, bemused, as people (some known to me, most not) sent it along to me as a group-email “forward.” One good friend sent it along to me saying, “I wish I’d written this!” I was deeply flattered. However, I had no bloody idea how to respond. So I didn’t. <br /><br />Then someone had the balls, the sheer impudence to send it as something <span style="font-style:italic;">he</span> had written. Damn! Flattery that you liked the posting was one thing; claiming it as your own and erasing my authorship is something different entirely. I mean, DAMN! It took me a while to regroup. I started this blog anonymously for various reasons, which means that I couldn’t just “break cover” to claim the post (ok, I could but first: who would believe me? Secondly, why do it? To disprove some unoriginal, plagiarising wannabe’s delusions?). I thought about it and decided it wasn’t worth it. But boy was I pissed. Then, as a <span style="font-style:italic;">baksheesh</span>, a backhanded ‘bonus,’ I got “blogger’s block.”<br /><br />So I gathered my thoughts. I visited several blogs and, in a shameless and promiscuous manner, left brazen, uncensored comments in my wake. I was wanton and unashamed. But still “blocked.” Then, in my wanderings, I came across <a href="http://ciikuandhermess.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Movie Buff's</a> blog, and she had a hilarious <a href="http://ciikuandhermess.blogspot.com/2006/10/continuation.html#comments" target="_blank">post</a> about the kind of guy she was looking for… I love you, MB. You done helped this “heffer” get her groove back. And it’s funny you should bring it up because, dear Lord, does KC have some opinions about what’s out there!<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />So, KC’s ideal man. And the others.</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />The Ideal Man.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/1600/d-angelo-2.0.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/320/d-angelo-2.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />It’s really very simple: if you look like D’Angelo in his “How does it feel” video, go to the front of the queue. Heck, meet me at church. I’ll be the one in the frothy white dress.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Those Who Need Not Apply.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/1600/baggy%20jeans.0.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/320/baggy%20jeans.0.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />If you think that the height of fashion involves baggy jeans worn at thigh level, the better to reveal flowery boxer shorts slung over your sad little butt, here’s what you do:<br />1. Stand up. <br />2. Look straight ahead, chin slightly raised. Raise right hand. With great force, connect right hand to right cheek. <br />3. Stand up. <br />4. Repeat 2.<br /><br />If you are looking for a <a href="http://j-walk.com/other/goodwife/images/goodwifeguide.gif" target="_blank">submissive</a>, skirt-wearing woman who agrees with everything you say, deeply yearns to have “your children,” and who’ll spend hours on her knees praying for your continued masculine leadership and wisdom then <a href="mailto:HOWDIGH@gmail.com">email me</a> every Monday. That’s my designated <span style="font-weight:bold;">Fantasies of the Tragically Misled Day</span>. <br /> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/1600/matrix-neo-glasses.0.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/320/matrix-neo-glasses.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;">Leather jackets.</span> I’m torn about these because on Shaft, Neo and Morpheus they are sexy as hell. But I’m Kenyan, and I’ve been wronged by leather before. If you think an otherwise blameless leather jacket goes perfectly with a Stetson, a Datsun 160J - complete with customised mud flaps with leaping tiger motif - and a Dolly Parton/Kenny Rogers mixed tape you must leave this blog immediately. That means you too, Esther Wahome.<br /><br />In fact, let me interrupt myself here to expound further on <span style="font-weight:bold;">Leather Jacket Man</span>.<br /><br />People in leather jackets have been known to have <span style="font-weight:bold;">The Long Pinkie Nail</span>. Movie Buff and I agree that these people should be flogged in a public square for traumatising an entire generation. For those who don’t know what we’re talking about, let me explain: a sub-species of early Nairobi man (<span style="font-style:italic;">River Roadius Nairobicus</span> and his cousin <span style="font-style:italic;">Kirinyaga Roadius Kenyapithecus</span>) randomly decided – as men often do – that a long, preferably curved nail on his little finger could serve a multitude of purposes. It was also environmentally friendly: why scrabble around looking for twigs to make impromptu toothpicks when you have The Long Pinkie Nail? Why try to force a piece of cotton wool onto said twig when you can jab The Long Pinkie Nail into your ear?<br /><br />Unfortunately, his modern descendent has decided that The Long Pinkie Nail is also a stealth weapon of seduction. When he shakes the hand of a desirable woman (read: any chick who’ll talk to him) he looks soulfully into her eyes, then slyly unleashes what is now The Nail of Lurve, and gently scratches the inside of her soft, receptive palm. She is immediately ready to bear his children.<br /><br />Leather jacket man will take you out for a romantic paraffin lamp-lit dinner of <span style="font-style:italic;">nyama</span> <span style="font-style:italic;">choma</span> and vernacular music, where you will cosily share an uneven wooden bench while Rhoda the barmaid serves him warm, foamy beer. He doesn’t approve of you drinking beer, but you’re free to indulge in any of the many feminine and fruity alcoholic beverages out there. <br /><br />Leather jacket man calls people like me ‘snobs’ because we like going to places where the toilets have toilet paper. Heck, we prefer going to places which have <span style="font-style:italic;">toilets</span>.<br /><br />Enough with the rant. To recap: D'Angelo: GOOD. Leather jackets with Long Pinkie Nail: BAD. Baggy jeans: go directly to jail.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1158844800663267092006-09-21T16:11:00.000+03:002006-09-21T17:34:54.340+03:00Slaughter: Laughter with an “S” on top.<strong>Merriam-Webster dictionary</strong>:<br /><strong>Main Entry</strong>: 2 slaughter (slô t r)<br />Function: <em>transitive verb</em><br />1 : to kill (animals) for food : <strong>Butcher</strong><br />2 a : to kill in a bloody or violent manner : <strong>Slay </strong>b : to kill in large numbers : <strong>Massacre</strong>. 3 : to discredit, defeat, or demolish completely <br /><br /><strong>Kenyanchick’s dictionary</strong>: <br />S/Laughter. (sssss- läf t r)<br />1. You are demolished; I crack up.<br /><br />Listen, you asked for the truth. I said I unleashed an ‘Epic,' ‘Ben Hur,’ blasting on L.F. and you said you wanted to know more.<br /><br />Be careful what you wish for. Because now you’re going to get it.<br /><br />First of all, it wasn’t funny. Because I was incandescent with rage.<br />In-can-<em>fucking</em>-descent. <br /><br />Kudos to Jay who figured out that my smile masked my desire to sharpen knives and enforce natural selection. <br /><br />It wasn’t pretty. But boy did I have fun.<br />When I get angry – are you paying attention, oh ye who harbour self-destructive thoughts? – I get hyper-literate in my language. (yeah yeah, whatever: bite me).<br />So I told him – and there’s no way I’d lie about this – that I thought he was a person who was “lacking in honour and integrity.”<br /><br />I told him that he was a coward who stood for nothing, who had to be chased all over town for a pre-adolescent’s DVDs, and that I was obviously on some mind-altering drugs the day I decided I could trust him.<br /><br />I said, “I deserved better and you know that. Give me my niece’s shit and we never have to deal with each other again, ok?”<br />All the little weasel could do was nod his head enthusiastically, and say “I know, I know, I’m sorry” over and over again.<br /><br />THEN I told him that he would “rue the day” that he ever crossed me.<br />Rue. <br />My mama's tuition money didn't go to waste. (Mum: there’s your endorsement. You can go back to the “Bold and Beautiful.” There’s nothing more to see here.)<br /><br />Oh, um, about the wedding? I wasn’t invited! [Official explanation: Someone must have forgotten to deliver your card.]<br /><br />I’m crying with [s]laughter even as I write this!Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1158323800239596832006-09-15T15:19:00.000+03:002006-11-29T15:28:45.396+03:00I don’t suffer from stress. I’m a carrier.<em>(Blogger won't let me publish pictures. Why, WHY??)</em><br /><br />So I met LF.<br /><br />When he saw me (it was an ambush; this was war) you should have seen his face. He was like a deer caught in the headlights.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/489017/Deer%201.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/996353/Deer%201.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Or, in his case, a dik dik.<br /><br />And you know what happens to them.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/375888/Dikdik.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/927764/Dikdik.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />I’ll keep it brief, but you should probably know something first.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/1600/577691/SherryPalmer.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/6948/3306/320/74088/SherryPalmer.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sherry Palmer is my mother.</span><br /><br />See, there’s so much that I didn’t tell you last time. I gave you one scenario until my disgust stopped me from proceeding and writing more. Oh, but there was more. For instance: one day he was sick and asked to borrow some movies. The only ones I had belonged to my niece. Now, I don’t lend other people’s things because things can get ugly and complicated. (And why do some people refuse to return stuff?) But this was my boyfriend, right? In any case, he lives not far from me and anyway look, they’re DVDs, they belong to my niece and he’d never screw me, right?<br /><br />I underestimated the sliminess of his character.<br /><br />I hadn’t seen him since The Pork Incident, so I decided to SMS him, asking him really politely (I swear!) to return the DVDs as said niece was asking for them.<br />Silence. No response what-the-F*** -soever. I sent him 2 text messages. Nothing. He avoided me for a month.<br /><br />Seeing as he was obviously raised by wolves, I went into Plan B. I was tired of chasing him around, looking for a 12-year-old’s property, but I knew I’d get my chance.<br /><br />Boy did I ever. A mutual friend was getting married and was having a final ‘wedding meeting’ at a restaurant where I coincidentally also happened to be. He was very happy to see me and then stunned me with this comment: “So, I hear we might be making similar arrangements for you and LF soon, eh?” Ok, now <em>I </em>was the deer caught in the headlights.<br /><br />It dawned on me that he’d been letting his friends believe that not only were we still together, but that things were getting serious. This man is seriously disturbed. Then I saw my opportunity. I smiled sweetly and asked, “Is he coming for the meeting?” Of course he was. Let the games begin.<br /><br />As soon as he walked through the door he saw me. And froze. Me? I leapt up and gave him a biiiiiiiiig hug. (Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.) He knew me well enough to be completely alarmed. Then, smiling broadly, I invited myself to his friends’ table. Hilarity ensued. I was animated and relaxed; he had squeezed himself between his chair and the wall, drinking whisky without speaking or looking up. I had a blast.<br /><br />Finally I was ready to go. Kisses all around, “see you at the wedding” stuff. Then I turned to LF and, lovingly, oh so lovingly, said "Can you walk me to my car please?"<br />What was he going to say, No? I thought his head was going to explode. We went outside, I briefly looked at his forehead for the alt-delete buttons, burst out laughing, throwing him off balance again (now <em>I </em>looked unstable) but I recovered sufficiently to rip into him. It was epic. It was the Ben Hur of blastings.<br /><br />The next day I got the DVDs back. Except for one.<br />I told my niece it had been stolen.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1155891183862794512006-08-18T11:46:00.000+03:002006-08-18T11:56:21.143+03:00No more Ms. Nice Chick. Or, beware the female of the species…I’ve been AWOL for a while. Because I was dealing with some annoying s**t. Remember my first post? Where I said that there were people who had PISSED ME OFF? Oh honey you don’t know the half of it. So I decided, in the name of democracy and revenge (but mostly revenge) that I’d let my blog pals decide the proper punishment for <strong>They Who Cross KenyanChick.</strong><br /><br /><strong>Scenario 1.</strong><br />You’ve been dating this guy for about 3 months. He’s funny, you get along great. Then one day, just after work, you call him (it’s Friday, what’s the plan?), he says he’s dropping a friend in town, will call you in 35 minutes. (Yes, he said 35, not 30 or 38, but 35. This lends this excuse particular credence and makes him sound like a mature time-managing man. But I digress.) So, three hours later when you still haven’t heard from him, you call again. No answer. Your girls have dragged you to the local for ‘one’ so you’re not planless, you’d just sorta like to hang out with your man. <br /><br />One hour and some bad karaoke later, you call again. Still no answer. It’s 10 pm, <em>kwani </em>what town was he dropping this guy in, Busia? Your girlfriends mock you about being clingy and/or having been dumped without your knowledge. Pissed off, but determined to go down with dignity, you desist from calling again. Get thoroughly drunk. Monopolise karaoke machine until owner politely asks you to ‘let others have a chance.’ You weave your way home, singing. Pass out. <br /><br />You’re woken by the phone. What the…? You get up, whoa, alcohol gets up too, lie back down. Try again. Check the time. It’s FIVE AM. And, of course, it’s him. The Little F***er (LF, for ease of reference.) Drunk, but incredulous, you answer. Lots of background noise, music, laughter, clinking glasses. He’s very happy, he’s had loads more to drink than you have. “Hi baby,” he slurs, with no apparent sense of shame or irony. “Where are you?” Since at this stage you’re incapable of speech, you settle for animal sounds. You bark with annoyance. He’s confused. “Hello?” he pathetically tries again, “What did you say?” By this time you’re so pissed off you’ve strangled your cat. “Anyway,” he soldiers on, “If you’re at home I wanna come over. I’m hungry. Si you have some leftover pork?”<br /><br />I must pause here. I can’t go on. So, here’s the question: what would <em>you </em>do the next time you saw LF? <br /><br />1. Smack him in the mouth.<br />2. Press control alt delete. On his forehead. With a hammer.<br />3. Have sex with him, record it, digitally alter the pictures to his severe detriment and email them to all his pals and Kenyans abroad.<br />4. Hug him tight, tell him "you look ready," then unleash the Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique from Kill Bill.<br />5. Introduce him to your cousin Stevo, the ex-mugger who still enjoys a good workout. <br />6. Offer to give him some pork he’ll never forget. (I don’t even know what that means but it sounds ominous. Discuss.)<br /><br />I'm under no obligation to do any of the above, but you never know. You never know.<br />Vote now.Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1154937324873803282006-08-07T10:29:00.000+03:002006-08-07T11:12:59.790+03:00We interrupt this programming for some important messages…Although I’m hard at work on “A Kenyan’s guide…Vol. II,” I’ve had a few moments to troll through the internet. Saw some pretty amazing things. There's this site that asks: “<strong>Does your cat look like Adolf Hitler? Do you wake up in a cold sweat every night wondering if he's going to up and invade Poland?</strong>” What the..? I thought. Then I saw this picture:<br /><br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/1600/kitler8.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/320/kitler8.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Cracked. Me. Up. <br />The site is called <a href="http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com">Cats that look like Hitler</a>. You can't make this shit up.<br /><br />Now, did you hear about the Congolese guy who showed up for an IT job interview at the BBC and was mistaken instead for an expert on trademark and copyright law? You simply must, must watch the video. The guy’s reaction when he discovers he’s live on air is PRICELESS. Watch it on YouTube <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKjXRmjtIz0&mode=related&search=)" target="_blank">here</a>. You can thank me later.<br /><br />I’ve been visiting some cyberpals too. I was so busy at work on Thursday and Friday that I chatted with <a href="http://mywordsonly.blogspot.com">Acolyte</a> for about an hour each time. Gave him the usual advice one needs while in grad school: rediscover Mexican telenovelas for their socio-political commentary and women with booties that just won't quit; how to party like a rock star and still make your 9 am class, you know, the usual. Stopped by to check out the deliciously filthy <a href="http://nathansavage.blogspot.com">Savage</a>. He's nasty, and we're going to have triplets.<br /><br /><a href="http://jmataachi.blogspot.com">Mataachi </a>has <em>finally </em> given us the 7th chapter in his “Kim” series, (I threatened him with dire consequences if he keeps us waiting for the next scintillating instalment). Read the series from Kim 1 onwards; you won't regret it. <a href="http://dennozbug.blogspot.com"> Country Boyi</a> grew up eating yams and battling night dancers, and is going to marry a beautiful Haitian-American woman as soon as he can tear himself away from his beloved village. <br /><br />Iwaya is <a href="http://madandcrazy.blogspot.com">Madandcrazy</a> except he really isn’t. He’s actually a gentle, sensitive soul prone to brooding over poets, really bad acoustic singers (Jewell? I mean, <em>seriously</em>?) and, um, Notorious B.I.G. We love him anyway. <br /><br />Then there’s <a href="http://ernest-bazanye.blogspot.com ">Baz</a>.Good old methadone-abusing, Iryn Namubiru-worshipping, Hummer-hating Baz, who saw it all on TV once, and laughed out loud. This is because the inside of his mind looks like this:<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/1600/Bosch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/6948/3306/320/Bosch.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1153677556397054772006-07-23T20:51:00.000+03:002006-07-23T21:42:57.686+03:00A Kenyan's Guide To Kenya, Vol. II’ve often been terribly disappointed by the tourist guidebooks written about Kenya. Most of the time they tell you stuff you already know, like “you can go on safari and see some lions.” That’s probably why you wanted to come here in the first place, so that’s not helpful. Other times they give you all manner of useless information. For example: what’s the point of telling you how to ask for directions in Kiswahili if you’re not going to understand the answer? (Sometimes they seem to be written by a malicious Kenyan who hates tourists. One time I was lying on the beach and was accosted by an earnest American who said, “Jambo. Nyinyi muna kula viazi?” First of all, no Kenyan says “Jambo.” Secondly, I was lying on the beach, I was alone and I definitely wasn’t eating potatoes.)<br /><br />These books never tell you about all the amazing people you can meet in Kenya, or how to understand what they’re saying. Determined to correct this horrible wrong, I’m issuing the first of many useful, practical tips for our many visitors. Herewith Volume I of “A Kenyan’s guide to Kenya.” (<strong>Disclaimer</strong>: this is written from a Nairobi perspective. Other parts of the country are a whole other story and will cost you extra.)<br /><br />Here’s what you should know:<br /><br />When we want you to pass us something – the salt, say – we’ll point with our mouths. <strong>Example</strong>: We’ll catch your eye then say, “Nani.” Then we’ll use our mouths to point at the desired object. This is achieved by a slight upward nod followed by an abrupt thrusting out of the lower lip, which is pointed in the object’s general direction. There’s no explanation for this. (“<em>Nani</em>” can be roughly translated as, oh I don’t know, “Whats-your-face,” “You,” or “Thingie.” We’re unfailingly polite.)<br /><br />Frequently, and for no reason whatsoever, we’ll refer to a person as “another guy.” However, this MUST be pronounced/slurred thus: An-aa guy. This also applies to “the other day,” which is when some momentous event in our lives always took place. We do the same thing with Kiswahili words like ‘bwana’, which is pronounced ‘bana.’<br /><strong>Example</strong>: “I was driving in town the aaa day and this guy comes from nowhere and cuts me off, bana. Man I abused him!” ‘Abused’ in this sentence must be drawn out and emphasised for maximum effect: a-<strong>BUSE</strong>-d.<br /><br />We claim to speak English and Kiswahili, which technically means that we should be able to communicate with the English-speaking world and Tanzania. What we really mean is that if you’re not Kenyan you won’t understand a damn word we say or why we say it.<br /><strong>Example</strong>: “Sasa” in Kiswahili means “now.” <em>We </em>use it as a greeting. <br />Correct usage: “Sasa?” “Ah, fit.” It confuses us that Tanzanians don’t understand this. <br /><br />We also, just as randomly, might greet you by saying, “Otherwise?” Common response: “Uh-uh.” There is no explanation for this.<br /><br />Kenyans are multi-lingual, but all this means is that we believe that if we translate something word for word from one language to another it will make sense. A Kenyan might say, for example, “You mean you’re not brothers? But you look each other!” Be kind, they just think that <em>muna fanana </em>can slip into English unfiltered. Speaking of filters, that’s why some people (tribe/ethnicity withheld to protect my uncles) will claim to ‘drink’ cigarettes. If you’re not Kenyan you won’t understand this. Let it go.<br /><br />We can buy beers at police stations. Grilled meat too. Heck, in some cop shops you can even play darts. I am NOT making this up. <strong>Example</strong>: “Man the aaa day I pitiad (pass through) the Spring Valley cop station after work. I was leaving there at midnight, bana. I was so wasted! I told those cops to just let me go home.”<br /><br />Oh, that’s another thing: when we’re leaving a place (your house, a wedding, the cop shop bar) we tend to say, “Ok, me let me go…” We’re not implying that you’re holding us against our will; we’re just saying that we’d like to go. (The plural is, of course, “Us let us go.”)<br /><br />When Kenyans say that you’re mad, it’s a profound compliment. “Man this guy is <em>mad</em>. You know what he did…” then they’ll go on to recount some of your admirable exploits. It’s high praise. Smile modestly and accept it. By modest I mean look down, draw a circle in the dust with the toe of your shoe (or just your toe) and then smile, draw your mouth down into a brief frown, and smile again. Alternate quickly a few times. This is known by English-speaking Kikuyus as The Nyira Smile, or The Sneering Smile. Then say “aah, me?” in a high, sing-songy voice. <strong>However</strong>, only do this if you’re female.<br /><br />On the other hand, if Kenyans ask, “are you normal? (Sometimes pronounced “nomo”), then they’re getting a bit concerned about your state of mental health. Reassure them by buying another round.<br /><br />Which brings me to Alcohol. Our national pastime. You know that myth about Eskimos having thousands of word for ‘snow?’ Well, our beloved drinks are known by a thousand names and phrases too. Kenyans will ‘catch pints (or just ‘catch’),’ ‘go for a swallow,’ have a ‘jweeze,’ ‘keroro,’ ‘kanywaji,’ ‘jawawa…’ really, no list can be exhaustive. Be aware, though, that the words you use will immediately tip off your audience about your age. (For the Kenyans reading this, no I was NOT born during the Emergency, you swine.)<br /><br />Our other pastime is religion. (What contradiction?) If you’re broke on a Sunday – and your hangover is not too bad – stroll over to one of our parks and catch some open-air preaching. Jeevanjee Gardens in town is a prime location. There you will see us in our full multi-lingual, spiritual splendour. There is always, and I mean always, a freelance preacher thundering in English while his loyal and enthusiastic sidekick translates into Kiswahili. <br /><strong>Sample</strong>: <br />Preacher: And then Jesus said…<br />Sidekick: Alafu Yesu akasema…<br />Preacher: Heal!<br />Sidekick: Pona!<br />Preacher: HEAL!<br />Sidekick: PONA!<br />It’s hypnotic. We suggest you go with a Kenyan who understands both languages because sometimes the sidekick nurses higher ambitions and, instead of translating, tries to sneak in his own parallel sermon. If you’re bored in Kenya it’s because you’re dead.<br /><br />As you’ve probably figured out, we like abbreviating things. (Why would the word ‘another’ have to be any shorter than it is? Why would the Kenyans reading this find it odd that I keep talking about ‘Kiswahili?’) This can lead to unnecessary confusion. But by now you should have figured out that when you’re catching and someone says, “<em>Si </em>you throw an-aa ra-o?” they of course want you to buy another round of drinks. Don’t worry about the ‘<em>si</em>;’ like so many words in Swa it’s impossible to translate. Embrace it, sprinkle it liberally in your speech and move on. There are several such words, which will be tackled in Volume II.<br /><br /><strong>Coming up in Volume II</strong>: why you shouldn’t try to understand <em>sheng </em>(and please dear God don’t try to speak it), why your strange ideas about forming queues won’t work here, and why Nairobians love pornographic chicken. Contains a glossary of untranslatable but essential Swa words (like ‘ebu,’ ‘ati,’ ‘kumbe’ and ‘kwani’).Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com74tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1152865174087743162006-07-14T11:06:00.000+03:002006-07-14T11:28:08.620+03:00Before we go any further, there are some things you should know about me…<strong>1.</strong> I’m obsessed with <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/athletics/4412736.stm" target="_blank">Paul Tergat</a>. I love him more than is reasonable. I met him once and almost licked his face.<br /><br /><strong>2.</strong> I love athletics, but this doesn’t mean I can or should run. I did once. I was sixteen, in Form Five, in a mixed boys and girls school. I was a last-minute inclusion in the 4X400 relay during sports day. I didn’t have my shorts, so I borrowed some from a (guy) friend. He was MUCH thinner than me. I grabbed the baton and my moment of glory. I was soaring. I believed. The wind was pushing me along. The wind was my friend; I felt it pushing my whole body. This was because the shorts had ripped from top to bottom, falling into two neat and very separate pieces, exposing my very red underwear. My last memory was of six-year-old boys screaming, falling, collapsing with laughter. When I came to I was in Form Six.<br /><br /><strong>3.</strong> On my first day in New York City a dirty, toothless, homeless woman followed me for three blocks, shouting that I was the filthy whore who’d stolen her husband.<br /><br /><strong>4.</strong> The first time I got my hair ‘relaxed.’ It took me months to convince my mother to let me, and another few months to convince my aunt to give me the Revlon Relaxer Kit she’d brought from London. I finally sat down, with my cousin, at the upscale salon where ‘everyone’ went. Then we waited for the relaxer to do its magic. Nothing happened. The hairdresser came to check. She sniffed the container. “Ah, I know why this thing isn’t working,” she yelled. “It’s rotten!”<br /><br /><strong>5.</strong> So I cut my mangled hair. Then, determined to grow it, got some hair extensions and a fancy braided style. Went to Mombasa, swam as usual. Wondered why these bratty <em>mzungu </em>boys were following me in the pool. The next morning at breakfast, right there next to the cornflakes and milk, one of the brats marched up to me, holding a bunch of my cowrie-shell adorned braids in his sweaty little hand. “Here,” he announced, “you keep leaving these in the pool.” Then to his friend, confidentially, sorrowfully, “She does her hair so tight it falls off. She’ll be bald soon.”<br /><br /><strong>6.</strong> My life can be described as a “History of Increasing Humiliation.”<strong>*</strong> See <strong>2</strong>, <strong>3</strong>, <strong>4</strong>, and <strong>5 </strong>above. <br /><br /><strong>7.</strong> Then there are times when I feel no shame. I once stole a rock. I was in Standard One, six years old, and a girl had brought a shiny white stone to ‘show and tell’ or some such nonsense. I liked it, pretended it was mine - I even showed it to the teacher again, claiming credit - and took it home. I kept it till I was in high school. That’s right, a rock. Yeah, I’m bad.<br /><br /><strong>8.</strong> People keep asking me what’s playing on my iPod. As if. I still have a Betamax. My niece thinks I’m cool and modern, but that’s because she thinks it’s a microwave.<br /><br /><br /><strong>*</strong><em>With thanks to Martin Amis, who understands.</em>Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1152713591190420192006-07-12T17:08:00.000+03:002006-07-12T17:20:25.503+03:00In love with Wordy Harry..."I know what you're thinking, punk," hissed Wordy Harry to his new editor, "you're thinking, 'Did he use six superfluous adjectives or only five?' -- and to tell the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement; but being as this is English, the most powerful language in the world, whose subtle nuances will blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel loquacious?' -- well do you, punk?"<br /><br />The Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest winner was announced today, and the sentence above came in second. SECOND, I ask you! Ok, the winner was pretty <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060712/od_nm/life_badwriting_dc_2" target="_blank">bad</a> but the Wordy Harry? Needed to win!Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30771461.post-1152253230226369612006-07-07T09:17:00.000+03:002006-07-07T09:20:30.233+03:00First Post... more to come!So I finally got a blog. It's about time; tired of walking around writing things in my head. Dashing home to jot them down, then finding I'd forgotten them. I'm also so PISSED OFF with some people that I need an anonymous place to GET. IT. OUT. Oh, be afraid. Be very afraid.<br /><br />Hey, I feel better already!<br /><br />More soon!Kenyanchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01713114710202399107noreply@blogger.com9