A Stream of Consciousness Introduction


Kenyan Girl's Guide to Dynamic Musings without Research

Where is a good place to start? I am not at the beginning of any journey, nor am I mid-step or coming to the close of any chapter in my life. I’m not even sure I’m in the right place to begin writing, but perhaps this uncertainty will be good for my creativity.

I was once younger than twenty and brimful of the arrogance that comes with relative but over-estimated intelligence and the supreme confidence of untested youth. I believed in building houses in various capitals of the world, a law career in expensive suits, and securing (procuring would be strange) a gorgeous man who was the epitome of desirability in fatherhood, loverhood, brotherhood and faithful friendship. I believed in learning the admirable personality traits of coy but wise reserve, joyfully or simply consistently waking up early, and achieving likeability by keeping at least two thirds of my foot out…

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I am trying to get right with the Feminist gods, but chiiiiiile it ain’t easy out here for a judgmental bitch. I am a Feminist, or according to the majority of Kenyan men on twitter ( an overweight, angry hoe whose man hating is fueled by rejection from the superior male species). Four years ago though? Not so much I was just as bad as your average Nigerian Auntie, signature sneer, hand-clapping and all thinking “Look at this Jezebel, I will pray for the Lord to return the rest of your skirt. Where has it gone oh? Ehen go ahead and catch pneumonia because you want this boy to buy you two pieces of chicken after the disco” .

To me being a feminist meant hating men, unshaven armpits and saggy breasts from years of not wearing bras in protest. I was hella ignorant and very comfortable in my patriarchy woven cocoon ready to blossom into a misogyny propelled butterfly out here for all de manz approval cemented by likes on insta. I can’t pinpoint the exact time that this changed, but one day I was just like Haya! You mean we can breathe without seeking a man’s approval as to whether we should have inhaled on the 3rd or 5th second? I mean any woman that inhales 2 seconds later than a man expects her to is a wild animal undeserving of coexistence with the rest of the respectable human race.

So forget my above wild analogy, but once I started to actually learn about Feminism, what it meant, what it had done for us and what more we still had to do, my eyes were opened to so many truths. Men were not entitled to our bodies? It was ok to say no? To be ‘unpleasant’ or ‘difficult’? and if I did do something that would have me referred to as such, I wouldn’t turn into over-dried Obambla? Hei! Wonders shall never cease.

I begun to understand just how much growing up in a society and a world so strongly founded on patriarchy had flawed my thinking. Suddenly things that would be funny to me weren’t anymore, when I’d hear about a girl that had been drunk on a night out on the town and had some lecher take advantage of her I didn’t ask ” Kwani what was she wearing? Why did she leave with that guy? Kwani she didn’t know what would happen?” because I was starting to understand that that lecherous troll’s entitlement to her body was the only thing that occasioned that violation. NOT how low-cut her dress was, not how many shots of Camino she took and certainly NOT because she wandered off alone. Is she a Telletubbie? Must she constantly walk around the city in  groups of four?

Sexual oppression and the objectification of women’s bodies is just a weevil in a bag of maize, there are many more insects oh! I do get irritated by women that rubbish feminism but at the same time, I understand that society has conditioned them to think the way they do, so it’s more disappointing than infuriating. I also wish that the men so opposed to this school of thought would understand that feminism is here for them too. Too free them from this falsehood that is ‘masculinity’. To be like Hey! Patriarchy fucked ya’ll over too bruh! You can’t cry after your ex leaves you for some lightskin dude, you’re one stressor away from a nervous breakdown because you don’t know how to deal with your anxiety, you can’t handle the pressure of being the person society expects you to be because you’re supposed to ‘Be a Man’, men are strong, they’re ‘protectors’, they’re fixers. God did not call you to be Bob the Builder oh! He called you to be yourself, even if that is a person that wants to be a Mills & Boon cover model.

The damage created by sexism has already been done. What’s important is for both women and men to begin undoing this damage because contrary to popular belief the destruction of patriarchy benefits both sexes. To make our unbelieving sisters understand that even though they may not identify with feminism, probably due to a lot of misconceptions, a lot of the freedoms they have today are because of the feminists (some of whom didn’t consciously identify as being so) that broke through those barriers to make it possible. The future generations of both men and women are to live in a world where  it is inexcusable for a woman to be gang raped, have her innards pulled out of her body and left for dead, all because she had been riding on a bus unchaperoned late at night, so a group of well-intentioned men thought it right to violate and kill her to rid the world of this immoral Jezebel. A world where men do not have to feel more empowered by using Nivea Cocoa Butter in a navy blue bottle, my friend if God forbid you were to use a pink moisturizer, will the devil send you Job’s leprosy?

Do I still catch myself thinking “Hei! There is not enough coldcap that will cure the cold this girl will catch with this her outfit”? Yes I do, it’s a process but I’m trying, none of us are born Feminists. We can all learn and teach as well as unlearn the damage sexism has created. I don’t think learning is the problem though, because a lot of people still don’t understand why the destruction of sexism is so important. People are fine with things being as they are and only one or two extreme cases (Brock Turner aka Rapist Swimmer) shock SOME people into changing their perspective on things, but what about the little things? The little obstacles we have to deal with on the daily? It shouldn’t take something so extreme to spark a conversation. So get  to talking ya’ll, while I try to continue to slay my Slut-shaming Nigerian Auntie Demon.

I See You Casper….

I know I said I was done, but I just had to purge this story out of my system. This is a story about Casper the Texting Ghost. If you are a living, breathing human being, with access to the internet and just enough self-loathing to be dating in 2016, then you have had some experience with ghosting.

A texting ghost will not linger around your house and watch you shower like a regular ghost or haunt your new wife and levitate her bucket of bathing water like a Nollywood ghost. This particular ghost cannot get away from you any faster, he has no desire to linger, unless it is on deserted oasis far far away from anyone or anything related to you. This dude would rather die and reincarnate as a Birdman face tattoo than text you back. He’d probably rather take time out of his day everyday to go to City Hall and have Evans Kidero slap him  for fifteen minutes than answer that DM.

I know all this because a long, long time ago in March 2016, I let a Casper come into my life to waste my time and bundles. It was one dark, ratchet March night, I was doing what I always do on a night out, drinking too many Jager bombs, doing my best Joseline Hernandez impressions, chasing all the boys from the yard with awkward conversation and twerking to my heart’s content. Mid-twerk, I got a 911 text from my friend, let’s call her Tara. Tara had gotten word from someone that they had seen her man walk into the club with somebody that wasn’t her and it looked very sospishos *insert Nigerian accent*. So she wanted me to go spy on her boyfreind because the idjot that gave her the tea had left the club. Before you judge me, understand that I am Luhya and it would be an affront to my ancestors for me to walk away from a scandal of this magnitude.

So I began my mission by first looking for the suspect’s friends, fuckboys never operate alone, they move in packs, spreading heartbreak, deceit and diseases. It wasn’t that hard all I had to do was rule out all the tables without sheesha bongs, and in no time, I had zeroed in on the suspect’s table. Let me give some advice to all you lightskin boys trying to cheat, if you’re going to step out on your girl:

  1. Be discreet, you are very easy to find, even in the dark.
  2. Don’t be the only lightskin in the crew, recruit two or three decoys to go out with you to throw us off your scent.

Needless to say I caught the suspect in the act, just as I was drafting my full report to my client, an agent of satan stopped me in my tracks. It was Casper, only I didn’t know it was him at the time, he was just a cute boy that stopped to talked to me and charmed me into giving him my number.

I went home high on the success of my mission and Casper’s instagram which I had been lurking on all the way home. Every girl knows instagram is where the Bae investigation must begin, in case you don’t know his full name yet, consult Truecaller and she will give you all the information you need. We texted back and forth, he even called that night and we agreed to talk the next day. This went on through the week then suddenly, crickets! Heh, I was confused, has this boy not texted me back or is there no network in Nairobi? Just to make sure, I restarted my phone, asked my sister to call me to see if my phone was working and sure enough it was. I came to the only logical conclusion that made sense in this situation, he was dead. So I texted him asking him if he was dead. He didn’t respond, so it is safe to assume that Casper Bae is no longer with us. His instagram says otherwise, but for the sake of my pride I will continue to think that he was hit by an Embassava just as he was about to reply to my text.

I was so upset, but after a few episodes of Catfish I realized that being ghosted wasn’t really that bad, there is a girl out here that thought she had been talking to Bow Wow for three months only to realize that she had been sending nudes to a 15 year old trans boy. The roles where reversed recently though and I had to ghost someone, after this experience, I honestly get it man. Sometimes you just don’t want to have to tell someone that you don’t want to keep talking to them, because it’s just an awkward ass conversation to have. Every time this ghostee would blow up my phone I’d be like “Damn! Can’t I ghost someone in peace!!!!!” When he texted me to tell me he was blocking me I was so relieved fam.

So I don’t have answers for ya’ll here, if I am ghosting you let me do it in peace, if you ghost me, hell fire shall consume you  and you will never find happiness.

Uhm…No Thanks.

Do you want to go on a date or nah? Bruh please stahp!

Ladies and gentlemen I have officially retired from the game, as slang abuse would say, it is time to write my hoebituary. Well unless MY INSTAGRAM CRUSH, who shall remain nameless, but posted the bombest selfie of all time on the 6th of June, 2016 at 4.29 pm asks me out. Then me and my recovering edges will jump up outta the tomb on the third day and up in his DM.

That however, will never happen because I will NEVER tell him how I feel because why would I do that? The whole point of having a crush is not to have a crush on just anyone, he needs to be as unattainable as possible, preferably working or studying outside of the country, also ensure that he is EXTREMELY ATTRACTIVE, enough to warrant the attention of 79,673 girls per day etc etc. Plus he is luhya, I have sworn off luhya men since 2009 de devil will not take me back nah!

Anyway, I’ve been single for a while and I had gotten pretty comfortable with it, but one day, the same spirit that blinded Samson from Delilah’s wickedness, came to me in a dream and told me that I needed to get back in the game. Of course I listened, what fool will not heed the call of wickedness and confusion. As a young Nairobi girl, one must pass through the first stage of disappointment, Tinder. Let me just ask, who knew there were that man thirsty Turkish men in Athi River? We were talking about Jon Snow dying two seconds ago, what from that conversation gave you the green light to ask about my body count? Needless to say, Tinder didn’t last long. One can only receive so many unwanted hairy selfies.

Stage two, go on a date with a guy you met at a petrol station parking lot in Westlands on a night out. Ladies! Ladies! Come closer, Imma tell you a secret real quick. Just coz a dude asks you to be his girlfriend doesn’t mean he wants to be in a relationship! I know what you’re thinking like “Jay, this dude deadass asked me to be his girl at the Krishna Plaza parking lot, he really really likes me, he called me Babe twice on WhatsApp.” Nope, nope, nope save yourself before you find out on instagram that he took his real girlfriend to your favorite restaurant. Shout out to all the girls with no private instagrams, letting us lurking sistaz save ourselves from heartbreak.

Stage three, you know that dude with no picture in his avi that’s been sliding into your DM? Yasss gurl reply to all of his messages. His english is kinda off and you still don’t know what he looks like? What red flags? Talk to this boy, I’m telling you he is not really a compulsive liar that looks like Dobby the elf (No shade Dobby) in real life. Just because you got catfished once doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let it happen again.

In the end, as any strong independent black woman that lives on a weekly allowance from their mother will understand, spending all my hard earned money at Chicken Inn and Toi is much easier fam. All I realized from putting myself out there again is that I understand just as much about being in relationships with boys as Jodie Foster does, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. The dude in The Hurt Locker had an easier time with that bomb than I have texting boys. So much to analyze, everything has a deeper meaning or means nothing and you’re reading into it too much. My anxiety has never been worse, I don’t know how girls out here do it honestly. I felt like Kirstie Alley in the first month of her 15th diet. Angry, confused and in constant need of a tub of ice-cream.

So no, this girl is OUT!


Wednesday Addams with a Touch of Katy Perry

I’ve just been reading an article on introverts, extroverts and their personality traits. I’m trying to figure out which category I fall under because I don’t know why I love people but can’t stand them all at the same time. I can’t decide, I think I’m both. Sometimes I need to constantly be around people and other times I’m trying to figure out just how rich I need to be to buy my own private island, where I would spend eternity with Jason Momoa. Why wouldn’t aquaman want to spend the rest of his life on an Island with me?

I feel so much more interesting when I’m moody. All dark, brooding and hating everything. I like that I hate talking to and being around people sometimes. It’s kinda fun wearing black everyday and death glaring at everyone that has the misfortune of passing by me. On days like these I want to wake up with Medusa’s snake hair and turn everyone that annoys me into stone. The other side of me loves being around people, making them laugh and constantly talking about myself, whether the other person cares to listen or not. Being incredibly loud and annoying are skills that I greatly excel at, skills because, annoying people is an art not easily mastered by common folk, only a chosen few such as myself have perfected it.

During my people hating episodes, I spend my interactions with them wondering whether people can actually be as stupid as I think they are. They can. Like I didn’t get out of bed earlier than I would have liked just to get to school three hours later than I expected (because the governor of my county would rather take selfies with washed up blonde haired celebrities than do anything about the traffic on Mombasa Road) for you to tell me about how you think you’re in love with the boy you met at Molly’s some Saturday night.

He bought you two shots of tequila, then with gentlemanly charm that would put Edward Rochester and Chuck Bass to shame, went on to invite you to his hostel. He even had the courtesy to pay for the cab with money that he asked from you. But he did pay for your drinks and opened the door for you after you paid for the cab, so it must be serious, right? You then had a romantic night(two hours of him convincing you that you’d be more comfortable without your dress on) filled with Tropikal Air freshener and candle light, that you later found out was because he hadn’t paid his light bill. Cecily von Ziegesar and Charlotte Bronte obviously didn’t know what they were talking about, THIS my friends, is the real deal!

Things like the above statement are reasons why I’m not exactly a people person. Mostly I’m just mean in my head, but sometimes my mouth has a mind of its own. Like when someone tells me I need to lose weight or that I should probably wear a shirt with sleeves so the stretch marks on my bat wings won’t show. I respond by telling them that at least I can lose the weight, they will unfortunately always have a disturbingly frightful face. The shocked expression on babies faces upon seeing said disturbingly frightful face is not the look of awe and wonder that North West looks at her mother’s unnaturally perfect face with. No, it is the tragic realization that Rumpelstiltskin is not a fictional character, but is in fact alive and well and lives down the street but has a Brazilian weave and matte lipstick.

I also don’t plan on losing any weight because I don’t think I need to. I’m actually fine with having cellulite and stretch marks because contrary to popular belief and Cosmopolitan Magazine, it’s NORMAL.

Basically I’m Wednesday Addams on most days and Katy Perry the rest of the time I’m not imagining how many people I could turn into stone. It can be confusing for people that don’t know me that well, they stick around though, because I’m pretty awesome.