Will You Bury Me?

Tahidi High is on the TV, rain drops are in the sky, love is in the air, Usain Bolt is in the country, the constitutional process is in disarray, history is in the making, Jeremy is out of the Big Brother House, Success Cards are in all shops, the KCSE examination is in progress, weddings are on the horizon, AFC Leopards are on the prowl, Tom Cholmondoley is out of prison, a very sardonic smile is on my lips and you -my friends- are on my mind!

It must be November.

And it really is. Judging by my two posts in October which all happened to be guests, it was as if I had taken on Wyclef Jean’s Gone Til November. As anyone who has ever lost an opportunity for a quickie would easily tell you, time waits for no man.

Monique had been out of town to the Mara the last two weekends and I had realized how she filled a huge needy void in my life but that was quickly forgotten when she came back and asked me to babysit her nephew Marcus as she went to get her nails done. Or whatever it is women like to do at the salon.

First, this was something I could not say ‘Nooooooooooo!’ to granted that Marcus is a four year old boy who lost his adoring and adorable parents last year.

Second, I sensed this was some sort of test Monique was setting me up for and I was in the mood for tests with the hope that when she came back from the salon she would be in the mood for testes.

Third, I was avoiding another messy fight and having gone through a dry spell for the past couple of months, chances of Monique picking an easy fight were as high as chances of a hotel keeper in a dingy River Road hotel finding dirty sheets in the room.

It all started when Monique mentioned that I needed to see a shrink about my highbrow attitude after I casually mentioned that I was in the middle of a conundrum of submissions for a client who was paying maintenance for his son and wanted to have a clause stipulating that in the event his ex-wife had another baby with another man, he would stop paying maintenance for the son.

Under Divorce Law, children are called ‘issues’. And, boy, do people have issues!

‘Why would he stop paying maintenance for his son just because the lady has another child with another man?’ Monique had posed as she peered over her cup of pineapple tea.

Because he wouldn’t be sure that all the money he sent to her would be spent exclusively on his son and not the other kid.

‘You seem to be siding with your client on that one like you believe he is doing the right thing?’

Oh no.

Before I knew it, the idea of me spending time with Marcus had been conceived and born.

I didn’t mind it at all. Marcus turned out to be quite exciting company.

‘Mbona unapenda ku-watch gazeti?’ he asked me as soon as he realized I was paying more attention to the newspaper than to his self.

He went ahead and doodled with a marker pen some writings on the wall. At least he will be remembered by my landlord for that. Or even better, by the unfunny Marangi.

Before long, he had fished some red thong from the sofa and holding it, he playfully asked whom it belonged to as he laughed. The poor kid. Like my grandma Rosa says, humour is the ability to laugh even when there is no joke. When he grows up, he will realize that taking off a woman’s panties is the most erotic thing anyone can do, sometimes even better than the sex itself.

But I digress. Seeing Marcus holding the thong was the last straw. I closed the newspaper and told him we had to get out of the house. We ended up having to go watch some cartoon movie at the theatres, but that didn’t stop the boy asking another million questions. My guess is that when this boy grows up, he would be a journalist.

So when that baby sitting session had passed and I thought I was a free man, Monique suggested that it would be a great idea to attend the birthday party for another nephew. That was bad for a Sunday that had started so brightly.

I had walked down the stairs to the kitchen wearing some bathrobe that I am being forced to wear in the house, when I bumped into Cilla wearing nothing but a t-shirt.

‘Hey you!’ she squealed. ‘You should check out the breakfast I have laid out for you. Truly fit for a king!’

Don King.

This was Cilla’s way of saying sorry for messing up my dishes after she sheepishly washed all of them using a hand-wash rather than the Morning Fresh dish washing liquid. If that was her way of saying sorry, perhaps she ought to make a few more blooming gaffes.

As I picked the newspapers, Monique walked in, wearing another white bathroom robe.

‘Put on some clothes!’ she barked at Cilla. You would think the t-shirt her friend had on was invisible.

‘Before I forget, I hope we are going for Prince’s birthday party’, she said it for the first time whilst looking at me as if she had mentioned this request before.

Are you kidding me? Prince? The one year old nephew? The sprog is one year! He wouldn’t even notice if I went for his party nor care if I missed it.

‘Sprog?’ she asked.

Well I tried to explain that it was an affectionate word for a child but she wasn’t buying it. It was like asking Wako to smile more. Not even a visa ban could wipe out the smile from his face just as no explanations could wipe out the snarl on Monique’s.

‘First you call children issues, and now you term them frogs!’

Frogs? This beauty queen could easily be crowned Miss Quoted!

I do hate birthday parties. Especially those for children who reckon that the very birthday parties are an unnecessary interruption to their schedule of Kim Possible watching. Plus who doesn’t know that the ‘Happy Birthday To You’ song has a copyright and shouldn’t be sung in public until the year 2030. True.

Not that I can sing. When Marcus tried to get me to do a rendition of ‘Old McDonald Had A Farm’ it was clear that this voice has not been getting better ever since my distant-in-memory Class Six carol night as my performance was rather off the notes drawing giggles from the bemused but quite thong-fishing lad. Things change. For few decades ago when you said ‘the Sopranos’ I would’ve been one, but if you say it now, I will tell you I am not part of the mob.

So I mentioned it to Monique that I also had to stick around so I could watch ‘a Manchester football match’ later in the day. Since she doesn’t know the difference between Manchester United and Manchester City, she simply marched off, slammed the door and drove off.

Cilla came down the stairs having replaced the t-shirt with a pink bathroom robe and sat on the couch. Whoever bought those bathroom robes should really be shot.

‘I also get confused especially after that Carlos Tevez move,’ she said. The thing about her is that at least she gets the football thing. She however threw in a dampener when she sided with her friend by saying ‘You really should have gone for Prince’s birthday party’

Prince. The last time I saw that kid he threw up on me. But wait ... hold on. That wasn’t Prince. At the time, he was called Joseph. Then some village idiot claimed it was impolite to name a child after a living soul, as the mother of one of his parents was Josephine. So they changed it to Prince. He is only one year old and the boy has changed names more than the Zain network.

I believe if I turn out for his second birthday, he would be The Baby Formerly Known As Prince.

‘You know Our Kid, you have to attend functions such as birthday parties. Otherwise, when you die, no one will come to your funeral!’

I spilled my coffee and it poured on Cilla’s robe. The coffee was rather hot and must have scalded her as she instinctively disrobed revealing that she wasn’t wearing anything else underneath the robe.

I apologized but she told me not to worry as I hadn’t scalded her most precious asset: her mat. Whilst I wondered when she bought a matatu, she told me ‘mat’ was the short form of the Swahili word for bum. She went upstairs to change.

I was left wondering: Do people really attend birthday parties so that people can come to bury them? Would anyone want to come to my funeral? Would it hurt me if no one came to bury me? All uneasy thoughts but perhaps they are what keep so many of us hopping from birthday party to another or wedding ceremony to another.

The rest of the day went smoothly with me returning Cilla the favour by preparing our lunch within the breaks of watching some crappy football matches. This camaraderie was shattered when Monique walked back in and uttered four heavy words: We need to talk.

You know, this might be the lady who buries me. Moments after killing me.

I feebly attempted to lessen the heightened tension by asking her how Prince’s birthday party went.

‘What do you care?’ she retorted.

I was hoping that this wasn’t the beginning of another four word sentences disguised as a conversation. Then I spotted a book she was carrying. It was one of those demotivational books with a title Become A Better You. The author is a Joel Somebody.

‘I have been thinking…’ she said and paused. Ooooh, four words sentences. Apparently, she has been thinking that I am incapable of any form of serious loving. That I don’t seem to say the right things at the right time. And she has been taking all this crap until she came to a certain realization.

‘You are a robot!’ she said.

I am a what?

‘You are emotionally selfish’, she continued. Apparently, I act like I don’t need anyone, by which I guess she means herself. That I do things that are unpredictable in our relationship. Me? Unpredictable? I have worn a blue shirt each and every Monday for the last ten years without even once failing to do so!

But when a woman says WE need to talk, SHE needs to talk, and so I didn’t interrupt.

She demanded that I should read that book. I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover but I hate books which have the author on the cover. And smiling! It is as if they are happy that another gullible one just made them inch higher on the bestseller list.

She said something about how she has thinks I need to find myself. How this relationship needs a mission and a vision.

What? This isn’t a venture. It should be an adventure. This was getting plain ridiculous.

‘You are so wrong,’ she said.

I am?

She was quiet. Not a good sign for someone who needed to talk. I spoke too soon.

‘Will you marry me?’ she asked.

What The Cell?

I got this in one of Monique's magazines that she has placed in the loo. Then today at a wedding I attended, someone answered their cellphone in church! The setting here is changed to Mombasa, but what a sweet article. Enjoy.

It was a beautiful day at the beach –blue sky, gentle breeze, calm sea. I knew these things because a man sitting five feet from me was shouting them into his cell-phone, like a play-by-play announcer.

‘IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY,’ he shouted. ‘THE SKY IS BLUE, AND THERE’S A BREEZE, AND THE WATER IS CALM, AND THE SURF IS UP...’

Behind me, a woman, her cell phone pressed to her ear, was pacing back and forth. ‘She DIDN’T,’ she was saying. ‘No. She DIDN’T. She DID? Really? Are you SERIOUS? She, did NOT. She DID? NO, she DIDN’T. She DID? NO...’

And so on. This woman had two chil­dren, frolicking in the surf. I found myself watching them, because the woman sure­ly was not. A giant squid could have surfaced and snatched the children, and this woman wouldn’t have noticed. Or, if she had, she’d have said, ‘Listen, I have to go, because a qiant squid just…No! She didn’t! She DID? She…’

And next to me, the play-by-play man would have said: ‘…AND A GIANT SQUID JUST ATE TWO CHILDREN, AND I’M GETTING A LITTLE SUN-BURNED, AND…

It used to be that the beach’s major annoyance was the jerk who brought a boom box and cranked it up so loud the bass notes caused seagulls to explode. But at least you knew where these jerks were. You never know which beach­combers have cell-phones. You’ll settle next to what appears to be a sleeping sunbather, or even (you hope) a corpse, and you’ll sprawl happily on your towel, and you’ll get all the way to the second sentence of your 467-page hook before you doze off to the hypnotic surge of the surf, and...

BREEP! BREEP! The corpse sits up, gropes urgently for its cell-phone, and shouts, ‘Hello! Oh, hi! I’m at the beach! Yes! The beach! Yes! It’s nice! Very peace­ful! Very relaxing! What? She did? No, she DIDN’T! She DID? No, she...’

Loud cell-phoners never seem to get urgent calls. Just once, I’d like to hear one of them say’: Hello? Yes, this is Dr Kariuki. Oh, hello, Dr Makau. You’ve opened the abdominal cavity? Good! Now the appen­dix should be right under the... What? No, that’s the liver. Don’t take THAT out, ha ha! Oh, you did? Whoops! OK, now listen very, very carefully.



The good news is some politicians want to ban cell-phone use. The bad news is that so far they’ve only banned using hand-held cell-phones in cars, which is the one place innocent bystanders don’t have to listen to it. Granted, drivers using cell-phones may cause accidents (‘I gotta go because I just ran over a man, and he’s bleeding from the... What? She DID? NO, she didn’t. She DID? No, she..’)

But seriously folks, I don’t believe dri­vers yakking away on cell-phones are nearly as dangerous as drivers with babies in the back seat. I’m one of those drivers, and we’re definitely’ a menace, especially when our baby has dropped her Barney doll and is screaming to get it hack, and we’re steering with one hand and groping under the back seat with the other. (Groping for Barney would be a good name for a metal band!)

So we should, as a long-overdue safety measure, ban babies.

But that’s not my point. My point is there’s good news on the cellphone front. Several companies are selling devices that jam cellphone signals. Yes! These devices broadcast a signal that causes every cellphone in the immediate vicinity to play the 1974 hit song 'Kung Fu Fighting'. No, that’d be too wonderful. But, really, these devices actually cause nearby cellular phones to register ‘NO SERVICE’.

Unfortunately there’s a catch. Because of an outfit calling itself the ‘Communications Commission of Kenya’ (CCK), these cellphone-jam­ming devices might soon be illegal in Kenya. I say this stinks. I say we should all contact our local politicians. Tell them if they really want to make up for proposing that 'One Parking Bay, One Attendant' idea, they should put down their palmtops for a moment and pass a bill legalising these devices, at least for beach use.

I realise some of you disagree with me. I realise you have solid reasons -perhaps life-and-death reasons-why you MUST have your cellphone working at all times, everywhere. If you’re one of those people, please believe me when I say this: I can’t hear you!

(c) Dave Barry 2001

The Bride and Groom

Something different. This is a guest post by the lovely Aquastar. Wedding Planner extraordinaire.

Aren’t they sweet? When they are wreathed in smiles and saying “I do” he in the strong assured voice and she in that coquettish breathless voice that only women or truly gay men can perfect. (By the way the coquettish voice takes a lifetime to perfect, it starts from babyhood, but that as they say is a story for another day)

Having never been married and seriously in danger of swearing off the institution for life due to the pretence I have been privy to, that leads up to those grand affairs that Citizen has turned into an advertising cash cow named well you know the name so why waste space repeating it? Anyway where was I ahhh cash cow gimmick (You have got to love dear Masha he knows where money resides like any good okuyo sorry businessman)

So here is the low down that dear Noni neglects to mention during that one hour marathon of sugar and spice and all things wedding.

BRIDEONSTER: - yep a new word has been coined for that sweet thing wearing all that white frilly lace and cooing “I doo”

The brideonster is a unique shaken and stirred combination of a bridezilla, perfectionist, P.M.Sing bitch and those weird women on the rave who pour booze on peeps, beat the bouncer and cashier and piss on the floor like a drunken guy because their ten bob is missing from their 1000 bob change.

Here are the types of brideonsters that exist and woe unto you if the two of the personalities decide to form a coalition or government of national unity aka GNU.

The Micro Manager Brideonster:- This is the type of bride who must know, approve, re-bargain and re-confirm everything, never mind that as a planner you have the expertise in the field of weddings noooooo, if you omit something you are a liar, if you edit something you are trying to play her and woe unto you if ask for re-confirmations from her. The most popular response I have heard is ‘”Aren’t you the expert in this field? You should have advised/not advised/ had the omnipotence and omnipresence of God to read my thoughts, condense them into a form that I would like and then acted upon them accordingly. This type of bride is a perfect nightmare, as she thinks that:

a) You are a lying, cheating, desperate idle, idiot who must be policed constantly and relies on the money she is paying you as wedding planning is your last stop in life because if truth be told she is way more intelligent than you, as she works for mega-huge corporate or a bank and would have planned her wedding herself were it not for the fact that she is running this super huge corporate/bank/N.G.O. Never mind that she may just be a mere executive assistant or receptionist or sales person, hell no you may mistake her for the M.D. Added on to that her e-mails and phone conversations with you will always contain phrases such as, “you know you came highly recommended, but why is that I have to keep on following up on stuff I told you to do? I thought my wedding is now your responsibility and blah blah blah blah nonsense.

This bride always goes behind your back to harangue and arm twist suppliers/vendors (these are the guys supplying the tents, food, entertainment etc) into giving further discounts and slashing prices. In addition, she will complain to them how lazy/dishonest/and slow you are and that she has only hired you as her planner as an errand and go to person for the suppliers, a mouth piece for her if so wish to sugar coat it.

However she will still smile in your face and express surprise at why vendors are by-passing you to get to her directly or their quotes and services have suddenly changed etc. You are also sunk if they(vendor and bride) are of the same tribe, they will proceed to have long conversations in their mother tongue with you standing by looking clueless as you undoubtly are cos duh its kao and you are luhya

b) You are mentally challenged/akili punguani as regards planning things ( no disrespect meant to our mentally handicapped brothers and sisters, I love them they are them most honest humans next to kids and pets) and therefore you need her to handhold you through out the planning and co-ordination of her wedding. To her you are another project to be managed with the zeal and vigour she applies to her office projects. This usually leads to the phrases such as, “ you came highly recommended and blah blah please refer to (a) above,” due to the fact that she finds that her actions actually impede than progress her wedding, but that again is your fault too as the planner.

c) You are an idiot who never went past form four(as if people with KCSE qualifications are idiots) or are a mere student(if she gets to know that you are in University) who has no inkling as to the seriousness of her wedding and marriage and therefore treat her wedding as a fun, by the way thing that you are using to liven up your mundane life

d) It doesn’t matter how many weddings you have planned in the past, this one is hers and hence it is different. Never mind that you are simply photocopying nani’s wedding as she actually came with photos of everything and said, “I want you to do my wedding like XYZ’ wedding.”(Lack of Creativity, Yawn) and that she says, “I want ___________ (mundane and over used vendor who short changes brides) to do my cake/tents/ etc.

Additionally due to the fact that you have never planned HER wedding before(never mind that it is the photocopied type that you can plan with eyes closed, reciting the bible backwards in Hindu) she must have last say in all things, including the type of plastic that has been used to make the chair she will be sitting on at her high table and let us not forget the thread count of the seat cover that her bridal gown encased derrie will perching on because God forbid should she feel the least bit uncomfy

Folks I could go on about micro manager, but we must move on

The Amnesiac Brideonster: - this type of brideonster encompasses the micromanager brideonster, as well a memory that would make a goldfish look like an expert memory champion. In addition this bride can go psycho on you and insult you and demean you, and call you the next day and sweetly inquire how you are feeling and isn’t the wedding a lot of work to plan, what would she do without you (sigh). [PSYCHOOOOOOOOO]

Apart from the sieve like memory, this bride will always leave fundamental issues pending and then turn around and pin them on you. The most extreme one I heard was,

Bride (to planner): Why didn’t you remind me to buy sexy lingerie for my honeymoon? Now Secrets has run out of my size and what will I wear?

Planner: I am not sure how exactly I………………………..

Bride: What did I hire you for? Aki Kenyans you cant expect better blah blah blah blah

The ‘laissez-faire’ Brideonster: - This type of bride can be both a good and bad thing, you what they say about too much of something. Simply put, this bride is the opposite of the micromanager brideonster. While the micro manager has an opinion and set rules about every thing, this bride has no opinion about anything about her wedding and everything and anything goes. This should be an ideal bride for a planner right? WRONG! As she has no opinion about anything you can bet that all her female relatives and extended family as well as prospective in-laws have an opinion and want to plan her wedding because after all she has no opinion and will just be a figure head in her wedding.

What you end up with as a planner is a Kofi Annan post election violence Kenya in Jan 2008 whereby you have to be smuggled into the bride’s presence to plead with her to calm her horde of opportunistic relatives and in-laws who have turned her wedding into a version of their own weddings/marketing opportunities for their own businesses or friends businesses/a chance to gain kick backs form wily vendors/an opportunity to prove themselves to the rest of the family extended or otherwise/a chance to outshine each other as in-laws rivaling, and explain to them that you, yes you (one person) has a fool proof, fail safe and tried and tested methodology of effectively planning her wedding.

Woe unto you as a planner if your particular bride is a mouse that has no hopes of ever roaring, wewe umeishiwa, tuonane ahera, because you will definitely suffer a stroke/heart attack/madness all at once. And trust me neither heaven nor hell will take you as St. Peter and which ever demon manns the hell gate will be bouncing you back and forth each claiming to have no knowledge of you and that you are solely the responsibility of the other.

The papier mache/collage/montage brideonster: - This bride is just a fancy copy cat or rather a tasteless wannabe who pretends to have more class than that famous Collin Cowie (super, mega, rich and totally groundbreaking party planner that Oprah is always going “dahaling” to)

So any way this bride is usually a summer bunny from any foreign country which can even be T.Z or U.G. (No offence meant to our neighbours) and claims to know exactly how classy she wants her wedding to be. She will then proceed to combine the Victorian, Edwardian, African, Indo-Chinese, Indian (Hindu) and ultra modern chic, turn of the century American, as well as Puritan American (okay so I have exaggerated on the Puritan point but you get the picture) themes.

What you end up with is a scary gathering that not even Halloween or those Nigerian movie witch doctor scenes covers. Just think of those neon signs that Pelican or Falcon Signs sell and try and condensing it into a wedding, nauseating isn’t it? Added onto that the republic of Kenya only sanctions marriages performed between 6am to 6 pm, but as her planner you will be expected to somehow void reality and create an 8pm wedding for her because as she would say, “Out there (as if Kenya has outer space high walls around it with no internet access) evening/night weddings are all the rave dahaaaling.”

Just as you cannot mix wines, spirits and barley without consequences that include but are not limited to projectile vomiting, diarrhoea, and dehydration; the end result of this delusion of grandeur are wedding pictures that everyone always goes, “Oh how sweet did you have a kiddie party theme for your wedding?”

Most brides basically fall into the above four categories and some even come all four in one like a handy Swiss knife J.

GROOMPAIN- This is the male human being (though some from their behaviour may be referred to as Pro-Consul Africanus or Cro-Magnon) commonly referred to as the groom/other half/man to marry the brideonster/bugger to be pitied/ suckered idiot etc

The M.I.A Groom:- Like the name suggests, this character only shows up on the wedding day. Enough said.

The Do It Yourself Groom: - This is the groom that thinks a planner is his long lost childhood mboch/handy gal/Ms. Fix-it/ the go to gal/financial solutions’ provider to their over the top wedding/oracle/fountain of all knowledge.

As per all the above titles your e-mail and cell phone will be inundated with senseless and meaningless questions and general pestering from the groom. He will act like since you are the planner you are in essence him and are now marrying his bride(ughhhhhhhhh yuck you know what they say about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder and fellas you all know that in certain cases you have to squint really hard to see the said beauty). Therefore even intensely personal tasks such as selection of wedding bands will be assigned to you, as well as in some cases embarrassing tasks such as telling his baby mama he is shortly to be hitched to some one other than her, seriously!

The Area Code Groom:- This is the groom that has either been suckered or forced to the altar due to family or financial pressure. He therefore assigns you the task of either finding a top-secret location for his wedding (preferably Mars cos believe me this guy has been around and then some) as every location you name he has set up home there, sample this

Planner: Kiambu?

Groom: Shiro, Wanjiku and about three Wanjas

Planner: North Horr?

Groom: Aisha, Zubeda, Aliya and Gubi

Planner: Gubi?

Groom: Their female camel

Planner: WTF? Please do not elaborate ever

Believe me this guy is such a whore he even has reserved standing space on Koinange Street, complete with a souvenir Majengo stool.

The Scrooge Macgroom:- Like the legendary cartoon Scrooge Macduck, this guy can give banks and insurance companies lessons on with holding payments and scrimping on basic necessities.

Ok guys, I will explain something to you, women are insane when it comes to weddings and sure we need to be reigned in a little bit when it comes to finances and wanting to rent helicopters to take us to the reception. However telling me to use my Auntie Shiko’s wedding dress and shoes who got married in 1981 isn’t practical its plain cheap, and getting your nyama choma joint guy and the local one man guitar to do the catering and entertainment at our wedding is beyond shady, and no I do not care that you own ‘shares’ in the nyam chom place on account of how many weekends you choma nyama there. In addition a boda boda isn’t vintage transportation; it is a black mamba bicycle and no we cannot use your mother’s sofa sets and coffee tables at the reception to seat guests.

The Scrooge Macgroom will bargain and set his preferred prices on everything (which is nothing) including the Sheria House Marriage License (though with our levels of corruption, he may actually have some success in that area) and for him the cheaper option will always be best.

Scrooge Macgroom does not see the value of having a planner and therefore conversations with him will always be spiced with comments such as, “Ehh! Kenyans are really innovative mpaka you have devised a new way to fleece young couples of money by ‘consulting’ on weddings. Who consults on weddings? A water project may be but weddings are simple, go to church, then eat lunch, kukata keki and then the thing is over [sarcastic laugh], Kenyans!”

This groom is so tight fisted that he will get up from the high table during the wedding to periodically come and inspect the money box at the gift table and ascertain that all envelopes are there. In addition he will hold on to balances owed until, “he is satisfied with everything.”

Woe unto you if he is a lawyer or believes himself to be conversant with the law, he will find a breach of contract form the church service to his honeymoon(the honeymoon part we do not exactly know how we get involved) and delay your payments or refuse to make your payments.

Like the brideonsters, the groompains fall into either or if you are really lucky all the categories above.

But do not despair novice planners and wedding committee loving friends and at heart romantics, there do exist couples out there who are genuinely in love and will start planning their weddings early enough and will heed their humble pennies and in some cases bountiful pennies in the bank. You will just have to search really hard, Best of luck!

For the cynics, yes once again you were proved right but there are exceptions to every rule and the four weddings that I came home smiling from that I planned from A- Z beat the 15 or so others that I came home cursing to high heaven and low hell.

Oh yeah, I am wedding planner and yes like the movie starring Jennifer Lopez we do have to do most of the stuff she did, but the Kenyan market stinks, and no there are no handsome grooms to secretly sigh over(okay there may have been one or two).

The basic point here is that marriage is serious business and if you are not ready please run away or better yet unplug the T.V. when Noni’s show starts and enjoy singledom, otherwise you may end up a regular client of my fellow blogger, and that is just all kinds of wrong and mildly disturbing.

Ttyl y’all,

Aqua Star.

When A Man Loves Auma

‘I wonder how she would look naked’ was the first thought that crossed my mind when I first set my eyes on her. She had just dropped her cell-phone and she bend over hurriedly to pick it leaving my innocent eyes with no choice but to look at her heart shaped derriere.

If they say men think 50,000 thoughts a day, there was no way any of the other 49,999 thoughts would top the thought that I just had after that incident in the hotel restaurant. Some women put the danger in the word dangerous.

I was in Kisumu for a few days and was seething at the treatment I had received during the last three hours. The plane that I had booked had tried to bump me off after some more prominent Kenyans felt they deserved to be on the plane as they were expected by their constituents during the funeral rituals that they seemingly must attend each weekend.

No perfect imagery was necessary for the telling fact that the people we elected are more prominent when they come to bury us. There must be something we aren’t doing right!

I had checked into the hotel only to learn that they weren’t spared the electricity rationing that was still ongoing in this land. My laptop battery was as flat as my intern’s chest it gets and that meant that any last minute additions to my pilot script of the TV series were going to be on hold.

I had gone over to the restaurant and was sipping the rather horrid tasting strawberry iced tea on the account of the hot sun and engaging in flirtexting when my activity was interrupted by the curvaceous work-of-art woman. I wished my textual conversation had such an effect on a woman; making her phone drop in shock.

As she got back into a homo-erectus position, she, who had just been in a hum-dinger position glanced around with a half-smile playing on her face. If those Kenya Power and Lighting Company people had an iota of seriousness, they would tap all that brightness from that smile and generate enough electricity to make me charge my battery.

She walked over to the counter at the entry of the restaurant, let a few words elope from her mouth to the waiters ear -and only the waiters ear- and then pulled out a piece of paper from her bag and handed the piece of paper to the waiter. She pointed at her glittery watch and then she caused her hips to sashay out.

Interesting. There was need to waste a few more thoughts about the contents of the piece of paper but the iced tea tasted even worse and I decided to push it away. There was a newspaper at the table and I decided to while away my non-electric time.

Unfortunately, the newspapers continue to carry the same inane stories about the political circus.

‘What sort of name is Smokin?’ I thought to myself as the left side of my brain went: Guess the Kenya Anti Corruption Commission is now a ‘No Smokin Zone’!

I may have been engrossed in one or two more stories because when I looked up, there seemed to be some darkness creeping into the room. I tossed the newspaper back and it went over the table and landed at the feet of some guy who was walking in.

‘Hii stima inarudi saa ngapi!’ he thundered at the counter in quite an animated voice.

I had been asking myself the same question and I thought it wise to voice that fact.

“Alloys,” he said and offered his hand.

I often don’t press the flesh because it it so politician-like but in this case, I thought about the hand sanitizer up in the room and I said, what the heck. I also introduced myself.

“Good to meet you brother,” he said and shouted at the waiter to come over. Before long, some beer bottles introduced themselves to our table.

Before much longer, politics wormed its way into the conversation. Alloys was complaining how the crass ‘political class’ was playing with our lives. Apparently, he informed me that there was no consensus on the constitution that was being written.

“Recently, the Experts were at the Coast with political parties and they couldn’t even agree on whether Miguna and Kivutha should be part of the process. Who are those two anyways?”

Come on.

“They are the Principal’s Advisers on Constitutional Affairs!” I said.

Alloys didn’t even miss a beat.

“All the affairs that I have had are constitutional!”

Inevitably, the conversation entered the sphere of legality or otherwise of affairs. Alloys said that he was married but he was in town to spend time with a girlfriend. He let out a rich laugh and ordered another beer.

“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

You could discern that he was least bothered. And he went on to boast how he could never live in a country like Uganda that had tried to tinker with laws forbidding adultery.

“When I was in the States, I tried out the services offered under the website Ashley Madison. That kind of an open society pleases me! But it was expensive!”

I had come across the website after reading an Intellectual Property Law magazine that discussed their slogan: LIFE IS SHORT. HAVE AN AFFAIR.

Hmmm. Hmmm? Hmmm.

This was one to keep. I don’t know how to say this in a PC kind of way, but Alloys had the words ‘Potential Client’ written all over him. What next? Life is short, kill your rich dad?

“Auma is the name of the woman that I came here to see,” he said. “Well, not really to see, but to... you know…”

Life is short. Finish your sentences.

“I met her at a seminar,” he continued. “It was perhaps purely accidental but those who say a human can visually undress another and thereby make imaginary love at first sight were onto something that only Wet Wet Wet could surmise. I felt in my fingers, felt it in my toes and if she hadn’t quickly looked up, the feeling in my shorts would have grown”.

Tell me about it. I almost had one of those when I got where we were, I silently thought.

“It is…” I started but was brought to a halt when the lights came back on and there was a collective yelp from everybody in the place.

“My brother,” Alloys said. “This is going to be a lovely night. You know, in my community, you don’t eat in the dark. If you know what I mean!” and he laughed.

“I think I should get going so that I can charge my laptop,” I told him. I also really just wanted to get out of the scenery and take a shower.

“Hey Waiter!” Alloys shouted. “Bring me the room keys from the reception!”

The waiter asked him what room number he was booked into and he said it was 409.

Strange, I was in 410.

“Did you say 409?” the waiter asked. “I think there is a lady who left a message for you at the Counter”.

Strange, I saw a lady leave a message at the counter.

“And you idiots didn’t tell me!” Alloys frowned and asked for his message to be brought. His face looked mid thirtyish and he had some furrows across his forehead that multiplied when he frowned.

The frown dissolved into a smile as he read the message.

“She was here!” he announced and frantically reached for his cell phone. There was boyish excitement as he informed the party who picked the phone on the other end that he was at the hotel. “OK, I will see you shortly.”

Strange, some people call me OK.

We walked up to the rooms and I wished him a shagadelic night.

I had barely opened my suitcase when I heard a knock at the door.

I hadn’t ordered any room service. But that puzzle was to end as soon as opened the door to find Alloys standing there.

“Hey brother… do you have some merchandise?” he asked me.

Merchandise?

“I mean, condoms. I don’t want to rush to the supermarket now! You never know, these fellows could have stocked the Hot Contempo range!”

I didn’t have any merchandise.

“Oh damn”, he said and threw his hands in the air. “I have to go!”

I plugged the laptop and switched on the television and started channel surfing. There were the usual boring stories on the NEWS and a few uninteresting series going on. My new TV series had to be better than these series, Thought Number 49,800 for the day or somewhere close registered on my mind.

I then dialed for room service and placed my order after I finished my shower.

I may have dozed off because the next thing I heard was pounding on my door.

“Heeey,” I remarked and went over to open the door with my lips ready to utter the words: ‘Why did it take you so long’ to the Room Service chap.

Only it was not Room Service. It was Alloys! Naked! Well, almost naked, since he was wearing merchandise.

“Help me, please” he said. “Auma… she is not breathing!”

WHAT?!!

I followed him to his room and there lying naked on the bed was the same woman I had seen in the restaurant. Boy oh boy. Turned out that she had started breathing fast as Alloys touched and caressed her and he thought it was the usual excitement associated with love-making but when she went quiet then limp, it occurred to him that she was having some seizure. It was as if the lady of our dreams had misread the tagline to LIFE IS SHORT. HAVE AN ATTACK.

A panic-stricken Alloys had tried to revive her before running out to call for help.

It is a pity. Nobody teaches us what to do when someone on top of or under you suffers an epileptic fit or asthmatic attack.

It was also a lesson for me. Be careful what you wish for!

More Than A Woman

‘You are the most confused brilliant person I have ever met!’ Pastor Wako stated as he looked into my soul. It was easily the second best compliment of my life.

If you are a Wonder Woman (or a Wonder Man) and you read that and wondered what the best compliment of my life was, I will have you know that this was when I was at Club Sikiliza and a man approached straight me and said: You have lips I would love to kiss.

But let us not lose focus here. I was involved in some Divorce Proceedings and had invited the good Pastor to the meeting where the couple needed to salvage what was left of their marriage.

I had mentioned to the couple that to my mind, marriage is unnatural. The thought of someone leaving his family and going to live with a total stranger from another family and sharing with such stranger basic amenities and recreational facilities like a bed would creep even the most non-feeling of humans.

‘Marriage is a long-time conspiracy between religion and the state to simply maintain social order, enforce responsibility and sort out long winded inheritance issues,’ I stated as the wide eyed Pastor Wako looked on.

‘Go on’, the Pastor stated as he sipped his Jesus Juice turning his rather holier-than-thou attention from the estranged hornier-than-thou couple to me.

‘Religion rams it down our throats us that for a man and woman to start living together, they have to seek blessings from Deity. This is so much that some people think those who live together are in a doomed relationship. A sinful relationship’.

The Pastor laughed.

‘The state, with its obsession with documentation and title dishes out a piece of paper as some sort of ‘legalization’ of nuptials. If you ask me, there has been a form of ‘marriage’ between the religious canons and the state’s laws on relationships which is probably the most scandalous marriages of them all!’

‘Our Kid, you are a typical Divorce Lawyer’, the Pastor stated.

Some people think that Divorce Lawyers are the scum of the scum, but obviously, such people forget that there would be no Divorce Lawyers if there was no marriage.

Most people live Soap Opera-ish lives and there is no greater testimony to this than when a client walks in and after you have disarmed them (am not talking guns here!) they start dishing it out on their marital woes.

One of the things I always ask for when a client asks me to commence dissolution of marriage proceedings is the wedding DVD.

And this particular case had been no different. When the lady client Mary called my office sobbing on the phone line, my usual protective secretary who screens all calls crumbled at the sobs on the other side.

‘I will see you’, I told Mary and gave her a three o’clock appointment.

When she walked into my office, her pregnancy was visible.

‘ODM!’ I found myself muffling when my visual acuity reported to my brain that she was indeed with child. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t paid any membership to a political party, it is just my usual way of using three initials to say ‘Oh dear me!’

‘Hi. I heard you are one of the best Divorce Lawyers in town’, she said as I ushered her to the seat.

‘It would be more of a compliment to me if I was considered the worst!’ I said and instantly liked her short laugh. If a woman can control the way she laughs, she can stop talking when you don’t want her to yap.

She got straight to the point.

‘I would like to end our marriage.’

Another good sign. She didn’t say ‘my marriage’ as most clients often did.

‘What is your husband’s name?’ I asked.

‘Joseph’ she replied.

Please don’t tell me the two of you had planned on calling the unborn one Jesus, I silently thought as it hit me that I hadn’t seen too many Mary-Joseph relationships.

‘How long have you known each other?’ I prodded.

‘We have been married three years but we have known each other for five,’ she said.

She went on to tell me about their early days and poignantly told me about the ‘romance of my life’ as she called it. She agreed to send me the wedding DVD.

‘What has happened that had necessitated your seeking the option of dissolution of marriage?’ I asked.

I avoid using the ‘divorce’ word because it really connotes negative feelings in people. Like most unpleasant human events, I think a euphemism would do. If you don’t think so, well, you are free to call it the ‘death’ of a marriage.

‘Joseph is … he has been … adulterous,’ she said.

She proceeded to give me the low down on her husband’s affair.

‘I would like to talk to your husband,’ I said.

As it turned out she had no objection and he had no objection. In fact, he had been shocked to discover that she was at my office initiating the process of divorce.

I also viewed the wedding DVD which she sent to me the following day. It was in this recording that that is where I saw Pastor Wako who was the celebrant of the wedding.

Mary was right. Joseph could be the ‘romance of my life’ for any lady. It was a truly Cinderella wedding that had me observing them both as they took their vows. Which was truly a memorable scene.

Pastor Wako was posing the question: Wilt thou Joseph, take this woman, in the Holy Estate of Matrimony…’

Joseph interrupted him.

‘This woman?’ Joseph thundered.

The Pastor was thrown off the senses and as he later told, this for the first time in his rendition of vows that he had ever been interrupted.

‘She is my love. She is my life. She is… a combination of both. She is the love of my life. She is more than a woman to me. She is more than a woman.’

Mary looked on lovingly. Hmmm. As I watched that DVD, I actually thanked small mercies that Joseph didn’t say those words during this era of Caster Semenya. I wouldn’t trust any woman whose names begins with the word ‘semen’ or indeed whose name if you re-arranged it gives you ‘A secret man? Yes!’

The Pastor had re-posed the vows: Wilt thou Joseph, take this love of your life, in the Holy Estate of Matrimony, to be thy wedded wife? To continue loving her, to comfort her, to honour her and to keep her, in sickness and health and forsaking aaaaaaaaaall others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’

Joseph said the words ‘I will’ about six times and was only stopped by the Pastor who had told him that they were not going to be there the whole day.

Sometimes I think I have the best job on earth, being a voyeur of marriage life.

When I spoke to Joseph, he didn’t want to end the marriage. He admitted to me that he had cheated on Mary and appeared remorseful about it. Most men I spoke to went ahead to justify why they cheated but he didn’t. He didn’t pull that ‘monogamy is monotony’ line nor the ‘I believe in monogamy with adultery’ line but he told me it was hard to stay faithful.

‘Dude... you said SIX times during your wedding that you will be faithful!’ I reminded him.

‘You attended our wedding?’

‘No’, I told him. ‘I watched video evidence of the wedding’.

This ceremony called ‘the wedding’. Truest celebration of optimism that I have ever seen. A sickening intention to endorse our dreams. Throw in the commercialization that has set in and you need a puke break. I only watch Nonny Gathoni on Sunday at 6pm for potential clients. Like Mary and Joseph.

Joseph agreed to have a joint session with Mary and when I spoke to my client, she was inclined to have them discuss this issue as long as they came out clearly and said what they wanted to say. The Pastor was more than willing to accommodate them and we had a meeting just the four of us where I decided to say a few words about marriage too.

Difficult questions were posed. Did he sleep with that third party? How many times? Did he use protection? Questions that most people never pose because in the context of relationships, people never want to find out. Questions that in the courtship period people never want to find out.

The Pastor was with me on that one. Before marriage, he has asked his wife what would happen if she ever found him in a compromising situation. Would that be the end of the relationship? She had said it wouldn’t but he had nevertheless never strayed despite the temptations. For a man who proposed by telling her ‘Nataka niwe Wako’ when he was already named Wako, it must have been tough asking those questions before getting into that estate.

Joseph stated he was willing to work on his marriage. He wanted Mary to continue being more than a woman to him. He wanted her to be a mother to their child, a lover, a professional career woman. He wanted his marriage to remain undissolved.

Huh.

‘Well I say marriage is unnatural,’ I continued my ranting, ‘It is just a lottery. It is civilized gambling and betting. But there are no other options, perhaps. Marriage is a desirable evil.”

Mary and Joseph laughed. His hands were on her tummy stroking it gently. It was as if he was doing it just for kicks.

‘So in your view, is faithfulness important in this desirable evil of marriage?’ the Pastor asked.

‘Faithfulness is just one of the components of marriage. That is why adultery is just one of the four grounds that one can use in dissolution of marriage. The most important thing is respect.’

‘Respect?’ Pastor asked.

‘Yes. Respect. Some form of adultery is obviously disrespectful… like the guy who brought his girlfriend home and told his wife to sleep on the sofa of the one roomed house.’

‘What?’ Mary said.

‘Yes he did. The wife poured hot water on them whilst they were in bed. Now that was disrespectful. Joseph said he used protection with the third party. That was not disrespectful cheating. But you need to be more than a man to survive a marriage.’

Joseph was very apologetic and Mary said she was willing to work on their marriage.

We ended the meet with a prayer from the Pastor. The Pastor gave me a card and has invited me to speak to couples at his church. I told him I would consider it but I think the clincher came when the next day I received a text from Mary.

‘You were right. You are the worst Divorce Lawyer in town’

Who Ate All The Pies?

There must be some subtle form of irony you can find in this.

Food crisis? What food crisis? My goshness!

What has caused the food crisis?

In a world where everything is Wikipediable, the answer may lie in the famous football chant "Who Ate All the Pies?" This chant is usually sung to the tune of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ and is aimed at overweight footballers, officials or opposing supporters.

Origin

According to The Cat's Pyjamas: The Penguin Book of Cliches, the " chant was first sung in 1894 by Sheffield United supporters, and directed at the club's goalkeeper William Fatty Foulke, who weighed over 140 kg.

Later chants

The chant has been associated with the striker Micky Quinn, who was particularly identified with the chant following an incident in a match between Quinn's then club Newcastle United and Grimsby Town in March 1992, in which a fan threw a pie onto the pitch which Quinn promptly picked up and ate.

The lyrics

The lyrics of the chant are:

Who ate all the pies?

Who ate all the pies?

You fat bastard,

You fat bastard,

You ate all the pies!

Meet The Parents

Pull down the Iron Curtain. If you are not standing, get up on your feet! Whistle. Call off the Cold War. Monique is back in style.

In what was certainly one of Nairobi’s coldest mornings, I was awoken from my mid-morning daydream by the rather ticklish vibration of the phone next to my valuables. Dayum these tight jeans.

I think the thing that triggered these mending of fences by Monique was when she dropped at my house with three of her model friends the previous evening and found that my house had no water. I had missed the announcement of the new water rationing programme and not managed to store any milliliters before the taps ran dry.

Cilla, the friend, offered that she had stored enough water and that if we all needed to shower, we could go over to her house. “But to save water, we will all have to shower together,” she added.

Amongst Monique’s model friends, I think Cilla is the least inhibited. She sleeps in the semi-nude. I know this because sometimes she comes downstairs to get some drink from the fridge and am working late on my laptop and she appears wearing only her white frilly panties.

“Hmmm. Nice nipples,” I would carelessly find myself saying.

“It’s a line I hear often from photographers,” she said and chuckled. “And from you!”

Sometimes she lays a delicious breakfast still wearing nothing but her panties. I am always worried that she may get scalded by the oil when she is in the kitchen.

After her shower, you see the same panties washed then left to dry by being hung on the shower curtain rail and she insists that I use the same wet panties to scrub my body when am taking my shower.

So anyways the offer to have showers together at her apartment got a bit sticky when Cilla mentioned she also pees in the shower. Monique -who calls her Silly- threw her a look of discontent, said they had to run, kissed me on the cheek and off the foursome of them trotted out in their high heels.

So when my phone vibrated, I managed to wriggle it out of my jeans and it turned out I had one new message.

My place or your place?

It was Monique.

Our place!

Our place was the joint we usually did lunch. We hadn’t been to this place since the French teacher incident and I had realized that my lunch company was not very broad.

I wasn’t talking about lunch ;-)

Are you kidding me?

Really?

Turns out she was just teasing me.

Hehe. See you at 1300 <3

Well, you know what they say. Lunch is always worth a munch when the company is worth looking across the table. So it was that in mind that I whet my appetite and strode into the eatery with an expectant tongue.

As I walked in, she was already seated. I was the late one, clearly. And this did not seem to be a very good sign. Monique was the kind you had to drag out of a dressing table before you went out on a date. Several times I had to go shave my beard a second time after waiting for her.

“Oh!” she shrieked as if she hadn’t seen me just some hours the other side of midnight.

This was another bad sign.

“Wow. You’re looking like you stormed straight off a magazine cover!”

She smiled. Her straight out of the photo-shoot smile.

“As long as you are not talking about the National Geographic!”

Her outfit looked very familiar. Yes, it had the same colours as those that Hillary Clinton had won on her Nairobi trip.

“If I was Bill, I would have a perfect excuse. I can’t tell if you are Monica or Hillary!”

She laughs. Rich and delicious. She is certainly in a great mood. She informs me that she has already ordered for me.

“Oh Gawd no!” I moan. Monique has been trying to convert me into vegetarianism but I am not one to take apostasy of faith lightly. I quickly call over the waitress and change my order to something edible.

“I knew you would change your order..” the waitress chimes in as my date frowns. “By the way,” she tries to placate her “Did I mention your outfit looks like Hillary’s”

Monique wants time alone with me.

“Did you sleep with him last night?” she asks the waitress who almost fainted as everybody turned around to look at our table. I quickly explained to her why the question was asked.

So anyways, to cut a long story short. Monique says that she thinks it would be great if she visited my parents.

I almost choked on my steak.

My parents passed away almost ten years ago.

“It is something I really want to do!” Monique says. “I have always wanted a man to take me home to meet his parents”.

She sure puts the ‘mental’ in sentimental.

I am too stumped to say a thing but I nod along. After all, she really looks like she is making the effort albeit in an unconventional way. She even asks me what my mother would love.

“Roses would be fine,” I tell her.

So that is how I found myself taking her home over the weekend. Monique was composed as she laid the roses at the graveside. She also said a few words, but I wasn’t too close to hear exactly what it is she was saying as I had stepped back.

The boma was deserted save for some workers and my grandmother Rosa who was excited that finally I seem to be bothering to show her some of my lady friends. This is one of those moments I wish Cilla had come along with her weird dress sense.

As my grandma approaches, I start singing a song I gathered from the legendary Charlie Waffles and which Monique says I should really stop teaching kids.

Grandma may be smelly but hug her anyway

Accept her stinky kisses then be on your way

She’s got all the money so you might just wanna stay,

Hey

Grandma may be smelly but hug her anyway!

“Stop it Our Kid!” she says sniggering.

My grandmother hugs her anyway and starts exceeding her word limit for the month. She touches Monique’s cheeks and pinches them in a playful kind of way. I was rally hoping that Grandma Rosa would probably spit on her as a sign of a blessing or some crazy tradition like that but she really let me down.

“Have you been stressing this poor girl Our Kid?” she asks. “I will have to get a fattened goat just for her!”

Fattened goat? Oh, deep down am really roaring. Now, this is going to be an interesting visit after all.

“Grandma, she doesn’t do that Carnivore thing anymore. She’s a model.”

Rosa looks confused.

“A model what?”

Hmmm. I remember that I have her catalogue in the car having some of her recent work. There is the Victoria’s Secret shoot for a South African magazine; the Coca Cola advert; the Samantha’s Bridal Magazine shoot.

I show Grandma.

“This is called modeling,” I tell Rosa whose mouth is still wide open with a puzzled look on her wrinkly face.

“But she is naked!” she exclaims.

“She’s not!” I tell Grandma. “This is expensive underwear! If you are lucky, Monique could get you a few complimentaries!”

Monique is more embarrassed than amused whilst Grandma Rosa is more puzzled than embarrassed.

“Hodiiiii!” the unmistakable voice of Grandma’s Salvation Army Major or Colonel or General or Lieutenant or something raps at the door.

Grandma is nearing a heart attack.

I put away the catalogue as we go through the motions of greeting the good uniformed gentleman.

“Is this the one who cooks for you?” the man of Gawd asks.

I have been around the village long enough to know that the euphemism for ‘to marry’ is ‘to cook for someone.’ But truthfully, Monique does cook for me some dare I say salubrious dishes. That is why I have been missing her since our estrangement.

“Would you love some Cocoa,” Grandma Rosa asks.

We all agree until she serves us Coke.

“Thanks Grandma,” Monique says, “but do you have Diet?”

I have to do the explanation to the poor old lady.

“But in the photo she was taking Coke!”

This is tougher than I thought.

“That is acting Grandma!” I say. “She was acting!”

The rest of the visit really went downhill after that. Grandma filled it with snippets about her life in the other generation. Previously, when a boy took a girl home, they would hand her a jembe and see how much of the land she could till.

She told us about how my Grandpa wooed her. The Reverend (I later learnt he was only a Brigadier) also contributed immensely and was too pleased to have to drink Monique’s coke.

As we left later that evening, Grandma hugged us both, gave me a bunch of bananas and pulled me aside.

“What if she is acting she loves you?” she asked me.

Now that is one woman that Monique after reading this will be calling Silly.