All the world is a stage...

My Life is a Tragedy. Whatever I do, I can’t seem to get it out of Drama mode into Romantic Comedy mode, and I’m getting sick of it.

This is Day 2 of the Feeling Better stage of my last cold –I know this because I’ve been up most of the day, have managed to bake (usually a sign of danger, but not after an extended period of inactivity and lethargy –notably, during colds) AND I’ve cooked dinner too. Whether it was edible or not is another matter. The point IS, I’m up and about, and my current grumpiness is actually an additional sign of good health. It signals that I’m bored and itching to do Something Worthwhile.

After my last upbeat email, written through a stuffed nose, my listed Prospects seem to have literally fallen off the grid. Not a peep from ANY of them, all over sudden, the final insult being a message just now, whose content I won’t bother to horrify you with. Suffice to say that it was from a horny drug-pusher look-a-like. Meanwhile, I was submitted last night to a program during which, a man entrusted with a budget was tasked with the entire preparation of his girl’s Dream Wedding –and succeeded. In Style. I WOULD have left the room, because not only do I not want a wedding myself, but watching them is pure torture (there is surely a book somewhere with more wisdom to offer.) But I was too ill to leave the room, wherein I had dragged myself, and spent the afternoon trying to fall into a peaceful doze.

Whatever. I’m never getting married, I’ll finally land a dead-end job, have to adopt, and live in lonely singledom for the rest of my life, watching my looks and dreams fade in the mirror daily until (and I hope at  least this wish is granted) I die peacefully in my bed. In clean panties.

Big Brother Africa is on (or will soon) be, and every so often, they bring an ad on one of the selected contestants, all of whom sicken me to death (as does BB, which I wouldn’t watch unless ordered to by God –and even then, I’d have objections.) There’s a lot of this on African media, these days: Confident statements in the nature of “I’m just me, myself...” immediately followed by a superb outburst of fakeness. Sickening. I have very rarely met people who are “just me, myself” or if I have, I’ve felt very sorry if this was true, as the “me, myself” they presented needed serious counselling. Or God. Or both. Which, by the way, may be true of most people.

Because, no matter what they’re really like, don’t people like to have their homes nice and clean and tidy when someone’s visiting? And don’t they like to go to work looking like they’ve just stepped out of a magazine shoot? And don’t they train their children to say the ‘right things’ in certain circles, or they themselves say the ‘right things’ in ‘appropriate’ circumstances? People who don’t make for uncomfortable company, and there probably are, in all of our lives, certain someone’s whom we feel we cannot take anywhere, for fear of what they might say or do –not in itself, but what that may say about ourselves, and whom we associate with. Not me, but then, that is my certain brand of craziness. I’m OK for people to think what they want to think, and will never go out of my way to persuade them one way or another –at least, about myself. If it’s about something else, I still won’t, unless I care for them, and they are about to make a big mistake. And I mean Huge. Because I am definitely of the school of ‘people need to learn their own lessons.’ Prophets are despised, and messengers too often shot.

And on this crabby note, I am excusing myself. I may be in pursuit of happiness, but right now, a giant hot chocolate and some cookies might hit the spot more accurately.

It’s Over...

Eved as I wride dis, I amb suwounded by tishues, hab-full bugs ob lebon-honey tea, hab a throbbig headech, and amb feeling generally burderous. I HADE beig ILL... For those of you who don’t know, it’s ‘Winter’ in Nairobi, and I have fallen victim to her in big style. Indeed, not even my own mother could pretend that I looked remotely attractive right now, what with my Maasai blanket on (on top of a shawl and a jumper), my hair begging for shampooing, and my damp face, as I walk around the house breathing in and out through my dose. THIS is what husbands are for. They are for those times when you’re ill and look like unpalatable versions of their grandma, when they alone can manage the lie that you look cute, and bring you mugs of hot, soothing beverages in bed...

Funnily enough, this last month of illness (it started with a stomach bug) has coincided with my meeting the best group of prospects ever, so far. And one of them will be descending on Nairobi at the end of July! I’m excited, I’m scared, I’m... I don’t know, but I’m looking forward to it.

Due to ‘Irreconcilable Differences’, I have decided to put my feelings for X, and our entire relationship on hold. Actually... he’s sulking, because I’ve been too ill to send him my usual infatuated messages –and I suddenly can’t deal. It seems the cold has clouded my nose, but cleared my brain: I don’t want a sulky husband I have to pander to, praise and reassure every three minutes, after all. I would already have CHILDREN to deal with, in an ideal situation.  Watch this space, though...

Of my three new prospects, two sound too good to be true –which usually means that they are, but you never know. One is a father (caring, affectionate, sensitive), the other single and mingling (interesting, opinionated, very hot), and the third seems to have a hair fetish, and has already invited me into his bed, for which I have had to minus three million points. He has also, however, been extremely open and candid in his very long, well written messages, which I have very much appreciated (plus three million points.) Hmmhh.

Finally, I’ve just had a notice that I’ve been noticed by a very, very hot Lebanese man –with an empty profile. Are things looking up, though? I think they just might be!

In other news, I have been invited to contribute to a book (“Ditch the Publisher? 50 Indie Authors on their Unique Self-Publishing Journeys” by Hayley Sherman, and am very excited by this opportunity –though the deadline is soon, and I’m not sure what I’ve put together is good enough yet. Ahhhh writers. It never IS good enough. The crunch comes when you have to click that ‘Send’ button with a shaking finger. Should I check one more time? F it. Let it go. But... did I spell check? COME ON!!! More on this anon.

Still In Pursuit...

Irreconcilable Differences

A term only slightly less shady than ‘Fraud’, ‘Irreconcilable Differences’ seems to be the most popularly cited reason for divorce in America. Though it is a blanket term, I would be quite happy to accept it –it if weren’t used for marriages that have lasted up to and past a decade. Within a month of solid dating, I am persuaded that each member of a couple knows quite well whether or not they are well-suited. Within three months, they’ve discovered every practically wrong with the other person, and this is a good make or break time. If the weaknesses in the other person’s habits, manners, morals, moods and general character have not frightened you off by this time, then it’s a pretty sure gamble that you will be able to weather and withstand 75 years with them. If you can handle each other in good times and bad? I say go for Marriage. This doesn’t mean, of course, that at this point you know everything about each other, nor that there aren’t bound to be unhappy surprises ahead; but I do believe that at this point, you know enough to know where your heart is at. If you’re ready to pledge allegiance to the particular crumbling house that is your partner, you’re good to go.

So, you DO go. And then, suddenly, ten years later, it’s no good? I don’t get that. It was announced on E this week that Grace (from Will & Grace) is divorcing from her husband of ten years, due to Irreconcilable Differences. I cannot imagine what those could be, (except perhaps that the man has decided to come out of a very dark and cobwebbed closet) and the sadness of the whole things is enough to make me feel like giving up RIGHT NOW. What’s the POINT?

Meanwhile, I’ve been ill, lately, something that hasn’t apparently just made ME crazy, but X as well. He wrote today to express his complete resentment at my recent silence, something which, being a girl, I naturally translated into ‘I love and am missing you,’ and which has kept me bobbing up and down (though with a slightly sickly feeling in my still queasy state) up on Cloud 12. I may have his babies yet... Please, please have mercy on me and do NOT send me any comments that might prick this bubble...

He Said, She Said

As if to rub in my latest foolish romantic indiscretions, Fate brought me the film “He Said She Said” a few evenings ago, an old movie starring Elizabeth Perkins in full Rosebud mode, and the ever delightful Kevin Bacon (whose sexiness is strangely unmarred by the ‘open’ nose that, I’ve always believed, rightly belongs only on African faces, which can carry them off...)

I actually couldn’t watch much of the movie – I wasn’t in the mood after I witnessed a humiliating few scenes that took me off to bed; the rest of the movie would have been too painful. In them, Elizabeth Perkins, who has obviously (thoroughly loneliness and Kevin’s cuteness) developed a pash for him, first of all contrives to have him dance with her, then after he drives her home, actually asks him up in language that I would rather die than use –or so thought, before I sent equally or more humiliating declarations to X, my Crush. They actually ended with... “Don’t you ever get lonely?” At which point Kevin gives her a pity kiss (it may also have been a ‘might-as-well’ kiss, which is just as bad) and they end up in bed. How I blushed for her... How I understood her... How I might have actually BEEN her, if X weren’t a continent away. And how I would have battled suicidal tendencies the next day... There is NOTHING worse, NOTHING AT ALL, Girls, than Throwing Yourself At A Man (TYAAM). NOTHING. Men can throw all they want –we find it romantic. But the other way around? Do anything –EVERYTHING to avoid it, no matter how you feel. If you have to hire a thug to bash you over the head so that you’re out cold for the night –do it. But do not, I repeat, NEVER, EVER TYAAM. A few scenes later, Elizabeth actually leans over her desk (they are journalists sharing an office) and tells him that she loves him. At that point, I was out.

TYAAMing will kill you, because men are ALWAYS in ‘might-as-well’ mode. To them, almost any opportunity is a good opportunity; and having a girl admit to a partiality for them is so flattering to their ever-present Ego that, when they reach middle-age, they feel compelled to go through that well-known crisis that has them looking for that very same attention once more. TYAAMing, in short will open you up to becoming a man’s play toy, and close you off almost certainly from any possible meaningful relationship. DON’T DO IT. It’s like saying ‘I love you’ and not getting it back...

Waking up the next morning, I thought about the title of the film, “He Said, She Said” then about some advice that I recently received.

‘You’re profile’s pretty open,’ a good friend said. ‘You need to remove a few options.’

 I frowned as I replied that I might be picky, but I needed a pool of good prospects to pick FROM.

‘Still, she replied, you don’t want to expose yourself to divorced men, or men with children.’ ‘And why not?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there’s two sides to every story.’

She was right, of course. While my profile says I’m open to relationships with divorced men, and men with children –why are they divorced? Or if they have children, why did they never marry? There are two sides to every story, but the only one that I’m likely to hear from such prospects will probably involve they’re being right and their ex being wrong. In fact, their ex is likely to be described as some money-grabbing, nagging, calculating witch with the manners of a harpy and the voice of a banshee.

If you’ve never been married before, I’m told, better to find a man who’s never been married before either. Then you can both start fresh, and build your marriage from scratch. You can learn to live with his impossible quirks, and he with the way you handle PMS. You can develop a signalling system for parties, one for agreeing to leave early, another for ‘You’re drinking too much’ and yet another for ‘You’re talking too much.’ You can decide on things to do when neither of you wants to cook, and where to get away to when both of you have a little money, and  are fried from work... You know –MARRIAGE.

Many girls, are tempted to believe, as I did before I thought about this, that marrying someone who’s been married before means that he’s experienced the domestic setting, and that things might be even easier for the new wife, the second time around. WRONG. He HAS experienced the domestic setting, but only in the context of another woman –who apparently couldn’t hack him. And what woman would willingly give up on a relationship with her husband and/or the father of her children, if there were any way to maintain it? In other words, my friend meant, ‘Tread Carefully.’ Certainly food for thought since I recently received a message from a seemingly charming fella who, from what I can gather, has been married at least once, got divorced (very acrimoniously), and has a child from a more recent relationship. Do I see the red flags? Yes. But nothing wrong with a little conversation... Right?

Wangu Wa Makeri

Some of you may know that Kenya will soon face its general elections (due this year, but may take place next year... you know, African time and manigences etc.) Anyway, there will be a single viable and worthy female candidate standing for the presidency –Ms Martha Karua, a lawyer and occasionally official political figure nicknamed ‘Kenya’s Iron Lady’ for her zero-tolerance stances, and ‘the Bulldog’ for her tenacity.

Unfortunately for Martha, the fact that her many righteous battles fought, Jeanne d’Arc-like, against, as well as in the midst of a world of men have embittered her, and it shows all over face. Frequently, when she speaks, her lip actually curls with disgust, her eyes, once most attractively wide and soft, now seem twice as widened by outrage –and they flash, when she is making a particularly important point. Like an Avenging Angel, she scares the men she has worked with and whose actions she has spoken against, who have not once, but severally clubbed together to plot and act against her, for sheer survival. By extension, she also scares most of the male populace, who are generally up to no good, and when asked whether they would vote for her, they laugh ‘no’, secure in the safety of at least their vote, from Martha. When asked why, they become sullen, because they are aware that they are now living in a world where it is dangerous to be overtly chauvinistic. So, instead, they mumble “Wangu”, smile diffidently, and take off.

“Wangu” is Wangu Wa Makeri, the protagonist of a Kenyan myth of... well, mythical proportions. All women love it (at least, the beginning) and all men love to quote it (at least, the end.)  It goes something like this:

In the days of yore, when women ruled the world, [stop laughing] Peace and Prosperity reigned along with them, and Life was good. Wangu Wa Makeri , whose name was revered all over the land, ruled her particular village with a gloved, but Iron hand, keeping the men in line beautifully. As everywhere else, men were good for four things: Fetching, Carrying, Building and Baby-Making, and from early in the morning to late at night, this is all they did. With no responsibilities, their one-track mind, and only orders to follow, they performed all of these duties extremely well. Meanwhile, with their superior capabilities, the women excelled at fulfilling their basic responsibilities of child-rearing, housekeeping and cooking, while simultaneously handling their appointed duties in running village matters, organising visits from foreign female dignitaries, brokering multilaterally beneficial trade agreements, dispensing justice wisely,  healing, counselling, and educating, etc.

Men who distinguished themselves in their duties were appointed ‘Top Baby-Makers’ and allowed to serve in Wangu’s court, where their duties were less tasking, and they were treated with respect and some favour. Their progeny were a credit to Wangu’s village, being smarter and better-looking than others in the land, and Wangu’s reputation widened and increased every year.

It is a truth universally acknowledged now (though not at the time) that, besides being irredeemably self, irreparably foolish, and more stubborn than any mule in existence, men are also fatally egotistic. While they agreed that life was good, that they lacked for nothing, and that social services worked pretty stunningly, a group of what we now call alpha-males, could not help but develop a kernel of resentment against the opposite sex, fostered by an inexplicable feeling that, somehow, things could be even better if men were in charge. Men should be in charge. They were physically stronger, after all, and almost twice as big. How could it be, they wondered, that bigger bodies shouldn’t equal better stuff? We will forgive them because the presses weren’t running, in those days, and had not relayed the story of David and Goliath, nor the fact that bigger brains, and not bodies, make for “better stuff”. Still, their resentment brewed and brewed until, at last, it was determined, in one of their many secret meetings, that there would be a revolution.

Gathered in a circle under a large baobab at the edge of village, this having been decided, the men, patted each other on the back and broke open calabashes of stolen beer, toasting each other, their victory, and a future of submissive women.

“...and we’ll make them carry wood to the fire, before they cook for us!” thundered one of the leaders.

“Yeah! And we’ll make them come to bed whenever we like, instead of being summoned every few weeks!” cried another.

“And we’ll do nothing except drink beer and do what we WANT to do!” cried a third.

“Amen, brother! CHEERS!!!” cried a fourth. All calabashes were raised together.

“CHEERS!!!” They all cried, then drank deeply, until one of the younger beta-males shyly spoke up.

                “But how will we do it?” He piped. All eyes turned to him.

                “Whaddaya mean?” roared the Head Alfa, his eyes beginning to flash with temper. “Are you trying to say we coudn’t take them?”

The young buck began to panic as every man’s eye turned threatening, and they began murmuring ominously.

                “No, no, not at ALL, Chief. All I meant is that... they are so many! We would have to have a plan of some sort to deal with the ones, without the others knowing. We would have to... I don’t know –have a strategy! You know, to be completely successful! If a group of them get together, including Wangu, they might be able to hatch some cunning plan against us. Poison us for treason, even!”

                “He’s right,” one of the leaders voiced, after a short silence. “When women are roused, there’s no telling what they might do.”

                “Still, we have an advantage in that, they take forever to make a decision –I was serving at court the other day, and that woman must have changed into 30 different kangas before coming down to dinner. There wasn’t even a visitor expected!” said another.

                “It’s an advantage,” agreed the Head, “but it doesn’t solve our problem. They are not going to sit idly by while we tie them up. Women are even more dangerous when they’re cornered. They’re emotional, unpredictable, cunning witches, and there’s no telling what any of them might do in the moment.”

                “In other words... We need a plan?” the third leader mused.

                “We need a plan.” The Head confirmed. For a long moment, there was only the noise of silent beer-swigging, and the whirring of thousands of tiny brain screws.

                “Well...” piped the young beta male once more. All eyes refocused on him. “We could... you know... We could get them pregnant.”

                The Head stared at him.

                “All of them?”

                “Y-y-yes,” the young man stammered. “Or at least a considerable number of them. They’re all very fertile, as you know, because they eat well and exercise, and enjoy good health. If they were most of them pregnant, then waited until they three or four months along, we wouldn’t even have to lift a finger to control them. They’d do everything we ordered them to do, because they wouldn’t want to hurt their baby.”

                “It’s GENIUS!” cried one of the leaders, clapping him so hard on the back that he went flying into somebody’s beer. The somebody good-naturedly picked him up and hugged him until he choked, then set him down directly before the Head, who was beaming. He was just raising his hand to dislocate the young man’s shoulder with a warm pat, when it stopped mid-air.

                “But...” He voiced, puzzled, “how do we get them all in bed at once? As you know, each of them only summons our services every few weeks...”

Once again, all eyes were on the beta male.

                “Well, Smarty-loincloth?” Prodded one of the company impatiently, “how do we do it?”

The young man thought quickly.

                “Well, 1) they love Distinguished Males such as yourself, Chief, who serve in court, because you serve Wangu, and bedding a male who’s bedded Wangu is a status symbol.”

                “True,” the Head agreed.

                “So we’ll just have to be perfect, over the next few weeks. Then a lot of us will get Distinguished, and our popularity will rise.”

                “Uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it. “ The Head declared. “What else?”

                “Well,” volunteered another leader, “have you noticed how nice they become when you pay attention to them? I got a couple of extra piles of firewood for one of the healers the other day; she summoned me that night and thanked me four times.” He grinned. “Best night of my life. In fact, when I particularly like the look of one of them, I do something stupid like that. It always works.”

                “Yeah, I’ve noticed that too,” another member agreed. Another agreed with him, then others again, and the tactic was adopted.

                “OK,” thundered the Head, pointing a decisive finger. “From tomorrow, I want you guys to give only the very best of service to the women. Go the extra mile, beyond the call, and exceed expectations in every way possible. Additionally, you will do all this with a charming smile, and bed as many women as possible, preferably more than once, to make sure. Got it?”

                There was a communal grunt that sounded more like a war-cry.

                “All the males that are currently, or who will soon be distinguished, are to work on Wangu especially. I want that bitch incapacitated as soon as possible. She wields too much power, and her subjects love her too much.”

                “YESSIR!” screamed the men.

                “And we meet back here every week, on the night of the village meeting, to check how the plan is going, and eventually decide on the day we strike.”

                “YESSIR!” cried the hoarse men.

                “Now let’s drink some BEER!!!”

                “CHEERS!!!” The men were hysterical.

And thus began the men’s revolution.

Charmed by the men’s newly polished behaviour and hard work, and flattered by carefully dispensed ‘individual’ attention, the women began summoning one or the other to bed almost every other day. Won over by their seemingly newly acquired bedroom skills and vigour, the women further began lying in more often in the morning, and had even been heard occasionally taking the day off. Within six months, every woman in the village had been charmed into pregnancy, including Wangu herself, whereupon things quickly fell apart. Raging hormones caused more cat fights than had ever been witnessed in the village’s history, while simultaneous cravings had them all fighting over food supplies in the market place. State decisions were suddenly being irrationally made, as trade discussions became tearful affairs punctuated by vicious tantrums, Wangu’s being the worst, earning her resentment from other villages. Huge women soon lay in their huts intermittently, for most of the day, screaming for their children and others to “Shut the F* Up!” as they tried to squeeze a nap before making dinner, or yet another lumbering journey to the potty. More and more, they began to rely on men to take over their duties, and at that stage, the revolution was complete.

Upon declaring victory, the Head shared out the woman of the village between his troop of men, keeping Wangu and selected beauties of her government for himself. Between them, all the women belonging to a man were to apply themselves to his every need, from the mopping of his brow, when it was too hot, to the nightly bathing of his feet. They were to attend to all household chores, serve him food and beer, or sit about him in silence, when not employed, dressed in various adornments, so that they should please his eye whenever it fell upon them. Any sign of resistance from the women was met with a sharp slap across the face, and a day without food. Wangu soon began to look like a punchbag.

Men being men, however, this bliss could not last for long. With the women busy fawning over lazy men, no one was taking care of the running of the village. With no one in the fields, local food soon ran out, and with no trading going on, there was none coming in. When it stopped, all of the women were given a sound beating. Since they could not trust them, however, a group of men were sent to buy some in another village. With these men gone, their women were temporarily assigned to the other men, who were soon happily Taking Advantage. This provoked a huge uproar when their owners returned. Since none of the men were willing to have their egos dampened, the uproar soon turned into a physical fight, which, with other men taking sides, became a full scale civil war, following which the two injured sides separated, taking their women, and whatever supplies were left. And the world was never the same again.