The Story of Eiyah (Part II)

The Story of Eiyah (Part II)

By nightfall, her parents, worried because she had never been late before, were raising the alarm wherever they could. In the village square, while the girls of the village gossipped wildly that she must have been drowned in the river or eaten by hyenas, a few of them indulging in overdramatic remorseful tears (“I should have helped her –everyone knows how dangerous it can be... poor girl!”) the men were swiftly gathered together by Ngoima (my great-grandfather) who was a close personal friend of Eiyah’s father’s, and a wildy respected village elder. Organising them promptly into three groups, he sent one to drag the river, another to retrace her path within the forest, and search there, and the last to wander and enquire further and wider from the village, looking for any signs that she had left or been forcefully made to leave the village. The village matrons swiftly gathered about Eiyah’s mother, who was inconsolable, alternatively comforting her, and indulging in their own musings about what could possibly have happened.

“In my day it wasn’t uncommon for the Masaai to come and steal away Kikuyu girls,” said one elderly woman, warming her hands around a large mug of tea. “I remember at one point having to go everywhere with two of my brothers for protection... but that hasn’t happened for years now. Surely it couldn’t have happened to Eiyah? It’s very strange.”

“IT’S STRANGE BECAUSE IT’S EIYAH, MOTHER!” a younger woman yelled into her good ear. She threw a mischievous glance sideways, and continued in a barely hushed tone. “Now if it had been Nyakio...”

Nyakio’s mother whose looks her daughter had inherited,  immediately reacted.

“And what exactly do you mean by that, you ugly old witch?” She screamed, coming to stand before the gossip, arms aggressively akimbo. The gossip was not known for backing down.

“I was simply saying that Nyakio is just the type of girl who would disappear with a man. You know it as well as I do. That’s why you’re always checking up on her.”

“You’re just spiteful because your own daughter’s not much better looking than Eiyah!” Nyakio’s mother spat. A friend of hers came to pinch her.

“Shut up!” She whispered viciously. “Eiyah’s mother’s right there.” Nyakio’s mother looked apologetically in that direction, and sighed in relief when she saw the poor woman deep in conversation with another friend. With all the comings and goings, it wasn’t noticed that four of the village’s young men were absent. Blithely unaware of the level of chaos they had initiated, they were, in fact, drinking beer at Njao’s house, while discussing his extraordinary choice, and what must be done next. Naturally, the first thing to do was to inform Njao Senior of the new tenant.

Dude 1 (with an anticipatory grin): He’ll be piiiissed! 

Dude 2 (likewise): Hell, I’d be pissed if my son eloped...

Dude 3 (wryly): It’s not that Njao eloped, it’s whom he brought home.

Njao (sharply): Shut up. You know nothing about it.

Dude 1: So tell us!!!

Njao (sighing): You see all those girls in the village? Most of them are beautiful. Much more beautiful than Wairimu...

Dude 2: Who’s Wairimu?

Njao: Wairimu is Eiyah’s real name, and the only one you’re allowed to use from now on.

Dude 3: Wairimu, huh?

Njao: Wairimu. Those girls, they’re beautiful now, but beauty fades, and what you’re left with is the real person.  Have you noticed how they work?

Dude 1 (defensively): They work hard!

Njao (nodding): They work hard –but Wairimu works harder, and better. Have you noticed how they treat their parents?

Dude 2: They’re good girls, Njao. You can’t say they’re disrespectful at all.

Njao: No. But Wairimu treats her parents respectfully and lovingly. She’s warm. When they get money, how do the other girls behave?

Dude 3: Who knows what girls spend their money on?

Njao: Wairimu doesn’t spend hers on hair treatments and knick knacks and more clothes than she needs. She spend it on practical things for the home, and treats her littke brothers with snacks. In fact, she almost never spend money on herself. She is thoughtful and giving.  Ans what ios she doing when the other girls are gossiping every evening in one of their houses? Or at a village dance? She’s babysitting her siblings, and other people’s siblings, and preparing for the next day.

Dude 1 (pensively): That’s true.

Njao: You know how noone ever helps her at the river, which is why she usually makes two trips?

Dude 2: Girls are cats, even they know that.

Njao: Wouldn’t that just make you angry?

Dude 3 (uncomfortably): Certainly it’s not a very nice thing...

Njao: But she responds to this by making sure that she helps others. The widows who have no one to help them fetch water, and the elder women who run out of firewood. She is fundamentally kind. So she’s the woman I’m going to marry, and the one I want to care for my children. The rest of you can settle for the gossiping harpies that look so good in sheep’s clothing, who like to put themselves forward but help no one, and whose ambition in life is to be the most well-dressed girl at the village dance.

Dude 1: They’re not that bad... (uncertainly) Are they?

Dude 2: No, of course not. They’re fine... Right?

Dude 3: I don’t know. All this beer is making me fuzzy and suddenly panicky about marriage. (Brightening) You might just offer it to your Dad before you break the news, Njao.

Njao (grinning): I certainly will!

With all the beer, the talk, and the hurried preparations that had to be gotten into, once Njao’s household had been informed, it was quite forgotten that, to the rest of the village, Eiyah was plainly missing. A week later, Njao Senior, dressed to the tens and wearing his humblest, most deprecating expression, slowly made his way to Eiyah’s home.

            My grandfather had beautiful, calm brown eyes, in which mischief announced itself occasionally with a bright spark, inherited, by the way, by most of his offspring, and theirs. Still, it was unusual for any light of alarm to register within them, which is exactly what happened on a certain cloudy morning, as he witnessed his friend making a slow but determined way up the hill towards his home. Whatever this visit announced, it wasn’t good news, and as he pressed doggedly uphill, each achy bend of his friend’s back seemed to emphasise this. By the time he had reached the Ngoima homestead, Eiyah’s father may have been physically battered, but his eyes were as young and bright with indignation as that in any young man’s eye who had been rejected as a mate. My grandfather awaited him with refreshments and a sturdy stool at the ready, and rose to hug his friend in a warm welcome embrace.

                “My friend, do not speak but sit down and wet your mouth! I am grateful for your visit,” my grandfather stated almost impatiently, adhering to custom even as died for news. But when it had been to him, he sat back, mischief running rampant within those wide brown eyes. Slowly, meaningfully, he leaned forward toward his friend. Though a kind hearted and very generous man, his adherence to the truth in any matter not only served his reputation, which had risen him to the status of a venerated village elder, but also satisfied this mischievous streak in him, that couldn’t resist finding the humour in his fellow humans’ misfortunes. Now, though knowing that Eiyah’s looks were a sore subject, he said, containing a grin:

                “A hunter comes to take a hyena out of your home... and you’re complaining?”

For a moment, his friend stared at him as though he hardly knew him.

                “What?”

My grandfather sat back ad took a swig from his calabash of beer.

                “My friend... The handsomest, most eligible man in the village has claimed your daughter. What are you complaining about? Indeed, had anyone claimed her –what would you be complaining about? That they didn’t do it in the proper traditional manner?” He noticed his friend’s level of outrage and coughed out some of the mischief that had been brewing within him. “This is indeed so, and there is nothing for it but to make Njao’s family pay for it.”

                “So you agree that this is improper?” Spluttered Eiyah’s father. “I mean, it is totally IMPROPER!!! You can’t go around kidnapping fair maidens in this village, and getting away with such behaviour!”

                My grandfather choked at this description of Eiyah, then covered his amusement with a ferocious expression, in support of his friend.  

                “Absolutely NOT. What will they think of next?” He roared. He put a confident hand on his friend’s arm. “We will make them pay –Oh they will PAY, my friend...” Just as he wished, Eiyah’s father was now comfortable enough to take a large, relieved swig of his own calabash of beer. If my grandfather approved, this horrendous action against his Eiyah would be revenged. “But my friend,” Grandfather went on, “ do not take this all so sorely to heart. The man kidnapped your daughter, but he has not returned her –he has not used her ill. His intentions are pure, since he has sent his father to you, and this deserves some credit.”

                Eiyah’s father, mellowed by the beer, and his wise friend’s comforting words, seemed to think likewise. Banging his stick on the ground, he nevertheless would roar.

                “Still, they must PAY”

My grandfather grinned.

                “And they will.”

Indeed, over the next few weeks, the two send Njao’s father up and downhill, bending over backwards to correct his son’s indiscretion. There were goats demanded to restore the breach in tradition. There were goats asked for, on behalf of the young men who had been gathered onto the village square, and sent looking for Eiyah in the forest, the river and abroad. There were punitive damages. There were penalties for the emotional trauma of Eiyah’s parents and siblings. In fact, by the time Eiyah’s family had done with their demands, Eiyah’s dowry had become one of the most expensive in the history of the village. Those beauties that had previously reserved themselves for Njao’s favour had begun by being amused by the entire fiasco. They were now completely enraged, not only because there would actually be a wedding taking place, but because of the icing on the cake that was Eiyah’s severally discussed dowry. While the proudest girls took to their beds in a tantrum, wiser ones, such as Nyakio, promptly became engaged to Njao’s friends. Influence was almost as good a currency as popularity, and admiration could be shared.

               

And so Eiyah was married in unparalled pomp and ceremony, disbelieving, herself in all that was suddenly happening to her. Njao may have kidnapped her, but she had fallen in love with him more deeply than she knew herself capable of. Indeed, this man loved her, and more than this, he appreciated her. She knew, quite soon in her marriage, that Njao had not chosen idly, but that he had been watching her for years. He honoured her as a hard-working mate and wife, and glporied in the tall, strong sons that she gave him, almost as if he knew of their coming. Furthermore, Njao was one of the only men in the village who never took another wife. Eiyah was the one for him, and as she grew in this confidence, her happiness became complete.

The Story of Eiyah

To comfort myself about the complete dearth in palatable prospects, recently (we will NOT mention the 64-year old German man who, last, week, sent me a lovely short message –to which I replied with a polite thanksbutnothanks-type message–.... then criminally followed it up with three emails containing ten pages each of ‘I love you’s, poems and declarations, attached to which were three thousand pictures of himself, his home, and his 4 year old whom I am supposed to mother. He’s DARLING cute and I’ve no objection to step-motherdom but... Almighty. The wife of a psycho? Happy to say I’m not THERE yet. In fact, I have a guilty secret I have to share with you, if I’m to be as honest as I profess and believe muyself to be...

But that’s for next Friday. Today, I am going to end your week by sharing with you the story of Eiyah, which my mother told me, when we were recently discussing the question of Chemistry.

I never get tired of complaining about how lucky men are, and have made quite a skillful patter of listing the advantages of their sex while I’m having a bitching session about my oh-so tragic love life –usually to my mother, who finds it hilarious. I sincerely believe, for example, that given time, a woman could allow herself to fall in love with almost any man. Men, on the other hand, have a distinct taste for their kind of woman. And girls, Mum (a very, very wise woman), and I agree –if a man is giving you the vibes that he doesn’t want you romantically? Give it up. He doesn’t. And he never will. Better to move on than to pine or to make a fool of yourself, which is something that you’ll later spend a good amount of time actually trying to physically kick yourself for. When a man knows –he knows. Which may be slightly disheartening, but is also quite romantic and freeing to think about, as there’s no telling who’s type you are. I quite happily imagine the man of my dreams stopping in his tracks during some party on some enchanted evening, arrested by the sight of my perfectly put-together self, just as I gracefully throw my head back (in slow motion, bien entendu) and emit the most fairy tale-charming-like tinkle of laughter, in response to a joke made by another guest who is interested in me, but has no chance at all. My Prince, having shortly recovered from his astonishment at finally having found his One and Only, would then hand his glass absently to the person near him, and murmur “That is the girl I am going to marry,” before (again, in slow motion) making his way accross the room to me. Our eyes would meet, then lock.. and two months later, I’d be married and expecting our first bundle of joy. OK, I’ll stop this nonsense, and keep it for my own happy place.

Right! Back to Eiyah. The story of Eiyah is a true story, and happened  when my mother was a young girl in her village of G_____, in Kenya. Incidentally, thi story centres on the perception of Beauty, which is SUPER relative. Any of you who believe you are an Ugly Duckling may surpeised to be informed that, imagined flaws and all –you’re Somebody’s Ideal Type!

The Story of Eiyah (Part I)

Eiyah was so-called because, on the day she was born, an aunt of hers visited, who had come to congratulate the couple on the birth of this, their first daughter. Eagerly, she made her way to the main bedroom, and peering closely into the coverings of the bundle the mother held close to her, abruptly jumped back with a shocked exclamation of  “EIIIYYYAHHH!!!” The child, you see, was ugly. So very ugly, in fact, that the name Eiyah stuck, and continued to describe her as she grew up into early womanhood. Whereas other girls enjoyed smooth, light brown skin (the first indication of beauty) Eiyah was very dark. Where other girls tended to grow to a height perfectly suitable for laying one’s head on a man’s chest, Eiyah, if she ever were so fortunate as to land a man, would have to be content with laying her head on his shoulder, as she was tall. Whereas other girls compared body parts (as young girls do) admiring polite, manageable breast sizes, the evenness and whiteness of teeth, and only the slenderest of ankles, wrists and waists, Eiyah’s graduation from puberty and adolescence had been so complete as to leave her no almost no girlish traits whatsover. Her breasts were full and generous, her waist was slender, but gave way to hips which, though firm and perfectly porportioned, seemed to advertise her fertility. There was nothing admirable about her ankles or wrists, which were strong from work, and which she never bothered to adorn with bracelets, as they only got in the way.

Those were the good old African days when life was simple, and the idyll of village life continued to triumph over the slow but steady upset of modermisation, technical innovation and city life madness. Girls of a marriageable age worked hard during the day, helping out in the shambas (crop fields) but sunset signalled the winding up of the day, and the beginnings of preparation for an evening of socialising. At that time, all the beautifuk girls went in happily chatting group to the river, where they gathered up firewood, cutting and placing them in neat stacks, then drew water for their homes in large gourds. Finally, they would withdraw to the bathing spot, where they would thoroughly scour away the dirt and dust of the day, allowing their beautiful skin to glow gently in the pale light. Their ablutions completed, they formed a communal snake, each girl heaving up her stack of firewood onto the next girl’s back, and helping her settle the gourd on top of her head. Thus finally laden, they slowly, and loudly made their way homeward through the well-beaten forest paths, fully aware that the young men, now back from the fields, would be taking every opportunity to gaze upon them in admiration. This was the routine for all of the young women of the village, that is, except of Eiyah. Shunned by all of the other girls for her ugliness, she usually struggled alone all day, heaving up her own stacks of firewood, and coming back for the water. She almost never attended the occasional village dances because, whereas the village beauties arrived in a blaze of popularity, and almost never sat down, so vigourously were they pulled into dance after dance by handsome prospective husbands, she had never once been asked, and had to content herself by watching the event. She had accepted that she was ugly, and her being shunned by the other girls meant that she never went visiting, as they frequently did, never partook of any gossip, and instead learned to be quite self-sufficient. She had the love of her parents and her family, and she was happy to work hard for them.

The village population, though differing on innumerable subjects, many of which had to be resolved by the Chief and other recognised elders, did agree on a single thing. The best-looking, most attractive, most sought after, most eligible bachelor in it was Njao, son of Njao. Tall, strong and perfectly proportion, aside from being handsome, he had long been the target of the most beautiful girls in the village, each of whom daily expected the arrival of Njao Senior with their dowry and a formal proposal on behalf of his son, as dictated by tradition. Every sunset was a chance for them to show off their wares, in the neat way they cut and tied up firewood, in the graceful way they balanced the heaviest gourd upon their heads, in the glowing cleanliness of their uncovered skin, in the dainty, beautiful adornments they made and wore to compliment their arms, wrists, waists and ankles. Every dance was a chance to wriggle those hips as enticingly as came up to the borderline of slutty, and a chance to show Njao (who danced sparingly) how popular they were with the other eligible bachelors in the village. Yet month followed month, and Njao, it seemed, had not yet made his choice of bride. Those less good-looking girls gave up the dream and accepted modest proposals from other men, while the most beautiful pridefully held out for Njao, convinced that he would be sending over his father any day.

Njao, in fact, had long made his choice, and if he did not speak, it was only because he was well aware of his status in the village, and, being a rather shy, retiring man, detested the idea of the hullabaloo that would no doubt follow his making his intentions public. Having quietly ruminated on his problem in three thousand ways, he finally decided on the most daring course of action, and, one sunset, quietly beckoned aside three of his closest friends, who were returning from the fields along with him.

Njao: “Dudes,” he began, “the girls are just now leaving the bathing area, and making their way back home through the forest.

Dude 1: Duh... where do you think we’re headed? I want a good look at that Nyakio creature. I’m almost sure that she’ll have me if I ask...

Dude 2: In your dreams, Dude. Nyakio’s WAY out of your league. You’d qualify for... Wanjiku. Or maybe Nyambura, though even she’s too hot for you.

Dude 3: You’re just saying that because you want Nyakio. And you don’t qualify for her either, because only I do. Well... me and Njao. If he wants her. What do you think of Nyakio, Njao?”

Njao: I don’t want Nyakio, and you’re welcome to her. I need you guy to do me a favour.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3: Sure, man. Whatever you need. Righto.

Njao: The girls are on their way back home, but Eiyah isn’t yet. She’s always the last.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3: So? And? What of it?

Njao: I need you guys to go and grab her, and bring her to me.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (pop-eyed): You want what? I didn’t hear that. What did you say, old fellow?

Njao: I said...

Dude 1: We heard you, only... Why on earth would you want us to grab that bitch?

Dude 2: He said grab her, and bring her to him. What the hell do you want with her?

Dude 3: You did say grab, eh what?

Njao (succintly): Just grab her and bring her to me. I’m going to marry her.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (collapsing with laughter): Njao please, man! Oh no, that’s too killing! Don’t kid us like that old chap, I have a stitch!!!

Njao (calmly): I’m serious.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (pop-eyed, but slowly sobering.) I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it either. Nor do I.

Njao: Are you guys going to help me or what? Hurry up! She should be on the path now. Just grab her, and bring her to me by that copse of trees. Make sure you’re not seen, and be as quick as you can about it.

Dudes 1, 2 and 3 (suddenly going into action): OK. OK! On our way! (as they run off): Fool’s done lost his damn mind. I always knew he wasn’t quite right. Lost his marbles properly, eh what?

Eiyah was duly kidnapped, and eventually concealed at Njao’s home. 

Alternatives to Sex

A couple of weeks ago, Mum proudly handed me a book she said she’d landed on, and been saving for me. When I read the title, I immediately threw her a suspicious glance, but I regretted my reaction when she began prattling about how the author was a good writer, and that his humorous, genuine style was exactly the type I might like. She was being supportive of my writing –not sending me a message about my life. When your Mum hands you “Alternatives to Sex”, and you’re practically a virgin again, and haven’t misbehaved, even mildly, with anyone, in such a long time that even you can’t remember who it last was; and romantically things are so bad that you’ve established a blog about online dating which is the only kind dating you can lay any claim to having done in years... you’re entitled to be a bit defensive.

“Alternatives to Sex” IS indeed a good book, and half-way through I was already regretting there wasn’t more. It would have panicked me if I suspected that Mum had gone very far into the book –it is set in the world of promiscuous, gay sex, with all the politically correct and utterly embarrassing terms involved in that activity, complete with mentions of sex toys, and lubricants, and very unreserved poppings up of the word ‘Fuck’ in noun and conjugated verb form. Still, she had gone far enough to feel warm towards the writer in his honesty, and I myself was completely engaged by the bottom of page 1.

I have never thought of the practical complexities of gay romantic life. I was brought up a Christian, voluntarily confirmed my faith in my teens, and have never found anything in Life, mine or others, to dislodge me from it. Among MANY other things, my faith informs me that that God isn’t happy about tattoos (which is why I’m pierced but not tattooed, though I have a sincere craving for a beautiful Blue Crab somewhere on my anatomy) but more importantly that He loathes homosexuality. I am glad never to have dealt with it as a personal issue (it sounds like I would have spent my entire life dealing with it, and nothing else!) While I must ‘disapprove’ of it on God’s behalf, I must also follow God’s attitude of acceptance and respect for people for who they are fundamentally, rather than parts of whom they are, including those that occasionally (or even frequently) do bad things (Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin.) At the end of the day, in fact, if you look at everyone that way, your attitude towards people mentally is much more peaceful and clear. While a person’s sexual leanings rarely phase me, I am completely hostile to compulsive/manipulative/malicious liars, cheaters, and dishonest people in general. Besides, being homosexual, whether it is scientifically a biological issue or not, seems to me an unnecessarily, even foolishly difficult choice of life to burden oneself with, if it isn’t genuinely attached to a person’s core self. As one gay college friend asked me once, “Would you choose to be gay?” I think not.

As I am very busy battling my problems with heterosexual singlehood, gay singlehood –the gay scene, in fact, has rarely ever crossed my mind, and certainly never more that for three seconds together, until now. I am sorry to say that on issues that I know little or nothing about, which have nothing to do with me and generally do not cause me concern, I tend to inform myself at the very minimum level possible, then take a good, safe midline (like a good President should). In this manner, all that I actually know about gay people is that 1) They are extremely intelligent, 2) They are exceedingly well organised, 3) They are generally creative, 4) They are strong enough in character to take firm stands, 5) They are loyal to each other (or their sexual community,) and 6) They love to party and entertain, or be entertained, and have contributed to this industry no doubt more than could be suspected. I am sure that these are generalities, but they are comfortable ones for me to assume, and eminently socially acceptable (not that I’m shy about being socially contrary, when it is warranted.) I had heard that they are also extremely promiscuous, but the figures that have been mentioned in such passing conversations I always took as complete fiction –until now. “Alternatives to Sex” is appallingly shock-making in that regard, at least, to me. I had absolutely no idea... and I’m not sure I wanted one. Still, it’s part of an honest tale, and I have to accept it, if I am to accept the author (Stephen Mc Cauley, which I do, whether the tale is even a fraction biographical, which I feel it must be; or not.) The whole thing is wonderfully intelligently insightful, refreshing, and I love its style and tone, and sense of humour from beginning to end.

My admittedly self-centred point is that, I may have it hard, but Lord might I have it harder. I’m not sure what makes gay relationships apparently so very difficult to have and maintain –though the mention of couple in which one of the males had given permission to his boyfriend to sleep regularly with another may be a clue. We’re human beings, and gay or not, jealousy has to be an issue in such a situation. Perhaps, also, gay men have super high sex drives. I don’t know. I just want to send a big, warm hug to all those single gay men (and women!) who are also in Pursuit of Happiness, and wish them the very best of luck in their journey. 

Don’t Get Up...

No, this isn’t just what you tell a shockingly short man when you’ve turned up late for a date that was arranged online. It’s also what you do when, after finally getting to sleep after a busy night’s work, you suddenly fall devastatingly in love with a man you’ve literally met in your dreams. This is because it’s quite useless, if you do get up, to pretend that you will be able to put him out of your mind, just because you’re busy with another project. It’s no good. He’s got to come out, and that means a new Word Doc, a fresh blank page before you, a sudden mix of the inertia of stupidity, and complete panic at the thought that He might not come out after all, in the moment (suffering, as He continues to develop himself in your mind) or if He does, He may come out in the wrong context (frustration, as this is tantamount to tons of rewriting, re-casting and proper cold rethinking, which is horribly difficult, as opposed to instinctive flow.) Worst of all, He may come out wrong, which means mental TORTURE, the deletion of everything, and a fresh, fresh start, even in the midst of now sheer panic.

This is all very terrible, but do you know what’s worse? Battling with said Dreamlover, while juggling work, your hair (which for some reason, this month, has completely refused to submit to your authority) and your time, some of which you are required to spend with family members, close and distant, or they become either Resentful or Suspicious. I can’t deal with either because, while most families revel in drama, whether high (and loud) or low (and passive-aggressive,) mine being no exception, I reserve most of mine for my writing, and, indeed, tend to avoid it altogether in real life.

 Nevertheless, my dramatic instincts are highly challenged when I’m conducting said battle with new Dreamlover, work, hair and time, and ALSO a short story. I am emphatically NOT a short-story writer, but like all good writers, it may take me some time to accept this. It is a skill, and, logically, all skills can be learned. I tend to submit myself to the torture of trying to write a short story at least once a month –which isn’t as dramatic as it sounds, because writers are born self-torturers, but it is certainly one of my more painful enterprises. I should have given up long ago, except that occasionally, I put out a marvel, and then I’m so proud of myself, I try again... and the cycle restarts. I’m not used to not being good at things, even on the first try. This isn’t due to some super natural talent or a streak of lucky recklessness in my character –quite the contrary. I am OCD about reading the instructions, directions, rules and regulations of the thing, until I understand exactly what I’m about. Then it’s (usually!) smooth going. It’s how I first got myself on a horse. It’s also why I didn’t panic (completely) when it began to move (the exercise was to mount it –the horse wasn’t supposed to move, once mounted, but who knew horses don’t get implied directions?) Following the instructions on how to communicate with a horse, I gently pulled (trying with all my might not to clutch) my reins tighter to my chest, and gave a squeeze using my inner thigh muscles –even though I’d only just that morning discovered I had them. Worked like a charm. And horse-riding has since been one of favourite things to do.

Do you know what’s even worse than getting up to battle D, W, H, T, and S.S? BEING INTERRUPTED. Though I never qualified to be called a spitfire, I apparently used to be one remarkable erupting volcano when I was a child. I quite remember being a sulky teenager (which has always been in fashion) but grew up to manage my temper in ways my parents certainly still walk in disbelief that I can, and though my habit of bubbling stewing internally has yet to dealt with (which it must, because like toothpaste, shampoo, microwaves, alcohol and too much bread, it is apparently causes of Cancer) I have learned enough to keep my eruptions at bay –literally by physically distancing myself from any potential Last Drop. Thankfully, I’m not much of a rancorous person, and I forget quickly and easily (mainly, I suspect, because my mind is too busy processing every minute’s overload of information, questioning etc.) and I can usually come back to said Last Drop with some composure. Unfortunately, however, if I am NOT given enough time to put my simmering temper sufficiently far away from the surface, composure is not possible to regain fully, in which case, it has been reported to me by my mother, an aunt and some young cousins that, though my speech and manners may be faultless, I look either like the very depiction of an unbalanced murderess (Mum) or like a cartoon of the evillest witch (cousins.) I believe I once witnessed one of these little devils actually take a picture of me for a school project, with quite detached scientific interest... Don’t know why I didn’t blow. The shock probably acted like iced water over my outrage, delaying it the point where eruption was impossible. My friends are so-called because they have earned this right –which includes instinctively knowing when the volcano is doing its thing, in which case they are experts at distracting it.

In SHORT, I don’t WANT to get up today. It would be a successful attainment of Happiness if I could just stay in bed, and do nothing but read and drink hot cocoa. (Sigh...) Alas, since this won’t be possible, I must ask all of you to send me calming ‘Ommms’ or prayers to keep my simmering going without eruption! 

The Audacity of Singeanthropus Astropithicus

Dear Lovely Followers, Friends, and Random Readers of “In Hot Pursuit...”,

You may have noticed that since business picked up, I’ve begun posting weekly. You may also have noticed that last week’s post is late, which isn’t, incidentally, due to any lack of commitment on my part, but rather to the OCD I suffer from when it comes to writing short stories, which has severely delayed me (not for the first time, and probably not the last.) By this you may indeed infer that I am preparing a short story for you that is hilarious, but as it is turning out to be a rather a long short story, I feel compelled to post it in two parts, in time for next week, and the week after. Since, however, it was however completely out of the question to leave you guys hanging too long, I am this week posting another invaluable short story –which thankfully, is quite short.

My deep thanks to all those sympathetic (though bordering on pitying) Followers who have been kind enough to send me the stories of their own Pursuit of Happiness, either to make me feel better, or simply to inject me with hope. You are beautiful people, thank you!!! I have obtained their permission to share some of their stories with my readers, so here goes for number 1) of a few selected short stories I shall be sharing with you from time to time. Enjoy, and do comment as much as you like!

Oh yeah... the weekly report. Erm... there was ONE message worthy of note, recently. I opened it up because it began so well, and immediately regretted it. It was from some dude in America who can’t spell (or, even worse of a crime, refuses to) and is apparently looking to set up a train of worthy Kenyan females to ‘pop’ on his next visit to Nairobi. My delete button actually beeped resentfully at me that evening, and I don’t blame it. It is already smudged and scarred beyond recognition.

The Audacity of Singeanthropus Astropithicus

Like most well-ranked High School graduates, when Jane entered into college life, she quickly surrounded herself with a posse of five like-minded college girlfriends, with whom she went everywhere and did everything. The Girls, who were from all four corners of Africa, got along spectacularly well, to the point where they are still in touch today. In their day, status was everything, and being a University Student was one of the most prestigious among young people. There were certain things a Proper University Student did not permit themselves to do, particularly if they were female. Having battled their way to further education and thus established a firm path to career and professional success (despite both active and passive male opposition), she most certainly did NOT hang around the Wrong People. The WPs did things that most college students now do as a matter of course, such as: skip class, party all night, not mind whom they were seen about with, dress like a wino, become a wino... you get the drift.

Such girls, because they successfully taught people to treat them with respect (working hard, excelling at sports, participating in debates, attending dances but adhering to early nights, and cold shouldering those who didn’t meet the standard by behaving likewise) were considered the Elite Crew of the university, and there were any number of girls trying to ingratiate themselves into the group, let alone men throwing themselves out of windows to date them. John, however, was the privileged and much envied male who actually earned the honour of dating all of the Girls –at once. (Don’t get excited, I’m about to explain.)

John, who attended the English Literature class with the all the Girls, was a quiet, intelligent fellow, whose lack of straightforward good looks were much redeemed by a good sense of humour, superseded by excellent manners. He had much impressed the Girls, not only by discussing difficult topics intelligently, but also by treating each of them with an almost asexual gentlemanly interest. His first offer to carry their books did not end, as they expected, with a self-invitation to ‘coffee’. To their amazement, John continued to leave them safely and cordially at their dorm room doors with a wave and a prompt about-turn, and it was the Girls who finally had to invite him in to tea. His funniest remarks held no sexual connotation, and in the rare occasions where he threw an arm around one or other of them, it was with the familiar élan of an affectionate brother. In short, John was non-threatening, and this earned him the status of Gentleman Friend to all of them. He became the only man they ever went out with, and it became a semi-serious joke, at dances, that when one of the Girls was asked to dance by another male, she would first lean over and ask for John’s permission or approval, before she could accept. Having learned that he frequently declined it, it even became a matter of social ranking, among the men, to be in John’s good graces. Without them, they could have no access to the Girls, and having any one of them condescend to grant a man the time of day was considered quite a feather in one’s cap.

One morning, while battling the books in the library, Mary, a Tanzanian, and one of the Girls, was interrupted by a greeting from one of the ugliest men she had ever seen. Being an unadulterated giggler, the poor girl, busy suppressing this tendency, was only able to grasp from the ensuing conversation that he was a fellow countryman, and that she had been pointed out to him as such. After the necessary greetings had been exchanged, Mary excused herself as quickly as she could, and ran to the bathroom to cry out her laughter, where she was discovered by Jane, half an hour later, still recovering.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Jane exclaimed, alarmed at finding her roommate supporting herself against a bathroom wall. Mary burst into new peals of laughter, but was eventually able to gasp.

            “I saw Singeathropus...”

At this, Jane joined her in hearty laughter. Singeanthropus Astropithacus, you see, was the name the Girls had very rudely concocted to describe Seriously Ugly Men.

“Where? Where?” Jane cried, wiping her eyes. Mary gave her a watery smile.

“In the library... He came up to me to introduce himself because he’s also from Tanzania.”

Jane cried with laughter, and joined her friend against the wall.

            “You poor, poor girl!” She gasped. Her eyes widened. “Oh, NO. Is he going to be a problem? Come calling on you every day and joining you for lunch and everything?”

Mary’s eyes widened in alarm, then, their eyes connecting, the girls promptly burst into laughter again, so hard indeed, that they ended up on the floor.

Singeanthropus, as it turned out, was a Third Year student, and for at least a month, Mary was able to remain relatively safe from his eager attentions by using the excuse of their rarely convergent class schedules. Being a well-brought up, polite girl, however, she was unable to rebuff him in an obvious manner, hoping against hope, every day, that her cold civility would eventually manage to put him off.

Note to Girls: Cold Civility NEVER, EVER works with Persistent Pests. If someone is barging himself into your life and you don’t want him to –tell him so Straight. Don’t be shy, and don’t mind if you’re rude –they’ll get over it (or begin stalking you, in which case you MUST tell the Authorities.) Just close your eyes and speak the brutal truth, and do NOT, I repeat, do NOT apologise for it. It’s not fair to you to let him make your life uncomfortable, nor is it fair to him, if he genuinely doesn’t realise that you can’t stand him. If you need some adequate phrase to use, please e-mail me.

Cold Civility did not work. Mary frequently found herself dreading to walk down university paths in case she ran into him, and took to lunching in strange corners of the university quad, while the Girls waited for her in the cafeteria and wondered what was going on with her. The only person who knew of her friend’s persecution was Jane, who found it hilarious that Mary couldn’t speak her mind and just tell him to blow off.

One Saturday morning, Jane dragged a tired, depressed Mary to the library, in order for them to research an essay together that would count towards their final year grade. With the help of generous injections of tea, the girls were able to get into the work and had succeeded in planning most of it by lunchtime, at which point Jane stretched luxuriously, and declared that they deserved a good lunch. Mary agreed, and both girls made their way to the deserted main cafeteria, where they might discuss their progress over the good food that materialised only on weekends –probably because this was the only time the chef wasn’t resentfully under pressure.

They had just begun dessert when a shadow fell over their table, and Mary mournfully looked up to find Singe beaming at her, apparently floating in a very clean, very yellow oversized shirt.

            “Mary!” The tall thin reed of a man reproached her, “I haven’t seen you around for AGES –have you been sick?”

As Mary, by concentrating, managed to swallow rather than choke, and began some rueful creation of an explanation, Singe’s eye had fallen on dumbstruck Jane –and remained there.

            “Who is THIS!” He clamoured admiringly and interrupting Mary, his bulging eyes almost completely out of their sockets. Mary looked from him to Jane, then began to smile.

            “Oh! This is JANE, my ROOMMATE.” She said enthusiastically, now grinning wildly at Jane. Jane, whose synapses were threatening to go on strike if compelled to send an accurate message of Singe’s appearance to her well-insulated brain, then back again to her eyes, remained very still.

            “JANE,” cried Mary, trying to call her roommate back to herself, “this is Singe... er... Geoffrey. My country mate I told you about?”

Jane looked at her as though she had just beamed down from Space.

“Jane is my roommate, Geoffrey...”

            “Geoffrey?” Jane finally murmured, her eyes stretched to their limit. Singe, feeling he’d made an impression, but not realizing which, confidently threw himself into the seat next to Jane’s, and extended a worn, ugly hand.

            “YES! I’m Geoffrey!” He cried happily, following the pronouncement with a painful hearty laugh.

            Jane, not knowing what else to do as she had also been well brought-up, gingerly put her hand in his, and shook it with a plastic smile.

            “Nice to meet you, Geoffrey.”

            “It’s even nicer to meet you!” Geoffrey laughed again, making the hairs stand on both the Girls’ necks. Mary, taking pity on her friend, stood up abruptly.

            “JANE, if we want to make that Volleyball game by three, we really should get going...” Jane sprung up as though stung, and was at the cafeteria door before either of the Tanzanians could react.

            “Well... er... Geoffrey,” Mary mumbled, as a way of taking leave, “we have this essay...”

Geoffrey was around the table and by her side like a shot.

            “I understand, I understand,” He said brightly, taking her hand in both of his. “But please let me call on you one of these fine days. I would very much like to see Jane again.”

            Feeling rotten, Mary gave in to good manners and him their room number, informing him that they were usually back from class by six in the evening.

            “Please, please don’t be angry with me Jane,” Mary begged, as the girls slowly made their way back to the library. “I really, sincerely didn’t know what else to say! I mean he’s a countryman after all, and we sort of have some obligation to look after each other somehow... Jane, please...”

Jane who slow pace had dictated their walk, now stopped. As her glazed eyes slowly lit upon her, Mary suddenly realized that Jane had mentally been far, far away.

            “He’s ugly, Mary,” Jane now said in a musing tone, almost academic tone, linking her arm with Mary’s and resuming their walk. “I mean he’s really, really ugly.” Her tone, Mary realised, might have contained a bit of awe. “He’s so ugly, it’s fascinating.” Jane murmured. Mary felt a swoon coming on.

            “What?!” She voiced, alarmed. She stopped, forcing Jane to stop with her. “What are you saying?” But Jane was back, and shrugged airily, pushing them along the path again.

            “I’m saying it might be interesting to see him again.” She grinned frankly at her friend. “I mean, ugly people are people too!”

            Completely taken aback, Mary went along to the library without another word.

            Singe officially called in to see Jane a couple of days later. When the girls had arrived from class, they found the older man cutting a horrible picture by the door of their dorms. As Mary involuntarily shuddered, Jane couldn’t help grinning at the sight of this presumptuous scarecrow. While they all exchanged pleasantries, Mary, feeling that it was the least she could do, made tea and set out a plate of biscuits on Jane’s partitioned side of the room, then discreetly retired to her own, where she sat rigidly upright, listening hard to the ongoing conversation. For a while, Jane and Singe exchanged standard information on their homes and their families, Singe eagerly, and Jane more reservedly. Those questions exhausted, there was a short silence, then Singe enquired on Jane’s plans for education, career and family.

            “Oh I have no intention of getting married any time soon,” Jane told him frankly, “I must have a profession, and I do take my work seriously.”

            “Yes, of course.” Singe replied, sounding utterly downcast. To her surprise, Mary soon heard the sounds of Singe’s leave-taking, upon which she immediately ran over to Jane.

            “How on EARTH did you make him leave after just one cup of tea and half a biscuit?” She cried admiringly. Jane smiled widely.

            “I wasn’t warm, I guess.” She shook her head in a superior manner. “THAT’s how you get rid of Persistent Pests, Mary. You tell them either with your mouth, or your demeanour, that they’re not welcome in your life.” She filled up her mug of tea, and threw herself happily on her bed with a biscuit. “He shouldn’t bother us again. Now, fill up your mug and come and sit so we can discuss our research.”

            When the girls came back from class the next evening, Singe was waiting for them. As Jane’s heart fell and Mary’s eyes began to water, they both realised that the man was dressed to the nines in a white shirt so immaculately clean, it crackled. What was perhaps more horrifying was the he also held a large bunch of red roses, which he dared to present to Jane in front of everyone that might have been hanging around. Puce with embarrassment, the girls felt compelled to bundle him into their rooms, out of sight, and once there, naturally, they had to offer him a cup of tea. Once again conversation lulled, then Singe suddenly began speaking of his own plans for the future. As an engineer, he would make a lot of money, he declared, focusing his bulging eyes on Jane. Enough to keep his wife extremely happy, and of course neither she nor his children would lack for anything. Horrified, Mary felt the giggles begin to bubble up her throat, and promptly excused herself to go to the restroom. Jane, whose astonishment was only equal to her embarrassment, was rendered completely mute for the next few minutes. This silence, unfortunately, Singe believed was due to her having been duly impressed, and shortly after Mary’s return, he took his leave of the girls with a wide, gap-toothed smile, and a promise to return the morrow. As Mary helplessly burst into laughter, Jane felt genuine tears sting at her eyes.

*

“It’s NOT that he’s interested in me,” she fumed to the rest of the Girls that evening, over a rare glass of wine, “it’s that he actually thinks he has a chance!” The Girls, barely recovered from a two hour laughing session over Singe, burst into giggles once more. Jane stood up, outraged, and began to pace. “I’m TOP of my class, I’m the STAR of the Varsity Volleyball team, I’m on the Dean’s list! Who’s he?”

“He’s old, and out of it... and did I mention, UGLY?” Mary quavered. The Girls writhed with laughter where they sat or lay.

“Oh my Lord, we have to meet him!” Gladys cried, getting up to refill glasses, and giving Jane a sympathetic hug. “I’m sure he’s not that awful.” Jane and Mary looked at each other and promptly burst into tears of laughter.

“No, no...” Jane gasped, leaning against the window for support, “that’s an excellent idea. After class tomorrow...”

“...you should all come over for tea!” Mary concluded instantly. This idea spouted a gaggle of voices raised in anticipation of high drama, and it was quite late when the group separated, each girl going to bed satisfied at the thought of tomorrow.

The Girls could barely concentrate on their classes the next morning, and, as it always happens when you’re looking forward to something, time spent an inordinate amount of time passing. By four, excitement was at fever pitch; the Girls had confided in John, and promptly invited him to come along to tea and see Singe. John, while voicing his uncertainty at the political correctedness of classifying anyone as a Singeanthropus Astropithicus, had been quickly infected with the Girls’ excitement, and, at six, happily laden with all of their books, led the way down the path to their dorms. The guffaws began as soon as Mary winked and jerked her head in the direction of the curious scarecrow-like figure standing before their dorms, in a billowing blood-red shirt that had been starched until it cried out. Politely, nevertheless, John and the rest of the Girls introduced themselves to Geoffrey, and Jane thanked him for the expensive tin of biscuits that he presented to her. After a suitable period of small talk, the company politely retired to Mary’s side of the room, where they promptly began wiping off tears of silent laughter, pinching each other, and trying to listen in on Singe at the same time.

“How is your essay going?” Singe asked politely. Jane smiled tightly and pointed at a pile of papers on her desk.

“Slow but steady, thank you. How are your studies?”

“Fine, fine,” Singe replied absently. There followed a short silence. “So, how long will your studies take?”

“Three years, four at the most,” Jane replied flatly, gazing longingly out of the window for a moment. She tried smiling at him again and added. “Then of course I’ll do my Masters, and then possibly my PhD directly.”

Singe gazed at her in horror.

“But when will you be free to marry?”

Jane shrugged dismissively.

“These things always work out somehow... Biscuit?”

But Singe was now overwhelmed with a need to Speak.

“I have 35 shirts and 12 trousers.” He stated impressively. There was a pause, then a collective howling began from behind the partition. Jane, carefully setting down the tin of biscuits, felt her tears begin to streak down her face.

“Excuse me,” she murmured. She ran over to Mary’s side of the room, and collapsed onto her bed screaming with laughter.

Apparently, this was all that was needed, because Singe was never seen at the Girls’ dorm again. Today, they still laugh at the very mention of his name.

Of Colds, Sweat and Surgeons

One of my favourite authors, Agatha Christie, made me smile, when she advised in her autobiography, that girls who want to know whether they feel truly committed to a man or not should try to imagine them, not as they stand before them, smartly dressed, polite, savvy and saying all the right things... but rather ill, with a coad in their dose. If, with that imagine in mind, the girl can still feel wildly interested and affectionate towards this man, then it’s ‘Go’ for them. It’s so very true that there is almost nothing more unattractive than a man with a severe cold, sweaty, smelly, and rendered wild-eyed by a series of up-coming sneezes... but while I hug the walls when there’s a cold about, I know how to deal with it, whereas I abhor sweat. So, while I’m happy to follow Ms Christie’s advice, I have to try and imagine loving any man I’m interested in despite his coming home in a complete sweat, from a run. Or breaking into a cold sweat because he’s got bad news for us about the house we’ve just bought. Or  keep a strong hold on my appetite at the table with him, if (God forbid) he’s the type who sweats while he eats (does ANYONE have a good, solid medical reason for this and can it TREATED? SUCH a turn-off!) I think this forbearance on my part may be the most definitive sign I look for!

In Grey’s Anatomy (an American medical television series I’m obsessed with) I feel like my romantic character is divided between that of Meredith Grey’s and Cristina Yang’s (respectively and beautifully played by Ellen Pompeo and Sarah Oh). Cristina, like me, never thought of marriage as a huge deal. When proposed to by Dr Burke (played by the stunning Isiah Washington, whom I still miss...) she accepts, after some thought –but not so much because she is in love with him, as because she realises clearly that this is a make or break time in their relationship, as many that have come before this point. Dr Burke, in his own words, ‘leads’ in the progress of the relationship, and Cristina ‘follows’. In actual fact, he is a super-controlling, insecure bully, though a well-meaning, kind man, and Cristina is fully aware of this too. She knows that if she agrees to marry him, she is in for a life of ultimatums and an obligation to ‘follow’ Dr Burke, in whatever he may choose is good for himself, for her, and for both of them as a couple. Yet this independently-minded, singly-mindedly determined, self-sufficient surgeon agrees to marry Dr Burke. Because the choice is ultimately simple: Say ‘Yes’, and keep him, at least for the moment, for there is always the option of divorce; vs  Say ‘No’, and lose him completely –as a teacher, mentor, lover and other half of a usually ‘good thing’ that she belongs to. For her, it comes down to a simple mathematical equation, and she (as I might, under those circumstances) choses to go for it, and hope for the best. She would not have been happy in that marriage, just as she hasn’t truly been happy in the relationship –and neither would Dr Burke have been. His ultimatums limit her, and she is, as described by Dr Teddy Altman, ‘a racehorse’ that needs to be ‘pushed’ –both professionally and personally. Her security makes him even more insecure, and the truth is, part of man’s feeling of security within any relationship is knowing that he is needed, even more than appreciated (and where he is both, he will stay and probably never stray.) But for the present, she will marry him, for it is the better of two evils. I sincerely hope that I am never reduced to this. I almost was, once, but chose correctly. Still, I was much younger...

Meredith, on the other hand, is a faithful romantic. She cannot venture romantically into territory where she cannot be sure that True Love lives. She needs a man she can trust enough to sink her entire being into. Even when she is absolutely certain in herself that she is in love with Dr Derek Shepherd, she is able to refrain from committing to him entirely (at least outwardly) until she is certain that this is ‘for life’. She will not be a ‘dirty mistress’ no matter how much she misses him. When he is finally free, she doesn’t throw herself at his feet. She loves him, sure, but she would prefer to suffer now, than suffer later. She must be SURE of him, and of his love for her. That he IS her other half: her friend, her lover, her teacher, her rock –the one person she would willingly give her life (AND her unborn baby’s?!!) for, because his love makes it possible for her to live in him. His joys are her own, his sadness likewise, and her sense of independence, unlike Cristina’s is able to mould itself around his wants and needs... As Cristina-like as I love to think of myself, I’m afraid that this is the kind of love I inherently believe in. I believe that this is the only kind of love that would dampen the Cristina within me enough to allow me to accept the state of marriage, and my role within it as my husband’s side-kick and accomplice, staunch supporter, (moral and physical) compass, and ‘soft place to fall’. It’s that kind of love that sees a man through a bad cold, and thoughtlessly wipes off his sweat, before offering him a cold drink, I think.

Still In pursuit of Happiness!

No News is Good News

Of note:

Henry, 42, who’s profile unwisely tells the world that he is “always available”, unless, as I highly suspect, he is a male escort.

Arthur, 38, who’s profile simply says “Wow”, I’ve no idea what about. It certainly can’t be about his own picture, in which he looks like a friar, perfect round, shiny head, plump cheeks and all. No thanks.

Steve is 59, and “likes to travel”, which is great, though I don’t know how he could possibly manage it since he doesn’t know how to read. His age is closer to 60 than it is to my ceiling of 40. Sweet smile, though. He looks like a lovely, warm person.

Juan Ramon, 69. SERIOUSLY? His picture is taken at what looks like an unending family function at a rustic restaurant. He has a full head of hair (lovely) except he also has one attached to his chin. And it pure, snow white. I mean...?

And then there’s James, 37, an American from Virginia. Excellent, except the picture of himself that he has chosen to put up makes him look like a convict at a Kenyan prison.

I will also just mention that there’s been a persistent “Separated” fellow, who’s temporarily in Nairobi, and looking to have a dalliance with me –WHAT is he thinking? I sent him a short note to the effect that he had lost me at ‘Separated’ which was a mistake, because my ‘DELETE’ button hasn;t been this busy in a good while.

There HAVE been a couple of interesting messages from another American fellow  who’s profile made me die of laughter. You may like to watch this space.

The weather is steadily turning rainy and cold, and I’m tempted to change my profile title to “Someone to snuggle with!”... except the consequences I imagine would be disastrous.

Still in hot pursuit!