Back And Forth.....

For all y’all who been wondering what to get me for Christmas (and, even if you weren’t, now you don’t have a choice do you? *Evil guffaw*). As I was saying, wonder no more. I shall be putting up a list of the gifts I want, nay, expect to receive, complete with (hopefully) points of purchase. Now, while the rest of you blessed sods were reflecting on this year, and coming up with ‘thankfullnesses’ and ‘gratitudes’, I was counting my :

Heartbreaks and disappointments : Up to and including you, you, and you I met *in the club, at dinner, at the book fair, the motorshow, the exhibition halls, heck, even the shopping mall* insert as appropriate, who had such promise, and turned out to be yet another shallow posturing person (read: ok, maybe you didn’t call me back as you’d promised to, but I’m not gonna admit that, am I?), and this is not only dudes…yup, even you dudettes…

Scathed knees: This one is literal. The scars, one from my appendisectomy, and thanks to Dr. Shah who didn’t think he should’ve done anything other’n cut bang right across my bikini line (note to self: next time, Plastic Surg, NOT GP, pref : Macnamara LOL). What? You didn’t think my need to be seen half naked should have been a consideration? Well, news flash : Coast is coming up. I had saved my 2-piece for show. Now, *sob* the girl in the luminous flowery costume with an even flowerier skirt, you’ll know who that is.

The other scar. The one on my back. Paying tribute to the fact that I WAS in fact a tomboy. The jagged thingy that has refused ((even with years, and (even) clinical trials of aloe vera, bio-oil, palmers (with skin fade), jojoba)) to fade. So, the nice pretty bare back tops were relegated to the back of the closet. Option 2 was to wear the skimpy black number, attract a lot of attention, hence feeling like the moth (or was it caterpillar) that had grown into a beautiful, graceful butterfly…..until I realized that the attention was actually from people trying to figure WTF???? The cruelty of these earthlings, these.

And finally, yes, the scathed, bruised, torn knees that remind me, constantly, of my tom-boy days. Yeah, I was a tomboy. I cleaned up. But. Darn. Those scars, still there to remind me. Mummy dearest, you didn’t think I’d need t wear short skirts at some point hence the slap-on bandages that quack put on my knees every time I fell (at least once a week) would not suffice? I love you to bits still, Ma, you know that. Now, about that plastic surgery for my knees……..

Lost quick-buck-making opportunities: you know, the Nigerian broda who had asked me to deposit USD 2,000 (only) in his account and earn 10 times that in a period of less than 2 months. Damn! Too bad I didn’t have enough money (ati enough, didn’t even have a quarter of that), I’d be blogging from the Bahamas…..sigh. Instead I’m stuck here listening to DMX and trying not to figure how I’ma get home with all the rain and rain-induced traffic outside.

Then there’s that time Nakumatt was having a mega-sale and my pal T convinced me to join him as he cleaned out his account so we could buy electronics and resell for a pretty profit. Clean out my account I did lakini by the time I woke up at 7 A.M.(absurdly early for a Sunday in my standards), the queue was 2 km long. T, of course, had neglected to mention that we had to be there circa 4.30A.M. Eish, these kikuyus, these.

My post was going to end there. Unfortunately, I’m mighty superstitious and I don’t wanna be struck by lightning. So I will go where this post was really meant to go before the sky fell on my head a few days ago (remember chicken licken? :-) ).

I’m a blessed sod. I am. There. It’s out. Now, guardian angel, maybe you can stop hovering over me menacingly.

- I have a wunnerful (albeit small) family. A mother who I love to bits (who spoils me too, I know); a small (not so small any more, but, heck) sister who has taught me that every woman has immeasurable strength in her, that going through tragedy is no reason to stop believing; a son (adopted)-cum-small-brother who lights up my life with his enthusiasm for everything. Who we feel blessed to have in our lives.

- Some pretty awesome friends. Together with whom I’ve weathered storms, shared laughs and tears, kicked butt (kicked each others’ too sometimes), done some pretty unimaginable things, done some great things. (Especially my girls. A very amazing group of girls, all achievers in their own way, butt-kickers with hearts of gold).

- Wholesome experiences. I’ve experienced love in a major way this year. Learnt that sometimes giving without reservation beats receiving. That it makes all the difference in the world.

- A job I love (at least most of the time :-) ); a great boss, thanks to whom I owe the realisation that not giving up can only make you stronger, who has taught me the value of good judgement and level headedness, and who has given me opportunities to grow, both professionally and in my personal life; a pleasant and conducive working environment (read: workmates who don’t meddle in my business).

- God. For His protecting my health, my life and everything and everyone in it. For giving me the strength to carry my crosses, for always being there, even when I thought I could do it myself, especially when I was filled with doubts and forlornn-ness.


AOB

This week has not been a happy week. The death toll in Kuresoi, from the fresh spate of ethnic skirmishes hit 14. At times these numbers, when repeated often enough, cease to represent human life and become just that. Numbers. But. 14 families that had nothing to do with the instigation of these clashes. 14 families mourning their dead. 14 families fumbling in the dark, wondering what next. Are we really never going to rid our country of this ethnic surges?

The media has been full of updates on the colossal wave of violence attributed to Mungiki/Taliban. Church leaders, UN-related representatives, and the man on the street, we have all denounced this deplorable wave of violence. And yet, this is not a country where lawlessness abounds. We are a democratic (???) country that thrives on law (lessness) and (dis) order, with enforcement officers to (un) protect us.

Rewind to a while back. When this same Mungiki were hacking people to death (read : machetes and pangas), stripping and beating women up for ‘dressing inappropriately’ (whatever their definition of that may be) and waylaying inhabitants of certain neighborhoods to demand money (or part with a body part). There was genuine terror especially among women and children at that time. And not much was done to allay our fears. In time, Mungiki has become a (very well organized) force, their bloody jaunts rearing their ugly heads, and seemingly isolated cases of related violence being swept under the carpet. Now our past has come back to haunt us. They’re here for us to reckon with. I will not launch into the political discourse, I hate politics with an unimaginable zeal. The women and children. THEY are the ones who bear the brunt of these attacks. They languish at Moi Air Base, without food, sleeping out in the cold, the toddler who yestermorning had clocked 3 days without any food, the colds, the pneumonia plaguing the young ones, the helplessness of their mothers watching at their children pining away, they who have no more tears to cry.

Vagabond touched on this. I quote. “and I am learning that feuds and vendettas between Mungiki and Taliban will affect me someday….and I am learning that perhaps Kenyans need to look at what happened in Rwanda and snap out of petty tribalism”.
I feel her. I can try make sure that we get a few bags of flour, a few mattresses to the Air Base. I can promote Kenyan-ism and educate, deprecate tribalism as far as the people around me are concerned. I want to do something. But I don't know what.

Makes me wonder why I elected those gofers, those good for nothing sanctimonious driving-armored-cars-living-in-mansions-with-hefty-fuel-entertainment-and-bodyguard-allowances-off-my-taxes goons. Who can dare to say out loud that there is a lot of insecurity ESPECIALLY where they are concerned. WHAT? You who can afford state of the art security gadgets. What about me? Who slaves so you can live off 30% of my salary? And a further 16% of my dispensable income? What about me? Who can not be out alone past midnight without looking over my shoulder cos chances are I’ll get jacked. Who has to call home 5 minutes before I get there so I don’t get accosted at my gate. Who has to install 5 doors: ranging all sorts of metals, wood, alum, lead, et al cos I can’t afford sophisticated ‘burglar proofing’. Who has to walk in town with my possessions clutched tightly to my body lest I get relieved of them. What about me?

Next elections will find me in bed, with a book, preferably ‘The Enchanted Forest’. At least there I can escape from this hard cruel helplessness-inducing reality. And all y’all who go to vote, you can come by. I will have made tea, cake, biscuits and ‘mahamri’ to commend your efforts. And if this country goes once again to the dogs, I want my refreshments back!