Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Last year, round about this time, I came to the not too startling conclusion that I didn’t like how I was being treated by certain men. At the time, it was more frustration than anything else, I had finally gotten tired of being used and abused. Thing is, even after that post, and a month of soul searching, not too much really changed with me, at least not that I could see. I was still dating, or not dating, the same or similar idiots, I was still moaning about work, bitching about my former local, complaining about the never ending stream of complaints from my friends, whining about serikali… In as much as I would have loved to say that writing that post was the beginning of better days, it turned out to be just another thing I wrote, to be forgotten almost as soon as it was published.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, some of what that woman said last year actually stuck. Better still, some of it makes sense to me now, 12 months later.

What? Why are you staring at me like that? I keep telling you buggers I’m a bit slow, and you think I’m joking. Half the time I put down stuff that I have barely admitted to myself, at least not consciously, only realising what it is I’m actually saying when I’m doing the final edit on my phone, after I’ve posted. Roho safi, if it wasn’t for the lovelies on the feed, some posts would never have stayed on these pages. Ah well… Bora you don’t try to blackmail me when I run for president, I guess its all good. Yes, I plan to run for president, I’m going to pull a Dida and show up one month to elections, just in time to be on TV. And just for the record, I’mma bring my three wives, just because.

I don’t know where to go after that little piece of brilliance.

I was talking about last year’s epiphany, one that only become clear to me many months later. I talked about no longer trying to figure out what it was I could do for these men, but what they could do for me. What they would add to my life, and take from it. I have since refined that thought to what is it I want, really want, from these men. It was not enough to figure out where a man was coming from, I need to figure out where it is I want to go. And after a year and a half of aimless rambling, I think I can finally say what it is I truly want, right now at least.

1. I want to spend time with geniuses who know that I am more than a walking pair of breasts, and an empty womb.

Yes, my boobs are relatively spectacular, especially the right one, but let’s face it, pretty much every woman thinks the same about her boobs, and rightly so. We know they’re brilliant, but once in a while it wouldn’t hurt you to look up, or down, at the rest of us. Its frustrating to be constantly be reduced to nothing more than a sex toy, to be used and discarded at will, and all because a man chooses to focus on my parts, and not the sum of my parts. I don’t mind the odd ogle every once and again, but I’ll be needing you buggers to look at the rest of me, the rest of the time.

But not at my stomach.

Why, oh why, is it assumed that my lack of children is something I am keen to change?  I don’t want babies, and I sure as hell don’t want yours.  The next time I am subjected to an hour long discussion about someone’s child’s development issues, I will go postal up in that shit and smoke someone’s ass.  Same thing will happen the next time a man offers me his dodgy seed.  Dude, while I have no doubt that the combination of your drunk genes and mine will, in all likelihood, result in the next Barack, being that we’re both oh so brilliant, I fear I am unwilling to expel another living being from my hoo haa on your account, given that we met only a few hours ago in a dark corner of an otherwise well-lit bar.

2. I want to spend my precious time with buggers who like to think, preferably outside the box.

So help me, you will seduce my fucking mind, or you will die trying (because I will kill you). While being lusted over mindlessly does have its benefits, I prefer that you drool over my pretty little head, thank you very much.  I am tired of being bored by men, and women, of what I consider wanting intellect.  That’s right, I said it and I’m not taking it back.  Read a book, dammit, maybe even use bloody google once in a while.  I want, nay, need people around me of slightly greater intelligence, at least enough that they know how to spell beat (just so you know, bit has a different meaning).  Interests extending beyond the latest new club in town.  Reading lists that include books without pictures of naked people.   Scratch that, I’ll settle for reading lists, period.  Open minds willing to question conventional wisdom, willing to challenge me and my absurd theories about the (alleged) death of Tupac (the man is still alive…) and the snooping Americans (why is no one else concerned about this drone saga? This shit is real…).  People willing to interrogate their own actions, instead of simply complaining about everyone else’s.  Which brings me to…

3. I have no interest in blaming other people for my woes any more, and I have no time for those that do.

I can bitch.  When I put my mind to it, I can rant for hours on end, about anything and everything under the sun, but to what end?  Whining about the man who didn’t call me when he said he would, or the man who woke me up at 2:34 in the morning (this very morning) with an ill-advised booty call (we shall revisit this one at length, useless bugger…)?  And then?  Calling serikali a bunch of greedy bastards, and their press lackeys idiots?  To what end?  Enough with the nonsense words.  I’ve learnt that if I don’t like something, then I need to change it, and if I cant change it, then I’d best learn to like it.  I’m not saying I won’t bitch any more, that would just be silly, what will I do with my time?   I’m thinking more along the lines of action-oriented ranting. I talk about the problem, and then I come up with an almost workable solution.  It may not be a particularly intelligent solution, or acceptable in polite society (I’m covering my ass for when I tell some idiot to go shove it up theirs), but at least it will be a break from the incessant whining I suspect I may have become famous for.

My people, all I’m saying is that this narrative needs to be changed, because the helpless female/Kenyan routine has gotten old.  For how long will we keep being led around by the nose by self interested buggers looking to get one over on us?  Be knowing, I’m not entirely sure what form said new narrative will take, but I figure for as long its no longer woiyee bullshit, then I’m good, no?  No?

4. I want a man, or three, but not a husband.

I don’t know how many ways I can say this, I do not want to get married.   I have nothing against marriage, I think its a most excellent institution (although, the fact that its called an institution does take some of the shine off it).  I have no bitter woman issues with men, sijui servitude and all that FIDA drama, I think men are just lovely, if somewhat stupid occasionally.  I have no issues with life long cohabitation, as long as the TV is not shared, and my CD’s are never rearranged.  I just think that some of us, or maybe just me, were not built to be wed.  Perhaps we are evolutionary defects, missing the gene responsible for craving white fluffy dresses and matching dinnerware, or perhaps we’re just outliers, responsible for making up the bell curve that is humanity, who knows?  I do know that I do not want to stand before God and man and declare Mr Alex to be my one and only, forever and ever, amen.  Which is not to say I don’t want Mr Alex, because I do, but like I said last year, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my unwillingness to get hitched means my fate may instead be several Mr Alexes (serially, ideally, not simultaneously, unless they’re open to a threesome).  Is that a contradiction?  So be it.  I’ve made my peace with it, I suggest you do the same.  Now if only I could convince the mother.

5. I wanna be rich.

Note, I said ‘I’, not ‘we’, this is all about me and my interpretation of wealth, because I am at that point in my life where I’ve started planning for my future, alone.  I look at money as a means to an end.  I want to live comfortably, without worrying about next month’s rent or next year’s insurance premiums (an ever pressing concern for jua kali types, unfortunately).  I want to be able to afford to tell a nasty client to keep his shitty job, because I can get by without his two bob.  I want to take a year off when I turn 40 to go see what’s left of the 7 ancient wonders of the world.  I want to be rich enough to buy a BMW from the showroom, and not the used car showroom, the ‘brand new, fresh off the boat’ showroom on Mombasa Road, because I want my car to come with that karatasi used to funika the steering wheel, so that the leather doesn’t get stained by the greasy paws of the drooling masses, they who want to touch but can’t afford to buy (that would be me, currently).  Its not that I’m particularly obsessed with material things, mostly because I don’t have too many, but the 5 series is my one abiding obsession in life, and while I am not yet desperate enough to kill for it, I have considered prostituting myself, for the right price of course.  What?  Stop frowning, we all have a price, just that mine is German.  I’m just saying, if you got the money to buy me my honey, then I got your honey, honey.  And speaking of honey…

6. I want to get laid, preferably more often than once a month (if only I was that lucky…).

I’ve been single long enough that I can comfortably go for extended periods without getting any.  I’ve also been in relationships where sex was considered a secondary activity to work, partying, booze, family (his, not mine, clearly, and no I’m not talking about a married man you perverts), F1, F2 too…  Going without is pretty much a given for women my age.  Thing is, I’m no longer content to accept this sad state of affairs.  My people, women want sex as much as men do, perhaps more if recent research is to be believed.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it until I find the man who is willing to be my (steady) supplier, girls just wanna have fun, too.

7. I want to live in a society that’s just.

I no longer harbour idealistic dreams of the meek inheriting the earth, these days all I ask is for a fair wage for a hard day’s work, and the freedom to enjoy the fruits of my labour.  That’s it.  I do not need to be harassed by a government that seeks to tax my daily bread (literally).  Cops who insist of milking me for tea every time I chapa an (apparently) illegal right turn in Westlands (and then ask me out on a date immediately thereafter, because I would date a man who’s just extorted 400 bob from me for his lunch…).  Politicians who seem to think that our, OUR, treasury is their little slush fund for tax free cars and mansions.  Wanna-be politicians who can’t be bothered to vote for their fathers like the rest of us pathetic raia, because they can’t be bothered to queue.  Banks that charge extortionate interest rates and telcos that sell me imaginary bandwidth.  Mechanics who claim to change my gearbox, only to replace it with an older one, and all because I’m female and therefore incapable of distinguishing between a carburettor and an oil filter.

I want a just society, and if you’re not going to give it to me, then I plan on taking it for myself, because I will be damned if I’m going to sit around on my ass any longer, waiting for someone up in the heavens to come down and make it all better. Hang on, by saying that I have just been damned, no? Ah well…