An Alvaro and a Cup of Tea

Note; I wrote this story on the anniversary of my first date with my now husband.

A year ago, while going about my business at an upmarket shopping mall (read Le Toi), I received a phone call and an invitation that only God knew at the time, would change my life. Heart racing, brow sweating, lips praying.... I dropped all my bargains for the day and made a dash for my car, saying a silent prayer that the empty tank, would at least get me home without having to attempt an uphill drive on neutral. Yes, I can teach you how to do that. I talked to Ed, my car, "Don't let me down now! Work with me! I promise to fuel more than a litre next time."

See it was a difficult time in my life. That day also marked the day my contract at the UN was abruptly terminated without proper notice. 7 days was all I had to get myself ready to be unemployed. For anyone else, this would be a challenge but not as distressing as it would be for me. I was single-handedly raising my 1 year old daughter and living from paycheck to paycheck. Actually it was more of living from paycheck to debt to paycheck. My bank account had become accustomed to a minimum balance of -ve 750. That meant that I couldn't even afford to pay the ledger fees, and also that by the 30th of every month, 4 days after pay day, I was broke. Most of those times, I hadn't even paid rent. But I had a plan. I had learned that as long as I had airtime, I would always be able to find money somewhere. Borrowed money. Money that I never did know when I'd pay. I was completely caught up in a vicious cycle.

Back to that July 7th day. I raced all the way across town trying to make my way back home. I only had about half an hour to get everything in order. I needed the universe to conspire WITH me, and for Murphy to remain dead. We are talking Ngong Road at rush hour, and then Mbagathi way. With no fuel. No amount of short-cutting would save the day. At the same time I had all these thoughts going through my head. What if? What if? Is this it?

See a number of months prior to that phone call, I had finally made THAT decision. You know that right decision everyone needs to make at one point in their lives. The decision to be part of the fellowship of the unashamed. To be a fearless influencer. The decision not to look back, let up, slow down, back away or be still. The decision to accept that my past had been redeemed, my present made sense and that my future is secure. The decision to be done with low living, sight walking, small planning, smooth knees, colorless dreams, cheap giving and dwarfed goals. The decision to ditch my toxic relationship and start over with just God and I, believing fully that in His time, He will make all things beautiful. The decision to join Mizizi, despite me not 'feeling' it. The decision to attend church every Sunday, and not just so I can meet up with old friends. The decision to answer God's calling to the alter, to confess and repent, and enjoy a personal relationship with Jesus.

That was a couple of months ago, right now I needed to get home fast. And get home fast I did. Then came the most difficult, earth shattering decision I ever had to make.... WHAT WILL I WEAR?? I threw out all manner of clothing onto my bed, trying them on, changing tops, wondering what could make the best impression and present me in the best light. I tried them all on. Dismissing everything, eventually ending up wearing some of my recent acquisitions from Le Toi (the upmarket shopping place, remember?). Just as I was slipping on my shoes, my phone rang again. "I'm through with what I was doing at Strathmore, are you ready?" My palms sweated. A cold shiver ran down the back of my neck. "Yes, I'm ready". I replied in my most collected voice. "Where is your house exactly?" Oh my goodness, you can't come to my house!!! You can't see me for what I really am!! "Its hard to explain. Just pick me up on the side of the road next to the Coke distributor." And so he did.

In retrospect, there really is something about life and death lying in the power of the tongue. See I always justified my toxic relationship by stating categorically, that no man ever married a single woman. And then there is that classic one, better the devil you know, than the angel you don't know. And how about this one, if you're not with the one you love, love the one your with. Oh wait, there's another one; all men are the same, they are all dogs, they are all bound to be unfaithful so it doesn't matter. Then there is; marriage is hard work anyway, regardless of who you end up with. But God countered me once through a friend, and that once was all I needed. She said to me, how dare you limit God, how dare you put God in a box, how dare you imply that the all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present God, who has plans to give you a future and a hope, how dare you insinuate that He cannot find a man to marry you. How dare you.

So I made my way briskly across the road, noticing the parked car on the side of the road, near the Coke distributor, hazard lights turned on. I prayed my wedges wouldn't betray my lack of high-heeled-walking prowess. I prayed he wouldn't notice my fresh from the shelve jeans. I prayed that I met his standards of Godly dressing. I prayed my roll-on was truly the 24hr antiperspirant the label said it was. I made my way into the car, and once again used my cool, calm, collected, shivering voice to say "Hi" and threw in my cutest smile. Did I brush my teeth? Too late for that now. "Where do you want to go", asked he. "On our honeymoon?" I thought. "I don't know, you decide." is what actually came out. And there began a long list of decisions that he'd have to make. So we went to Tamasha at Uchumi Langata Hyper, we watched airplanes take off and land (amidst what I would term as a grueling 'interview'), and there I had an Alvaro and he had a cup of tea.

Psalm 103
Of David.
1 Praise the LORD, O my soul;
all my inmost being, praise his holy name.

2 Praise the LORD, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits-

3 who forgives all your sins
and heals all your diseases,

4 who redeems your life from the pit
and crowns you with love and compassion,

5 who satisfies your desires with good things
so that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.

Her Name Was Sharolid

"Abiria wote wa Maseno, Mumias, Migori, ingieni kwa hii basi ya Kisumu. Hakuna basi ingine inakuja, hii ndiyo itawapeleka". The obviously Luo voice rang over the microphone. I’m allowed to say that. Mimi ni mmoja wao as I came to realize sometime around the last general elections. The announcements were followed by a string of other efforts at humour. "Tafadhali usikubali kukula chakula kutoka kwa mwenye humjui barabarani. Mtu akitaka kukupatia sambusa hata kama uko na njaa aje, usikubali. Unaeza kuamkia Sambia." Yes Sambia, the country somewhere in Central Africa.

See a week ago, my grandmother had called me and given me the description of the 20 year old who'd be sharing my house for a while. I was told to look out for a slender girl, with lines braided towards the back, wearing a purple skirt suit and carrying nothing. “Dana, onge gima oting’o?” (Grandma, carrying nothing?). Yes, carrying nothing. Apparently her ‘husband’ had discovered that she had acquired a city job and being against her leaving, he’d grabbed her bag, and she’d only just managed to jump onto a matatu for the trip to the bus stop in Busia. She was coming on the Busia bus. Easy Coach. She'd be arriving at 4pm. I needed to be there because she had never been to Nairobi. Never been to Nairobi? I'll take her!!! I can mould her into anything I want her to be, I can get her to become the best in the business. The endless possibilities. She never would need days off. She had no family to visit. And the biggest one, all she had asked for as her monthly wages was 2k. Two thousand Kenyan shillings. Heck! I gave her a welcome to Nairobi raise on the spot. “Nitakulipa 2,5." Two thousand five hundred shillings. As I planned the vain expenditure I’d incur with the extra cash I was now saving from my house help salary budget line. I like that. I like her. And her Never-been-to-Nairobi. And so I picked her up.

"Gosh, don't be a victim like me!" Then they burst into their peals of laughter AGAIN. "Me I was used and then dumped. The stress!  You’re not seeing the way I've lost weight. I'm looking nice ya?" said the thinner taller one. I'll call her Dama. She looks like a Damaris. "Enyewe you look hot, your so thin." replied the shorter chubbier one called Shiro. She talked like a Shiro. She picks up her phone and checks her text messages impatiently. "Nowadays I'm wiser. Me I've found a bank. I'm going to milk him for everything he has. No more dating losers." I wondered if there was anywhere else I could have stood in the expansive bus park. Why on earth was I torturing myself with Dama and Shiro. But I couldn't budge. I stood still, and so did time. I wanted the jang’o guy to say it. Just say it. Add the bad jokes, but for crying out loud, just SAY IT! “Gosh how long have you been around? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Dama replied sweetly, “Aki sweetie si you just know the way I am. Sipendagi kusema.” And yes, they laughed again. A happy duo these two were.

Allow me to take you back a little. See I had this other househelp called Sarah. Well that's what we thought she was called, but really her name was Serapia Pascal Mlanga. She was my high maintenance expatriate househelp from Tanzania. She was the best. I thought. She could whip up some mean herbal chapatis and mandazis. She was easy on the eyes, and my baby absolutely adored her. When I got home from work, I was greeted with a polite curtsy, “Shikamoo Mama Nia”. She was sent straight from Househelp’s Paradise and I loved her to bits!! Still I blame her. I blame her for Nia's perfect Swahili and two words of English. I also blame her for making my child one of those estate children. You know the ones everyone knows. The barber, the charcoal guy, the kiosk guy, the bamba50 guy. See, I discovered that Serapia had fixed her eyes on the textile industry and was only just transitioning in the domestic world. And in my absence she had been hawking lesos door to door, Nia in tow, all over the estate. So sadly, the herbal chapatis and Serapia had to go.

But back to now. "Now why isn't this guy replying. He is supposed to Mpesa me some cash. I gave him some fake story about how I need 2K pronto for some college thing." Insert Hi5's and more laughter here. "But today I'm going to kunywa till I drop!!!" Laughter again. Dama seems to admire Shiro's sneaky gold digging ways. I'm looking at both of them and wondering almost out loud, "Who is your mother?!!!". Shiro continued, “Unajua niliamua kuachana na Jeff kwanini? Imagine he used to share with his mother everything. Imagine ata ma sisters wake walikuwa wanajua everything about us.” “Acha!” That was me in my head. But Dama’s answer couldn’t have been more predictable, “Anaezaje kufanya hivyo, kwani what’s wrong with men nowadays?” And on and on they went about these men nowadays and their shortcomings.

So back to that day, the Busia bus came, and I picked up my cornrowed purple-suited unbagged girl-child and we drove home. Then came the interview. “Uko na miaka ngapi?” She was 20. Wow! I did the math. She could give me uninterrupted years of hard labour for another 10 years. “Umesoma?” She had somad till Form Two. Good, so she could read the menus and chore schedules I had painstakingly prepared on Excel the day before. “Umewahi kufanya kazi na mtoto?” And the answer came, “Pia mimi niko na mtoto wa 3 years.” Drat. I had to recalculate. Now she’d need Christmas off to go and see her child. Instead of accompanying us on a trip to the Coast, where I’d relax and she’d work, chasing after my spirited toddler. Sigh. Maybe if I gave her 3K she wouldn’t need to go see her child? You think? And then we got home. And then the games began. "Mama Nia, unawasha hii aje?" That was the gas cooker. "Mama Nia, unatumia hii aje?" That was the toilet. "Mama Nia, unafungua hii aje?" That was the tap. "Mama Nia, unafunga hii aje?" That was a diaper. "Mama Nia, hii ni nini?" That's the television. "Mama Nia, hii kitu ni ya nini?" Thats the iron. I had to remind myself, that eventually it would pay off to have a loyal, never-been-to-Nairobi househelp. It will be fine, it will be fine.

"Abiria wote wa Kisumu, Maseno, Mumia, basi ndio hii." The voice rang over the microphone again. Scaring me back into reality. "Sharo, usijali. Tukishamalizana na hii mambo ya harusi, tutakupigia urudi." I lied. It was just one in the string of lies I had told that evening.

We had been doing the "hii ni nini?" routine for about 4 days now, and it was becoming apparent that my bid to develop Loyal Househelp 2.0 was failing. My patience had run out and I'd had it with eating boiled sukuma wiki. I wanted my herbal chapatis and chinese rice. But not with Serapia the Hawker. There had to be another way. Maybe I could take my purple-suited girl to cooking class. But then we'd still have to overcome the flushing the toilet part. That morning, my 8am sleep was interrupted by Nia's screams of "Moto! Moto!" I jumped out of my bed and ran to her direction. No, not a fire. Boiling hot water, and Nia in it, apparently taking a bath.

And that was it. Hours later Nia was safely on her way to Grandma's, and I sat down with HB and delivered the news. "Sharo, tumeamua tukuachishe kazi. Tuko na mambo mingi sasa za harusi, na Nia ameenda kuishi na Nyanyake, kwa hivyo hatukuhitaji. Panga vitu vyako, tukupeleke kwa basi." Her countenance changed in a split second. I didn't know what to expect. "Sasa nitapanga nini, na sikukuja na kitu?"

"Basi ya Kakamega, abiria wanaoenda Kakamega, saa mbili basi yenu ndio hii" rang the now familiar Jang’o voice. I swiftly made for the bus with her in tow. Forgotten are the stories of Dama & Shiro. She was first on the queue, and I was happy. They checked her ticket and she boarded. I told her I'd call to make sure she'd arrived safely. I lied. Again.

Her name was Sharolid.

She Inspires Me

Today I want to write about 2 powerful women. Two of the strongest women I know. Two women who in my opinion, should have their names written in books of history for generations to come. These women inspire me. Not a day goes by that I don't think about these women, and what they would do if put in my shoes. On the days when I think HB turning his back towards me is temptation for me to smack his head with a chapati pan and plead temporary insanity, I think about these women. And I calmly hug him instead.

The first woman I write about isn't as privileged as I am to still be walking the face of this earth. She, at the tender age of 26 was taken from us... painfully... in a road accident... late last year. I write about the sweet inspiration that is Wanjiru Mburu. I don't know her personally. I never got the chance to meet her. But those that did, were blessed to have encountered such a bright ray of sunshine. She TRULY was a beautiful woman inside and out. I remember accompanying a mutual friend to her funeral. My heart screamed from within when her husband Andy walked down the aisle behind the coffin bearing his wife of three months. Yes, they had only been married 3 months when an accident brought to naught what I believe would have been a marriage worth emulating. I remember wiping endless tears when Andy rose to speak about his wife. "I knew that I was loved. Without a doubt I knew she loved me. We dated for 6 years. And those were the best 6 years of my life. And if God had told me before hand that she would be taken from me so early, I STILL would have dated and married Wanjiru." My heart pounded. Overwhelmed with the grief of love lost. Thoughts running through my head. What if that was me in that coffin? What would my husband say? We were also only days away from celebrating 3 months of marriage. Andy's soft voice rang through the microphone as he sang "I close my eyes, and I see your face, if home's where my heart is, then I'm out of place..." There wasn't a dry eye in the sanctuary. What if that was MY love in that coffin? What would I say? Would I talk about how upset I was with him because he wouldn't let me buy a new set of sofas and how I wasn't even speaking to him at the time?

I couldn't believe I was at another funeral. Crying not just for those we had lost, but those that they left behind. Which brings me to my second woman of inspiration. I have never left a church in as big a rush as I did on that day. The day they served a wedding cake at a funeral. I have never zoomed by so fast, ignoring all the friends I hadn't seen in a while that I would have loved to squeeze and play catch up with. It was July of 2009, about a month to my wedding day, and two weeks to Chris's. Yes, Chris passed on two weeks before his wedding day. Everything was set. Even the cake was baked and ready to go. There was nowhere else for it to go, so a very strong Grace, Chris's fiancee, asked that we have it as we left the service. I just couldn't. I just couldn't imagine having to serve my wedding cake and my fiance's funeral. My stomach knotted with empathy for a bride left at the altar. Not because the groom changed his mind, but because he really couldn't make it to the wedding. He wanted to, but he couldn't.

What do you say to a young grieving widow or widower? What words of comfort do you use? Someone please show me the verse in the Bible that will take their pain away? What song? What poem? How would I put my words so nicely together that they would feel like the world around them is not crumbling? He is in a better place? She is happier where she is? God knows the plans He has for you? All these are true. But spoken to someone who lost a fiance two weeks the wedding; spoken to one who lost  his wife of three months... the sound would outlast a resounding gong.

Then I realized what I could say to comfort these two. It came to me, much later, but it came to me all the same. I could remember to say "I love you" to the man I married, even when he doesn't let me have my corner sofa with a view. I could chose to pick my fights. Who cares whether I sit on a cold toilet in the middle of the night because he left the seat up. Is it worth two weeks of silent treatment? I may not even have those two weeks to make up for my sulking. I could remember to say "I'm sorry. Please forgive me" when I'm wrong. I could remember to tell God each "Thank you. We are alive. We are well."

Thank you Wanjiru, thank you Grace. You inspire me!

Mawazo mawazo

So today I took part in YET another protest at Parliament. I wasn't so much into this one as I was the last, but I know I have to keep the wheel turning for the momentum to stay on. Today, I cannot even talk about The 300. We were more like The 10. We were so few, I yelled myself hoarse trying to cover up for the other 10 million people that should've been there.

This also means however, that the struggle continues and that I am not letting up anytime soon. Nope. Nuh uh. I just have to rethink this. I have to come up with a serious strategy and launch it with vigor. You will be hearing from me SOON!

Just so you know, all this has happened in the absence of my dear husband who texted me from the airport about his arrival from Bali. I know I responded to his text. I just don't know what I wrote. I was chanting "No more cash" at Parliament. Lol. Maybe that's what I sent. "No more cash sweetie!" How is that for a welcome back message? I am glad to have him back. I'm glad I get to pick his clever brain about my next move. I'm glad that he always has my back. Me and my gazillion crazy ideas.

Deutsche Merc, I have enjoyed driving you for two weeks! Your speed is amazing! I love how matatus refuse to cut in front of me because they are afraid of how much it would cost to repair your bumper. I love how I can make 3 point turns in 2 points. I love how people look at me in my jeans and rugged hair walk into a Merc and try to tie the two. You have served me well Deutsche Merc. I am forever indebted to you. And now as I return you to your wonderful owner, with your fuel gauge warning blaring from the dashboard, I salute you and wish you godspeed. ED, mommy is back!

Building The Nation - The 300

Today I did my share in building the nation. 

I took part in a public protest against the Members of Parliament who have thought it wise to award themselves a hefty pay rise despite the current state of affairs in this country. This pay rise has put them at par with American congressmen who earn about $174,000 a year; the pay hike would put Kenyan MPs at earning $176,000 a year. $2,000 more, but compare the GDPs of the two countries and you will realize that we just can't afford to keep silent anymore. The new pay will ensure that Raila Odinga is the highest paid Prime Minister in the WORLD. Paid 240 times the GDP per person in Kenya. The Prime Minister of Singapore follows him on the list. He gets paid 40 times the GDP per person in Singapore. You get the picture?

I'm reminded of a good friend that I met while in Sierra Leone 8 years ago, just post the conflict that tore the country apart and made headlines the world over. A conflict caused by the selfishness of a few individuals who wanted to control the country's diamond stash. I'll call him Kamara. Kamara was a 60-something year old big shot engineer in Freetown. He was well established and pretty wealthy. If he lived in Nairobi, he would have a ginormous mansion in Kitisuru, Nyari or Runda. He drove an S-Class Mercedes and even owned a yacht. I should have started with that piece of information. Would have saved me 3 sentences of descriptions.

Wait. Did I say he was MY friend? Actually he was a good friend of the Country Representative of the UN organization that I worked for. I was just a plankton then, but the Rep treated me like his daughter and once allowed me to join him for dinner with Engineer Kamara. It was at that dinner that he told us how far he'd come and how far he would have been if it wasn't for the conflict. Because a number of years earlier, he had left Sierra Leone in a canoe, with only his shirt on his back. He left everything behind. His family. His numerous houses. His stocks. His engineering firm. His projects. His ATM cards. His everything. He had left everything he had worked half his life to obtain. He had fled his home. And he was only now, years later,  getting back on his feet; with the help of his sons who were lucky enough to be in the UK when the war broke out.

So with that story in mind, and after a couple of texts back and forth with my girl Njeri, I was in Upperhill where I dropped off the car AND my wedges, put a thousand bob in my pocket and a copy of my ID, and then set out on foot to Freedom Corner, the assembly point for the demo. When we arrived there, we noticed that there were only a handful of people. We found the other fearless influencers that had invited us to this protest on Facebook, and then we set out to think up canny lines to put on our placards that would drive the point home. Mine said "PAY US FIRST - "TEACHER, POLICE, IDPs". Hers said "WHAT ABOUT THE IDPs?". None of us from the Facebook group had ever been part of a public protest by the way. No seasoned veterans. No Stone-throwers. No Nairobi University alumni. Just young angry Kenyans needing to make a point.

Today I played my part in building the nation. Today I braved the chilly Nairobi weather and took part in a protest!

When the placards were done, we gathered together. I wondered where everyone else was. I wondered where everyone who had something to say on Twitter or on Facebook was. Where were all these people who confirmed on the event page that they would be part of the protest march? Where were all those people that had written "Open Letters To The President" in cyber space. I highly doubt that Kibaki has a facebook account that he reads and responds to. Heck, I'm certain Raila doesn't care what's said about him on Twitter. I'm almost certain a large majority of our MPs still use snail mail. Now look, there was what, 300 people at the most making all the noise for an issue that is causing heartache in the lives of 30million Kenyans. But I had no time to worry about that now. It was go time.

I have never heard so many church songs converted to mock MPs. I was tickled for most of the march to Parliament. Njeri and I yelled and shouted and took pictures of ourselves at our first-ever protest. It was fun for most of the trip. Things however changed when we got to Parliament. It got emotional. A woman with a baby strapped on her back wiped tears as she yelled at how little she gets paid. An elderly woman shouted in her native language, I couldn't understand, but I knew she was bitter. A middle-aged man shared his financial troubles with me. And then the emotion started welling up and I could feel the tears of anger welling up in my eyes. Tears for the child strapped on a back, that will never own a piece of this beautiful country. A child stuck in a cycle of poverty. Tears for the policemen and women who give their lives selflessly and yet are paid almost nothing for their hard work. Tears for the teachers who educated these greedy selfish MPs, teachers who are now being laid off because the government cannot afford to pay them.

The hot tears caused me to shout even louder and to dare to move closer to the gate of Parliament and yell at the top of my voice "WEZI!!!!!!!!!" "BUNCH OF THIEVES!!!" "GREEDY SELFISH MPs!!" I couldn't stop yelling. I needed someone to hear how displeased I was. I needed to drive the point home. The few MPs who dared to come and check out the action smiled. Dry sarcastic smiles. I later came to learn that parliament was actually in session as we were causing a raucus outside the gates. A session during which the dishonorable parliamentarians argued that if they were to pay taxes on their handsome salaries as proposed in this year’s Budget, they would have to each part with Sh8.7 million between now and end of their tenure. They added that this would be unfair to them because their pay has already been committed in such personal conveniences as car loans, mortgages, and other long-term plans. (Standard Newspaper)

Sarcastic smiles. Like they knew they were safe behind those gates and that there was little we could do to harm them. They knew we would shout and leave, and they would go back and make their selfish decisions anyway. They probably thought we couldn't represent the views of the majority of Kenyans. There was only 300 of us after all. Not so scary huh? But they need to be scared. They need to be so afraid that they don't sleep at night because they people in this country SCARE them. The people in this country are so united that it scares them that we could make decisions that would be written on the pages of History books for a while yet. They need to know that what they resolve today will determine their successes OR failures tomorrow. They need to know. And we need to let them know.

I put it to you that if you and I don't start protesting. If you and I don't take time off our gisty jobs to go and drive points home. If you and I leave it to violent hired gangs to carry out violent protests in this country, it is you and I that will suffer. Our cars will be burned, our houses ransacked, our jobs gone, our investments will crash, our families will be displaced, it is us, the young upwardly mobile individuals of this country that will pay the price if our country goes down. I don't know about you, but I would prefer not to leave my country on a canoe with only the shirt I have on my back to my name.

I played my part in building the nation today. Play yours.

Building The Nation

Today I did my share
In building the nation.
I drove a Permanent Secretary
To an important urgent function
In fact to a lunch at the Vic.

The menu reflected its importance
Cold bell beer with small talk,
Then fried chicken with niceties
Wine to fill the hollowness of the laughs
Ice-cream to cover the stereotype jokes
Coffee to keep the PS awake on return journey.

I drove the Permanent Secretary back.
He yawned many times in back of the car
Then to keep awake, he suddenly asked,
Did you have any lunch friend?
I replied looking straight ahead
And secretly smiling at his belated concern
That i had not, but was slimming!

Upon which he said with a seriousness
That amused more than annoyed me,
Mwananchi, i too had none!
I attended to matters of state.
Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know,
And friend, it goes against my grain,
Causes me stomach ulcers and wind.
Ah, he continued, yawning again,
The pains we suffer in building the nation!

So the PS had ulcers too!
My ulcers i think are equally painful
Only they are caused by hunger,
Not scrumptious lunches!

So two nation builders
Arrived home this evening
With terrible stomach pains
The result of building the nation -
- Different ways.

Henry Barlow.

A 90K Wife

Lately I've been wondering about how good I am at being a wife. I finally picked up my ring from the ring shop. Yes, me and those rings again. Not my upgrade, no. Just my old ring back. I spent 2 hours less than I usually spend at the ring shop. Normally its half an hour of jokes with Jayesh, followed by an hour with Smita trying on rings I could never afford, and then its 45mins of negotiating with Jayesh for rings I could never afford, and then about another 45mins of catch-up with Smita where she tells me who has stopped by to upgrade his wife's ring, and who will be by next week. We still did the same cycle... no need to change a winning team now is there? Only it was on fast forward because I had a business brunch at Java to dash to.

So Jayesh gave me back my ring, after 3 unsuccessful trips to the shop to get it back. I should be happy. I'm not happy. Neither am I sad. I am content. Really I am. I have so much more to be grateful for; bigger things to wish for. So then I started thinking about these men who buy their wives rings because they had a baby. Two rings if they had twins. I thought about the guy who just bought his fiancee a 90,000Kshs ring. What was going through his mind? And why doesn't he share a mind with my husband??!! Lol.

Then I thought, maybe I haven't got to the point where my husband treasures me enough to invest 90K in my transient happiness! Maybe he doesn't deem me worthy. Could it be? Could it be that in my husband's eyes, I have not done anything deserving of a 90K ring? Or maybe we just can't afford it right. No, that's too obvious. I am melancholic, I have to analyze everything and look deeper into it.

So I thought about these 90K wives and fiancees. What do they do to make them so deserving or these precious metals that cost a FORTUNE! (By the way if you are looking for  ring please buy one from Jayesh and Smita they promised me a commission :) But what do they do, that I don't? I must confess I haven't taken this wife thing very seriously. I know women who bend over backwards for their husbands. Boy oh boy do they bend ALL the way back! I know women who make tea from scratch and heat food on the cooker. Forget my microwave tea and teabags. I know women who brew that tea for a certain number of minutes, because it's what their husband wants. I know women who serve their husbands on their knees. Okay, forget them. I know women who don't ever sulk; women who replace missing buttons while ironing and feeding the baby. And then there's me. I'm just me. He liked it, he put a ring on it, I suppose I couldn't get worse, but do I ever go out of my way for this man that I absolutely love?

Ponder.

Google is my friend. And so is the Bible. So I searched for the most scary book, chapter and group of verses. I've always ignored this section because to me, the standards were unattainable. Like this part ¹⁵ She gets up while it is still dark; she provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls. Seriously? While it's still dark? Is that really necessary? But I read through it and then researched more about it's translation in modern times. And it really isn't that scary. Because it also says ¹⁶ She goes to inspect a field and buys it; with her earnings she plants a vineyard. I like that part. I like that it gives me permission to inspect land in Kitengela and to BUY it and then plant a vineyard.

Ponder.

And then it hit me.. Proverbs 31:10 A good woman is hard to find, and worth far more than diamonds. I confess, nobility is not my strongest virtue. Perhaps why I am not yet at the 90K ring point. I am not, but I will be.

Proverbs 31:10 Who can find a virtuous and capable wife? She is more precious than rubies.

Proverbs 12:4 An excellent wife is the crown of her husband, But she who shames him is like rottenness in his bones.

Proverbs 19:14 House and wealth are an inheritance from fathers, But a prudent wife is from the LORD.

no·ble  (nbl)

 Having or showing qualities of high moral character, such as courage, generosity, or honor:

The Green-Eyed Monster

I try to live the simple life. Really, I do. But people keep getting in my way. 

So I got married a little under a year ago. It was a glorious affair. I wasn't as much into the wedding as I was into the prospect of being married to the man of my reality. Man of my dreams would be a cliche unworthy of my husband. He is my reality spark, as you will come to learn if you follow my blog. Anyway, a grand part of getting married for me was my wedding ring. See, I have always been a firm believer in acknowledging meaning. I don't do things "just because". Save for my late teenage years when I bowed to peer pressure, I never wore rings on my fingers "just because". I needed any ring I ever wore to be a meaningful ring. And I looked forward to the day of the meaningful ring. And the day came. And I got to pick my meaningful ring that cost a meaningful price. And now, less than a year later, I want a meaningful upgrade to my already meaningful set of rings.

So what is fueling this sudden 'need' for an upgrade? Are my rings too tight? Too flashy? Did my Rottweiler mistakenly swallow my rings confusing them for doggy biscuits? Maybe the fell into the garbage disposal... I don't know. Who is behind this urge? I have a name, Envy. Simple. I said when I started this post that I try to live the simple life. 

It baffles me that we can be so consumed by something someone else has, that we immerse ourselves in trying to obtain that one thing, ignoring the innumerable things that we have that they don't. Like how I absolutely enjoy driving my 1996 Toyota ED, but will pull out my calculator each time I see the 2008 Subaru Forester, or a Tribeca... heck, I've been known to pull it out for a Noah! And suddenly I will find everything that's wrong with ED and come up with a pile of reasons why I should acquire a new car. It's not quite because I need a new car. Nothing wrong with the old one. But envy makes us desire what we can't have.

Envy has three stages; Disappointment, Dislike, Destruction. Envy destroys peace and will distract you from your purpose. As I have learned recently. Remember that ring problem I was having earlier? I followed through on it. I actually went to a ring shop and got coaxed into ordering a third ring that I don't really need. An expensive ring. One that I will spend the next four months painfully paying for. PAINFULLY! Very painfully. At the expense of more serious things I could have done with that money. Like putting a child through 2 years of high school, or contributing towards a feeding program for orphans in Tiriki. I've turned down an intern at church because I didn't have enough room in my budget to support her, and yet here I am paying for a 3rd ring that I don't need. I'm paying for a 3rd ring, others would praise God in heaven if they even got their first.

But I'm learning. I'm tempted to say I've learnt. But I cannot conclusively say that. I'm learning. I've taken bold gigantic steps in the right direction.

Forget the rest, play your game.

That's what we learned in church a couple of Sunday's ago. This isn't the first time I'm hearing these words. My facilitator at Parenting Class taught his son this; Do what you have to do, let others take care of their feelings. So that's my motto from now on. People who play their game are; Focused, Grateful and Gracious. That is going to be me from now on.

en·vy (ĕnˈvē)

noun pl. envies en·vies

1. a. A feeling of discontent and resentment aroused by and in conjunction with desire for the possessions or qualities of another.
   b. The object of such feeling: Their new pool made them the envy of their neighbors.
2. Obsolete Malevolence.

Servant Quarters

Boy I miss those SQ days.

When did we all grow up and have babies, and become wives, and have monthly shopping budgets and mortgages? When did life become sooo..... serious? When did we start needing to have fruits after dinner? What happened to Mama Mboga downstairs who perfectly cut our mbogas and tied them in a ka-small paper bag? We only needed two onions then. Now we buy them in kilograms. Counting them carefully to make sure they last through the month and praying that it's not our turn to host Chama as this would reflect negatively on onion supplies for the month.

Boy I miss those days.

I miss sharing a room with a roommate you didn't get along with most of the time. I miss getting upset over who's turn it was to cook, and who's visitor left mud in the living room or who's little brother came for the weekend and refused to leave. *Sigh*. Now I'm all grown and married, now I'm paying school fees and preparing packed lunches, attending sports days and dropping off kids at Sunday school.

When did we become so serious?

What became of those days, when we jav'd to every place and knew the spots where it was 10bob less to catch a jav to town? Now we calculate how much distance per litre our cars travel. Back then, if you had a car, it was either borrowed or stolen. Okay, so it was borrowed. It was a rundown Toyota that your folks let you use to 'tarmac'. Huh. Tarmacking. Boy was I young. Back then all I needed was to make 5k. 5k was enough to pay my share of the rent and bills. 5k would get me a jav to and from work 5 days a week. And I could catch a movie at Kenya Cinema once a month if I wanted to. Now my feet can't even find their way to Kenya Cinema. We don't walk that side of town no more do we? We do Silverbird Westgate. Preceded by dinner at Art Caffe. Back then it was Kenchic or BUST! Now, Java is the new Kenchic.

Today I'm having a 'meeting' with my househelp. I have a fully LIVE-IN househelp! And we have 'meetings' to discuss her conduct, or more aptly put, her misconduct. Goodness! Things have spiralled since those SQ days. Back then we had a Mama Nguo who came in once a week to wash our knee-length blazers, faux silk tops and hipsters. Thankfully I don't do official wear anymore, but when I did, it was serious power suits, enough for me to wear for 4 weeks straight without ever having to wear one outfit twice. Our lives have since been cluttered by needing to keep up with some guy named Jones.

Those SQ days were really something. We had one hard mismatched sofa that we inherited from our folks house, and a couple of dining room chairs. Mismatched. Also inherited. A run-down coffee table, a 1000 bob carpet from Ukwala and a tiny winy 14-inch television (with no external aerial). We had a Meko, and no fridge; you buy, you cook. We had a double-decker bed; very space friendly. Look at us now. I have a fund to save up for a corner-sofa and would have loved to be able to afford one of those hang-on-the-wall plasma tvs. Come in handy during future Barcelona-Arsenal games. But I have bigger priorities now. I have monthly shopping and school fees to pay. I have investments. I've got things to do. From time to time I find myself with a good amount of month at the end of my money. (Trust me I've come a long way, I'm not as bad as I used to be. Tee hee hee)

Still, I miss those SQ days.

Secular Doses

I've been thinking long and hard this week. Okay, I always think long and hard. My head is one big thinking machine. I worry that my thoughts will kill me. Probably why I needed this outlet to begin with.

Last week at parenting class, I met Tony who runs the Pre Marital Counselling Ministry at Mavuno. It was one of those God-incidences because turns out, the said ministry is in dire need of married couples to counsel those intending to walk in that path, (as well as those intending to walk AWAY from that path). Still I feel completely inadequate, I mean, HB and I's 7-month experience is nothing compared to the experience of people married 10 years and over. We may just end up arranging the chairs for class, anything to help. But seemingly there aren't enough married people in the church to give Godly counsel to these people. Or if they are, they aren't volunteering. But I'll write this assuming the former.

Why aren't Christian marriages working nowadays? Why am I hearing stories of people that stayed married for a cool two months and called it quits. People in church by the way. I'm not talking about Elin and Tiger. I'm talking about me and you. All church-ed up and Christian; bible-toting and scripture-quoting. We who pray and fast for God to send the 'right' person. We who kneel down in prayer at the aisle and share communion to seal our relationships. Why aren't we able to stay married? And if we are still married, why have we settled into being unhappily married? Why are we the ones hiding the sighs and tears behind the smiles? And no, I'm not saying that marriage isn't without it's sighs and tears.

I'm reading a book called "The DNA of Relationships" and in the intro Greg Smalley son of renowned marriage counselor Dr. Gary Smalley, describes how unhappily married he was for a long time despite his background and despite him announcing to his newlywed wife when they first got married that "..We won't be like those other couples who fight and get divorced. We will have a wonderful marriage.." Paraphrase. But he soon realized that happy marriage wasn't automatic. And this is what got me thinking. Thinking about Christian marriages in 2010, particularly in Kenya.

See, there is a general assumption that if two Christians get married, they will live happily ever after and run through the prairie with butterflies all around them.... you catch my drift. Mark Grungor of the "Laugh your way to a better marriage" fame aptly describes it when he sings and dances to "Somewhere over the rainbow.." It's painful to watch and listen to. But isn't that what we Christians believe? That if we are equally yoked, and read our bibles and pray everyday, and attend church with 'wifey' and 'hubby' in matching outfits, that it will be well with us and our marriages. At least that's what I thought. I thought everything would fall into place and I would automatically have such happy marriage, because HB was into God just like I was.

Boy was I wrong. I know all about the sighs and tears.

So 7 months down the line I'm finding myself dumping my auto-gear marriage and engaging a stick-shift instead. Because I've discovered that I need to manually shift things in my marriage for it to move in the direction that I want it to. I can't just put it into 'drive' and hope for the best. I might just find myself "Somewhere over the rainbow.." and HB on the other end of the rainbow wondering where I went.

So here is the thing. No. 1 Marriage is best, not just between two Christians, but between two people with the same values. This is why a couple that spends half their time in the rave, are workaholics, smoke in front of their kids etc you know, not your ordinary billboard couple, are very happily married. No pretenses. Because they have the same values. Okay, so I've established that marriage is good when it's shared by people with he same values. Then, no 2. relationships are NOT Christian. The people in the marriage may be Christians, but the relationship in itself, is a secular institution. Meaning, it doesn't matter how prayerful you are, if you do not insert the 'secular' aspects of relationships into your marriage, things will go north FAST. Grungor says, and I paraphrase again, if you are driving at 180kph on the road to Meru with its sharp sudden turns and all, you will crash, regardless of whether you are playing Hope FM at full blast and you have a crucifix with Jesus hanging on your rear-view mirror. Get it?

But what are these 'secular' things you may ask? I'll tell you what they are not. They are not the 'Christian' assumptions we make. Like, oh, my husband's eyes are sealed by the Holy Spirit, he can see no other woman besides me. Or how about the not needing to look attractive for my husband one? Or not needing to improve my culinary skills because my Christian husband has the fruit of the Spirit; long-suffering. Or how he is supposed to understand and accept my flimsy continual excuses for not having sex. We act like we married the Angel Gabriel and not a mortal man. Say it with me, he is a man of God, but still a man. Oh but don't get me started on the men! How about tearing down your wife and never appreciating her because 'I'M THE MAN!' and she needs to S.U.B.M.I.T. Or never buying roses and taking her out to dinner. She'll understand. She's a Christian. She's got the precious never-been-listed-before gift of understanding. And how precious that gift is to men of God. (Disclaimer; my husband takes me out to dinner every other Friday and I love him to bits!)

I could go on, but let's move over to the statistics and bring this show to a close.

You know, I can instantly cough out a list of people I know that have been married for a number of months, or a couple of years at most. But as soon as I hit the 5 year mark... they begin to get fewer and fewer. By the time I'm at 10 years, I can give you, what, 5 couples? I guess it's possible the year 2000 wasn't a good year for weddings. Ask me how many couples I know that have been married for between 10 and 20 years, I'll tell you 3 or 4 names tops. What happens in between? Why aren't the 2-year couples making it to 7-years? Why aren't the 13-year ones making it to 21 years?

Let me make my point now. I know a good number of couples that I can list that have been married 25, 30, 40, 50, even 70 years. Those are our folks and grandparents. They are still married. Some are widowed or deceased but largely, the died or were widowed while STILL married. So what is happening to US? Why are the numbers dwindling as the years go by? And why did our parents stay together so long? Was it because they were Christians? Don't think so. Some were, yes. But does that mean they never faltered along the way? Don't think so either. I think it's because they learnt early on in life, that it takes a whole lot to stay married.

And the sooner we all learn that, the sooner we accept it, the sooner we move our focus from Cinderella to the real world, the sooner we gain understanding on the concepts of secular relationships, the sooner we will change the face of marriage in our land.

This IS Africa

"To build a legacy of influence you must exercise moral courage!"

That was the whole point of the sermon this past Sunday. I have never felt as convicted and spurred on to great deeds as I did after that service. I suddenly felt like I could rule the world. I felt like I was the solution to all of Africa's problems. Well, most of them. Okay, a few of them. I felt like wearing a tight suit with a giant 'J' on my chest,(pot and tires notwithstanding) and a cape and flying off of a tall building with the Captain Janet soundtrack blaring in the background. Wow!!

I learned that there are 4 types of people when it comes to reacting to the Matatu menace; Those who shake their heads and inwardly imagine the evil they would mete out on those drivers if they had the chance; Those who honk their horns to oblivion; Those who revenge, overlap and block the Ma3'S; and lastly, those who get out of their cars and confront the drivers in question. I am a definite No. 2. I love it especially when I'm driving the German car with the extremely loud gisty horn. Works all the time!

But how does the honking help? How has it helped to yell inside my car, calling the man an absolute twidiot and exposing my 2 year old to uncalled for anger and words that will make her teacher faint when she uses at school. Will that driver overlap and almost scrape my bumper the next day? I think yes. Have I changed my city, my country, my continent? Err, nope. Have I decreased the chances of another lady-driver with an 'L' sign being harassed by a matatu? Don't think so. What I've done is, I've worn out the horn on my car and decreased it's lifespan significantly.

Okay, so what now? What does Janet have to do to change the world. Well first of all, I can proudly say that I'm putting one Kenyan girl through school, and finding ways to take others through as well. But what about the things that I'm really passionate about. What about my retreat center in Isinya? And my cabins on the mountain? What about my resort at the Coast? What about those things? What about influencing land ownership policies in my country? What about influencing Mike and Makena to vote in the next election? What about my shelter for teens and young women in crisis pregnancies? And my home for the aged? How about those things? What I'm I doing about them? What will people say at my funeral? How many people will really miss me when I die? Will my tombstone bear the words "Here Lies Janet, mother, daughter, sister, wife" Or will there not even be enough space to write all the things I did while on this earth. I guess I'll find out when I get to heaven now won't I?

But in the meantime, I am being the change that I want to see in Nairobi, in Kenya, Africa. This is the Nairobi I want to see. Nairobi, shining in all it's glory. Our beautiful city in the sun.

Tujenge Uchumi Yetu

Hmmmm.... so turns out Uchumi Supermarket has found a way to jenga their Uchumi. By ripping off their own customers. But let me be fair. My post on Facebook on the above has drawn a lot of interest including complaints saying the rip offs are not limited to our homegrown supermarket, but also to the other chains like Nakumatt and Tusky's.

So how do they do that?

I'll give you my story. So Saturday after an exhilirating day at my daughter's sports event, I stopped at Uchumi to shop for some guests that I was having later on that day. While I was at the till I noted the cashier running my Alfredos by and then picking the packet up, and running it back again. I was too absorbed to check to see what he was doing so I let it pass. Anyhoo, my three bags were packed and placed on my trolley. On my way out, I remembered that I'd promised to buy Nia a ball so I left my trolley with the guy at the Left Luggage counter and proceeded upstairs. About 5 minutes later I returned to pick my trolley and there was another lady there with another trolley. I remember glancing at hers because I thought, "Hey, didn't I have more shopping than this?" Still, being in a rush, I dashed out and left for home.

On getting home, I realized that I did have more shopping that didn't make it from the supermarket to my car. I was incensed at the thought that someone could take a bag of shopping when I left my trolley at the proper place and informed someone to watch over it for me. So I dashed back while preparing my argument for the manager or employee of the month person that I would make sure learnt of my utmost disgust at how his employees were behaving.

Anyhoo I get to the supermarket and go to customer care and find these gentlemen of Asian origin who are more incensed than I am because they had been informed by an aisle staff that the gas cylinder they were purchasing was 4,500 including the regulator, but on arrival at the till, it was 4,900. So they wanted a refund. The lady bluntly said she could give them a credit note, but they wanted cash, because "we are never shopping at Uchumi again, so we don't want a credit note." Anyway, that went badly. I was next on line, and I blankly said "look I shopped here and forgot to pick one of my bags and I've noticed that I was charged twice for some of the items". Comes the nonchalant response, "Okay what is it that you forgot?" I show her my receipt, she checks her book and says, "Oh you know the guy who was packing them brought a bag with those things, we returned them to the shelves. Just go back and shop for them again, and the things we charged twice, just pick two so that I don't have to give you a credit note."

I had so many questions and things I wanted to say to the lady. But the Asian guy was out-yelling, out-spitting and out-cursing me on all levels. He was MAAAD!!! So I held it in and went back and shopped and got all my stuff back.

But I was curious as to why some of the things weren't listed in her book. Still she let me have them. I supposed I, the customer, was right on that day. I even double shopped so that she didn't have to give me a credit note. Only to learn a couple of days later that they do this AAAALLLLL THE TIIIIIIIMEEE like Jeff. You go to she shelf you pick an item, it says 45bob. Okay, you go the counter, they run it, its 99bob. WTH? Or they run your card twice. Or they run items twice especially when you buy multiple items like 10 packets of milk. And they just hope and pray that they meet a shopper like me who isn't vigilant enough to check her receipt, well NOT ANYMORE UCHUMI! Not anymore. This girl here, is onto you Uchumi. I ain't taking none of that no more.

In fact, let me head off to Uchumi just now, let's catch them at their own game.

Things that make me go grrrrrrrr!!!!

I've been thinking today about things that make me go grrrrrr!! And I wonder if it's God's way of testing my patience, but why on earth am I surrounded by grrrrr things and people??? Maybe it's the nailbrush my brother and I pinched from the supermarket at Valley Arcade when we were tots. I always knew that incident would come back to bite me in the bum.

MY TOP FIVE GRRRRRs.

1. The cops on the Bunyala Rd, roundabout. VERY BIG GRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!! How does it take someone 1 hour and 20 mins to come down the hill from Upperhill to Nakumatt Mega. Or an hour to make it from Baricho Rd, to the Bunyala Road roundabout. And the comeback is always that they are trying to clear town, or clear Mombasa Rd, but seriously, if it was working, then I would be able to access my house in South C, without having to once again sit in half an hour of traffic because everyone is trying to get away from Mombasa Road. I mean seriously, Bunyala Road cops, seriously, cars can join Uhuru Highway from Aerodrome Road express. My husband taught me that if you have a right-angled triangle (such as is Nyayo Stadium) it is faster to go through the hypotenuse than it is walking round the right-angle. Granted I had no clue what he was on about, but it can't be faster to go down to the Nyayo Stadium roundabout and then access Bunyala Roundabout, than it is to go through Aerodrome Road. Seriously.

2. Single moms who won't give up their lifestyles for the sake of the children. Now I'm not saying that you should die when you have a baby, and not rave, or treat yourself to a weekend in Mombasa, but for crying out loud, it is not right for your toddler to be eating Ugali and Sausages for dinner, and to not have a snack for break time the next day, when you are hosting parties every weekend, complete with booze enough to float the Likoni ferry (okay, it doesn't take much to float the ferry I know). WHERE ARE YOUR PRIORITIES???? Don't come asking me for 200bob to buy crisps and juice for your child, and then spend 50bob of it on Chocobomb! What on earth?? And then you are going to attempt to call your babydaddy and take him on a guilt trip which brings me to point no...

3. Single moms who cling film their baby daddies and expect fresh water to come out of the Dead Sea. Hear hear. The man has never WILLINGLY done anything for the child since they found out you were pregnant. You've had to beg, grovel, threaten, flirt, plead, be nice, reunite.... to get him THAT ONE TIME to bring a bag of diapers. Even then he has stated that he is "working things out" or "doesn't have a regular income" or "is doing the best he can" or the classic "isn't sure he is ready to be a father". You probably should have though about that before the sex no? Which brings me to no...

4. Women who when already pregnant strongly believe its THEIR body, and I have a right to choose whether or not to keep this baby. No lady, you HAD a right to choose. You chose to have sex, unprotected sex. As soon as God CHOSE to bless you with a child, you lady, lost the right to CHOOSE whether to have it. It's no longer just your body you are making 'choices' for, there is another human being who deserves to make his own choice as well. He just doesn't have a voice. I wonder if barren women CHOOSE not to have productive wombs. I just wonder...

5. Back to my not-so-serious grrrrrs... The guards at Landmark Plaza. "Madam unaenda kuona nani?" I'm going to my gynaecologist, do you want to know why as well? Msscheeew. "Enda parking ya 1st floor". Ari wharr? When I get to the "1st floor" parking, the next askari AGAIN, asks me where I'm going?? Eh? Dude refer to guard no. 1 at the gate. Then the best comes when I'm leaving. "Madam, hii siyo njia ya kutoka. Reverse tu mpaka kule juu halafu uzunguke hivi round. DUDE I'M ALREADY AT THE GATE, ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS LET ME LEAVE. "Imeandikwa wapi njia ya kutoka??? Unangojea mpaka nifike hapa ndio unirudishe?" I snort back. Needless to say, I reversed back for about 100 metres and came back to the SAME GATE that only a minute ago I was a metre away from. GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

Road Rage

I am slowly beginning to become "one of the guys" when I'm on the road. Scaringly so. I click, sneer, curse, point, shake my head and most of all, I drive like one of the guys.

See ever since it became my routine to drive from the traffic cube that is South C to Kilimani every morning and then back to Industrial Area, it became apparent that there are more jinga drivers on the road than I could ever have imagined. Like today there was this guy in a pearl green VITZ. A VITZ! Trying to overtake my 2000cc sports car. Seriously. First of all, let me just say that it is indeed very disturbing for a man's choice of car to be a PEARL GREEN vitz! The chap thought he could beat me down Mbagathi road. I almost got let down by a Premio that was being driven like a Vitz. But no you don't VITZ!

Now, I'm all for affirmative action, HOWEVER (say it like Ian Mbugua on TPF) some women gon kill me o! Especially the ones driving the NZEs. Yes, nimemulika mwizi. How are you going to let every, Tom, Dick and Vitz cut in front of you! C'MON!!!! There's a pedal on your right and it goes all the way down, STEP ON IT!!!!! This is especially painful when you've risked a 'grass is greener on the other lane' move only to find Miss NZE. Homer Simpson was so on when he invented the term D'OH!!

My momma always said be very wary of short men and men who wear white shoes. I will add to the wariness MEN WHO DRIVE COMPANY CARS! What on earth???? I'm going to let you know after surviving a roll and some minor fender benders, ED is certainly not afraid of your Hilux-D-Max-Shoulda-Gotta-Honda bull bars! So don't try and bully me and my ED just because you think I drive like one of them NZE ladies. Na ah!

But you know what I do sometimes? I put on my nicest woiye-I-am-just-a-chick faces and even hold the steering with both hands and look squarely forward like I'm concentrating just so someone lets me cut in front of them. Works all the time. Especially when its a tight spot, or you are overlapping (sorry) and you know no ones going to let you through. Then as soon as they do, I let out my MUUUUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA, put my horns back on, put my left hand back on the gear and like Terminator... I'M BUUUUHHHHCK!!!

Just figured its probably why I end up stuck behind Miss NZE.

I'n Am Alcoholic

Yes you read write. Really ewe did.

Says a workmate (who was rushed to hospital unconscious on Christmas eve because of severe case of Gastritis*)to other workmate, "Heh, I think I will quit drinking. I think it's what causing this gastritis and...". Cuts in other workmate angrily, "Are you serious, how can you say you are quitting drinking because of Gastritis. Has anyone told you all that drinking is what's causing it?" Replies a workmate, "I think so, there's no other explanation." Retorts other workmate, "What do you mean, you know water can also cause that thing of yours. How can you say you want to stop drinking." (Insert mssscccheeeewww here).

Am I losing my mind? No seriously. Am I?


*Gastritis is an inflammation of the lining of the stomach, and has many possible causes.[1] The main acute causes are excessive alcohol consumption or prolonged use of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (also known as NSAIDs) such as aspirin or ibuprofen.

Eye Candy

Have you ever marveled at God's creation? At how some people are so nicely put together. Almost like Einstein was God's lab assistant at creation, helping him calculate the proportions, angles and tangents. Please don't take my mathematical terminology seriously. To quote Amani Maranga; I had the 2% that your father was looking for when you scored 98% in Maths in high school.

Still, there really is such a thing as eye candy. I see it every time I take photographs. But its not so much that these are superliciously beautiful people, I really do believe that its the inside that's reflected on the outside, and it radiates such an immense level of beauty, you really cannot help but stop, stare and luckily for me SNAP.. you know.. its part of the job. :)

You've got to realize that God doesn't create ugly. We do. We bring ugly on ourselves. We mapped up the route to ugliness. We created the S.I. unit for ugly. And then we ranked each other and ourselves even, and put ourselves in that little box called "I'm-Not-So-Good-Looking" whereas admittedly, we all are good-looking unique little creatures with a whole lot going for us; sparse hair, knock knees, pot belly, cross eyes, a generous bosom, notwithstanding. And I'm not talking about flaws here. A flaw ain't nothing but a unique identifying mark, so if you have a pot, rub it and love it! I'm talking about UGLY.

Have you ever met the girl with the thick waistline and wondered how she manages to rock that figure belt? Yeah, me too. Have you ever tried the same look and failed miserably. Yeah, me too. Have you then decided that figure belts are just not your thing and moved back to your Toi Market dress tops and resigned yourself to your fate as a "Not-So-Good-Looking" person. Yeah, me too. And have you ever encountered the couple that looks SOOOOOO good together... finishing each others sentences, never had a tiff in their life, both love oysters, ice-skating and watching chick flicks. Both cheer FC Porto and spend their evenings in the kitchen, she washing the dishes, he wiping them and storing them away in their sanitized Clean House Comes Clean kitchen... *sigh* I hate them. They make me want to Msscccheeeewww! Never mind me. I'm on stage 4; The Who-Do-They-Think-They-Are-Kidding stage.

It really is amazing what people go through to hide their 'uglies' and to make themselves look like they have it all together. And people have BIG BAAAAD uglies. And boy will they go to LENGTHS to hide them uglies. Eventually when you find out just how much dust is under their carpet, your pot belly and knock knees can't compete. You get that feel good factor about yourself. You begin to say, 'okay, I know I'm fat, but at least I'm not THAT fat'. You hug yourself and say, 'I am somebody!'

SURELY you must know we are not born ugly. We go looking for ugly, we find ugly and we make ugly a part of us. And then we rationalize that at least our ugly really isn't as ugly as other people's ugly. 'We are just friends'. Says the girl 'hanging' with the other girls husband. 'But si she knows that I have a wife'. Says the guy. Kwani what's wrong with. The four words which when put together, are begging for a justification for ugly. Kwani what's wrong with. If someone ever begins a sentence with those words my advice to you is RUN! Kwani whats wrong with being ambitious; Sleeps Way To Top. Kwani whats wrong with not asking her out; Strings 5 Girls Along. Kwani whats wrong with borrowing cash to throw a party; Keeps Up With Joneses. Kwani whats wrong with moving along swiftly?

Ugliness is a conscious decision you make. A million people can tell you that you are beautiful or that you CAN be beautiful, but you have to decide for YOURSELF to accept that affirmation. No amount of hard talk or coercion, gentle persuasion or midnight wakes can restore your beauty of feeling of beauty. To edit and re-quote Eleanor Roosevelt, "No one can make you feel UGLY without your consent". And no one can make you DO ugly without your consent either. Its up to you to make a conscious sober decision to turn your ugly into yummylicious EYE CANDY. Then you can rock that figure belt on your thick waistline and look as good as that chick.

Eye candy comes from the inside. And now to go look for tops in Toi.

Happy Go Lucky

I love photography. I love looking at my excellent shots, and I especially love when my clients are happy with their work.

I hate meeting with clients. I hate being taken advantage of. I hate it when people think I am worth less than what I'm charging them, and when they try to negotiate or cut shortcuts with my packages. I hate the feeling afterward when I've agreed to do a job for much less than its worth. I hate that I'm not as good a business woman as I am a photographer.

But I love Ed. No, not my car. I love my car Ed as well. But this other Ed is my latest client. He gets married in April, and I met him yesterday. I went shivering because I had been briefed about this fast-thinking, heated-discussing, marketing man. I wished I had an alter ego that checked in whenever I was meeting a client. But then Ed was different. He knew what he wanted and he went for it. He allowed me room to think and didn't try to negotiate. Its probably partly because he can afford it, but it's mostly because he assents to the fact that I am a good photographer. At the end of the discussion, I carried with me a 5-figure cheque that is the deposit for the work I will do in April. And because of that, I intend to do a DARN GOOD JOB. I intend to make sure that Ed is very happy with my work.

I'm always happy when a would-be client disses me for another photographer, and when I look at their pictures I see why. I'm always very ticked off when a would-be client who is trying to skrimp on their photography budget decides to go with another photographer and the end result is terrible pictures that they have to live with for the rest of their lives. You've got to understand, that especially for a wedding, and if you live in the real world where you won't have 10 of them, those photographs is what you will show to your children and the generations after them.

Perhaps dark photos with absolutely no attention to composition are your style. Or you have a "M-bahatisho" photographer that just barely got your photos to you. Thats fine with me. But I'd rather you had no chicken on the menu, no seat-covers and tie-backs, and most definitely trade in Kayamba Whatever for a wonderful album with good photographs in it.

Call me.

Finger of God

Let me just say my "Leave Eric Alone" worked. Now I should do a "Leave Hellon Alone". I think what started off innocently may have grown a life of its own. Hellon is a man of God, at least I know he was when I used to be in DMF. Hana ubaya. Lakini, I think he has exposed himself negatively by being too permissive. Even the Bible says, "Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial". He is surrounded by people with issues, and if you give people with issues airtime they will cling onto you. Us guys did it time for DMF. We ran away from our problems and came to reflect them in ministry. We spent our days casting out demons from each other over and over. We liked to experience new things like blowing the Holy Spirit onto someone and having them fall. And we liked to be the ones to fall and speak in tongues as well. It took me a good number of years to establish that I didn't need anyone to lay hands on me or prophecy and tell me whom I was going to be married to.

It took me several more years to discover that indeed God could set you free without all the drama. In your bedroom, without anyone ever laying hands on you, or you screaming and frothing in the mouth. It took spiritual maturity for me to be able to connect with God BY MYSELF. ON MY OWN.

See, WE are Hellon's problem. We fill his hallways, and are happy when he moves to a bigger house because then we can camp there and 'receive' from 'him' day and night. And we become addicted to Hellon and we decide that we shall not move until Hellon speaks into our lives. WE are the cult. WE are the idol-worshippers. WE worship Hellon, and not the God of Hellon. And then we bring our friends. Our friends with their issues, all come to seek Hellon. And then we multiply. And very soon, we attract some celebs. And then we hit the headlines. And then Hellon becomes a cult leader.

See if this really was a true, premeditated cult.. surely we would have caught on. Its been 10 YEARS. Love team started in 2000. Finger of God started in 2001. Its only spiralling now because Esther Arunga got caught up in the madness. I absolutely see her quitting her job and telling off her mom. And I completely see her calling her recently-wed friend to tell her "God says you should leave your husband". We did that all the time. I remember coughing out a few 'prophecies' in my time. I blame it on the adrenaline. I blame it on my spiritual childishness. I wanted to have what Hellon had. I wanted the power. I wanted people to ask ME what God had to say about them. Ask ME! Ask me, like you ask Hellon. Come to ME. It was all about ME!

Hellon let us get away with our childish spiritual antics. He never castigated us. And when he rebuked us, he did it with love. He became like a father to us, most of us who came from fatherless homes. He said we would learn over time, how to listen to and speak out God's word. I remember him clearly teaching us that where the Spirit of God is, there is order. So he didn't say, "Go ye into the world, and move out of your homes and into mine, and leave your families, and tell people they will surely die, and be ye married to this man that you do not know". He didn't have to. We were DIY.

And I think it is that empathy with 'baby' Christians that has got him in this mess. Through my lenses, he allowed them to get too close. He really is only human. If you keep coming to me for solutions, at some point, the demand will supercede the supply, and I will tell you what I think you want to hear.

But that's just me. For his sake, I hope this boils over.

And just because you are wondering;

Exodus Chapter 8

The Plague of Gnats

16 Then the LORD said to Moses, "Tell Aaron, 'Stretch out your staff and strike the dust of the ground,' and throughout the land of Egypt the dust will become gnats." 17 They did this, and when Aaron stretched out his hand with the staff and struck the dust of the ground, gnats came upon men and animals. All the dust throughout the land of Egypt became gnats. 18 But when the magicians tried to produce gnats by their secret arts, they could not. And the gnats were on men and animals.

19 The magicians said to Pharaoh, "This is the finger of God." But Pharaoh's heart was hard and he would not listen, just as the LORD had said.

Small Doses

"When a person decides to fearlessly influence society, then he/she will inevitably threaten established forces-that-be that benefit from the status quo. Such forces will do everything in their power to isolate and keep them down" ~ Pastor Muriithi

So Hellon is in trouble with the law-keepers. Apparently his church has contravened a few laws in the way they operate and now it is being referred to as a cult. See this is why I call my blog Through MY lenses, because for all intents and purposes, from the outside looking in, Hellon IS running a cult. He has this massive house in Runda, has a lot of money, and has about 10 single women living with him and his wife. Common sense would ask many questions about this arrangement. Alarm bells are ringing now because he got tangled up with a famous tv presenter Esther Arunga, and apparently she quit her job and left her family to go and join the 'cult'. Hmmm.

But I was once a member of that 'cult'. Years ago as I finished Uni, while looking to discover my purpose and get deeper in my faith I joined a group of people who wanted to achieve the same and we formed the "Love Team". I remember spending several nights at the Pastor's house, my friends and I. We practically moved in. We would use our pocket money to buy food and cook and we became like a family. We spent Fridays kesha-ring, Saturday's at Praise and Worship and on Sunday, Hellon would come to preach. I loved it! I couldn't get enough, so I extended my stay. My mom was so upset with me. She told me I was in a 'cult'. I told her she didn't understand my faith, and that she was standing in the way of me and my God. We never saw eye to eye.

I remember when Nimrod Hellon became Joseph Hellon. We had all learnt about the significance of names and whom you are named after. Like how your daughter Rahab turns out to be a prostitute, or your cousin named after your drunken uncle, turns out to be an alcoholic. Turns out Nimrod had some demonic connotations. So we were happy when he dropped the name and picked Joseph.

"Love Team" would go to schools to preach and be banned from ever returning because we had become what we called a "Demons Must Flee" group. We would see demons on chairs, trees, fruits, anywhere! We would go to schools and leave girls screaming out demons during preps. The teachers didn't like it. We were banned. We moved on. I remember our Pastor being beaten to pulp by a cop whose Muslim daughter converted to Christianity during one of our missions. It was a mess. But we loved it. We loved being in Love team. I loved it! I loved the 'power' that I had. The power to lay hands on people and have them fall to the floor. I had found an identity. Someone who cared for me and accepted me. Not just God, but Hellon.

Fast forward.... Eventually, it would be the pastor's fiancee that would kick us out of her soon-to-be house, which we found outrageous!! How dare she! But it was that kick that jolted me back to the real world. See, there is absolutely nothing wrong with praying and worshiping and casting out demons. Its what Jesus would have done. However, one word needs to apply; MODERATION. Even the Bible says "knowledge puffs up; wisdom lingers".

So I feel bad for Hellon, from where he stands, he is just doing what he needs to be doing. Spreading the word and the love. But from the outside looking in, he better have a better explanation.

Mind My Own Business

Speaking of Lenses, nothing annoys me more than people who try to take advantage of me and my photography. Listen, I am a darned good photographer. And I get better with every job. So don't try and make me shoot your wedding for 15K and then demand for 40K service. In fact, the only reason I'm agreeing to do your wedding for 15K is because I like doing weddings. Scratch that. I love shooting weddings. I like all the crazy characters involved, like the one woman who sings and dances like her life depends on it. I love all the bridezilla moments in the morning when a hairpin is missing, or a car has not showed up on time. I love the aunties walking in ululating to a bridesmaid, because they don't even know who the bride is. I love every excruciating moment spent on my feet from 6am to 6pm, without food, without a break, and then being invited to evening parties to unwind, and being asked to carry along my camera. I love meeting new people, learning new songs. I love leaving the photo session and wondering if I got all the shots. (I always nail it!) I love weddings. I absolutely do.

So listen, I'm happy to hand you over to a photographer of your choice and of your budget. But if I'm your choice photographer, pay me what I ask, and let me give you the best memories EVER!

Welcome to My Blog.

Welcome to my blog! Everyone says I should start a blog. I think its because I talk too much. And write to much. And I'm also opinionated. I have a board of governors in my head that tell me to open my mouth when I shouldn't.

I also take very many pictures. And I have things to say about them. So welcome to life through my lenses...