Category: Relationships


10621785_10152576265477559_623321037_nNever, at any point of my life, have I ever read a book whose breath and pulse mirrored my own like Eat, Pray, Love—a brutally honest and raw tale about “one woman’s search for everything across Italy, India and Indonesia.” It was delightful for the 2006 memoir to have been my companion during a recent trip to Netherlands across Kenya and Turkey.

American author and journalist Elizabeth Gilbert is an ambitious career woman who can’t seem to get her marriage together. So she files for divorce and quickly moves on with a different lover. However, none of her relationships work out. And nothing makes things work – not prescribed drugs, countless nights of crying on her bathroom’s floor or even yoga-for-starters. Sparked by an ambitious plan and an old medicine man’s forecast that she would one day return to Indonesia (where she had visited years back while on an assignment); Elizabeth decides to embark on a 12-month trip across continents, on a journey to scrutinise her inner self – to find the self and discover soul food.

She begins her journey in Italy, the home of world’s best pizzas and pasta makers. A friend, Giulio tells her that Rome’s word is SEX. While trying to find her life’s own “word”, here she submerges herself into the pleasure of food like “airy clouds of ricotta sprinkled with pistachio, bread chunks floating in aromatic oils, tiny plates of sliced meats and olives, a salad of chilled oranges tossed in a dressing of raw onion and parsley.” It’s the first time she encounters the expression: Il bel far niente “the beauty of doing nothing” while learning Italian. While in Sicily, the most third-world section of Italy, she remembers what Goethe said: “Without seeing Sicily one cannot get a clear idea of what Italy is.” This part of the book makes me recall meeting a new friend, Lucia, in Hague. Lucia who hails from Sicily turned out to be the sweetest Italian girl I’ve ever met.

In India, Elizabeth discovers the power of meditation, yoga and silence. After having tasted part of her heart’s desires like forgiving herself and forgiving others, she heads over to Indonesia with an open mind, hoping to find more balance. Here, she ends up buying a Balinese woman a house and finding love, after all. What an intelligently authored book with impressive research on travel and different cultures. In Indonesia, she discovers that the word amok, as in “running amok,” is a Balinese word, describing a battle technique of suddenly going insanely wild against one’s enemies in suicidal and bloody hand-to-hand combat.

The book isn’t as cliché as the sound of its title, or as simple and straightforward as the 2010 film adaptation might have depicted the story. But the ending is. Elizabeth ends up falling in love with an older Brazilian man. But before then, she writes, “I not only have to become my own husband, but I need to be my own father, too.” I really loved that Elizabeth is jaunty and not afraid to share any bit of her personality. She writes like it’s her private diary. From TMI that, sometimes, ends up annoying the reader like mindless chatter would, to the juicy part where she recounts breaking her celibacy – “never have I been so unpeeled, revealed, unfurled and hurled through the event of love-making” – and the dry spell days that drive her to masturbation.

Elizabeth digging into her inner being to identify her weaknesses and how best to overcome them, is my first encounter with the book’s power. Most times, human beings don’t want to be corrected or when corrected – they find it hard accepting their faults. But it is surely something of magnificent power to sit down and analyze your life problems and triumphs; and from that – prescribe yourself a winning life-changing plan. This book has even inspired plans for my next euro-trip :-)

BONUS: She ends up marrying that Brazilian man after the book. They’ve since been together for more than five years. You can also check out my review of another wonderful book Captain Corelli’s Mandolin- Louis de Berniéres Then watch the below video of Elizabeth talking about the film adaptation of Eat, Pray, Love. She’s so funny.

 

Screen Shot 2014-07-21 at 10.05.33While in Amsterdam, the word Sex is like the word Tea or Majani in Kericho. Part of the Dutch pride and fame for sex is synonymous to the kind of global advertisement our tea has done for Kenya. In Amsterdam, sex is cool. It’s rich. It’s okay. It’s liberating. Because of the legalization of prostitution, it draws tourists. Together with the legalization of weed; prostitution is part of the Dutch toleration for things, otherwise, not legal in many parts of the world.

On my first day in Amsterdam, while walking down the shopping district, I bump into the Sex Museum. It’s right between tourists’ souvenir shops, food joints and a kid’s toy (no pun intended) store. And it’s only four euros in. As soon as I tell one of my friends that I am staying right in the CBD close to Amsterdam Centraal Station (CS), they say: “That’s very close to the Red Light District (RLD), make sure you take a trip there!” I end up visiting RLD at different times on different days, thus noticing different things, every single time, day and night.

From the start, I have no imaginations of what RLD is like, apart from a place where it’s okay to pick up a prostitute when in lust and with money, or a street where you can easily spot hookers. On my first evening in Netherlands, accompanied by friends, I take my first walk down Amsterdam’s RLD, known for high-profile hookers. The buildings along RLD boast part of the city’s charming 14th century architecture—not what I had ever pictured. The District is located along one of the most beautiful parts of Amsterdam, with long alleys with a few twists and turns. It’s about 9:00 p.m. and still quite bright because it’s summer. Most of the large and long windows or glass doors through which prostitutes show up, from the classic buildings, still have curtains. The streets aren’t jammed. Prostitutes, in sexy lingerie and truckloads of makeup driven by bright or deep red lipstick, tease streetwalkers. As if made a tad shy by the bright of night, they dramatically jump in front of the curtain, revealing a leg or their torso, and then quickly jump back. Some prostitutes just peep out of the window, smiling and waving or beckoning passersby by the index finger.

“Good gracious!’ – my first thought. What a wonderfully liberal world this must be. For these women to be as proud as they are, up for sex, and not being jeered or stoned or arrested but being adored and marveled at, just as any other product on sale would be window-shopped.

There are gay bars, pornography cinemas, an Erotic Museum of Prostitution and a Sex Theatre (where you can view live sex – yes!) along RLD. There’s also the Condomerie, Worlds First Condom Specialty shop, first opened in 1987. Photography here, and generally along RLD inclusive of the signs and prostitutes is prohibited, but I still steal some and the video below:  .

DSC_1690On a different day I visit Condomerie with a friend. We marvel at the naughty post cards and joke about how it would be cool to see if a receiver would put two and two together if sent the wittily designed cards. But none of us wants to experiment. The tiny sex shop, full of curious (in all ways) customers and tourists, has ALL shades, sizes and flavours of condoms. And then there are toys and probably whips and chains. We don’t stay in too long. I am already in trouble for being spotted taking a photo.

On a different day – the end of the night Netherlands win against Costa Rica in the World Cup, together with my two male friends (names withheld for obvious reasons), we decide to head over to RLD for two reasons: to find a bar with good beer and simply assess business. Why not? Especially after Netherlands beat Costa Rica by luck at the penalties. We are curious if this result will influence an influx or decrease of clients at RLD tonight. Although there are celebrations and a lot of drinking beer and singing in town, most fans (read – everyone including me) are still not too happy by Netherlands performance again. The game against Costa Rica was just like their previous match against Mexico, too much struggle and still failing to score in 90 minutes.

DSC_1689“It’s going to be a bad night for the girls. Or should I say, a good night?” One of my friends jests, adding, “The prostitutes will probably make a lot of money, still.”

We have arrived.

Tonight I see the RLD in different light. (It’s the busiest I’ve seen any street, day or night, during my entire stay in Netherlands). It’s the first time I am experiencing human traffic. There are so many people, among them, more than half dressed in orange jerseys, walking up and down RLD lanes. Everyone (the Dutch and tourists alike) has been wearing orange all day, in support of Netherlands at World Cup, so there’s no way of knowing nationalities of people along RLD, tonight largely dominated by men. My friend says a lot of the guys down RLD are usually Brits. And leaning on that statement, I overhear several British accents along the crammed and jammed street. I wonder if there are male or homosexual prostitutes too, somewhere. They can’t miss to have their spot in a place like Amsterdam—the city with something for everyone. We spot a couple of policemen along the canal bridges dressed in their “Politie” jackets, standing at bay watching people stream in and out of the district. They are possibly looking out for trouble. But there is never trouble.

It’s way past 1:30 a.m. The prostitutes are not afraid of the dark of night – they seem to be encouraged by it. They are on display just like meat hangs by the butchery windows or how mannequins pose by windows at the malls. There are no curtains here. As you stare at them, the more they lure you while touching themselves and demonstrating skills and positions, some smiling as innocently as virgins. All this happens through the life-sized windows through which I can see single rooms lighted up in red, blue, violet and even green. The rooms have beds layered with white towels and numerous toys, some looking like gadgets. Some rooms seem to have doors in the back.

We are standing next to a group of three girls and one boy staring so hard at one of prostitutes demonstrating her prowess by mocking her viewers from across the window. The foursome stares so hard as if they are watching a silent movie. I can now see that most of the prostitutes have done a boob or mouth job, or both – it’s so evident. The prostitutes clearly represent different nationalities. Some look Indonesian and Korean. There is also a lane with black girls. Here is the first place I see big -sized prostitutes. We also pass a window where several men are queuing for one prostitute and there is a bouncer, (or should we refer to him as a pimp?) ensuring that there’s no pushing and pulling or jumping the line.

Most pubs and clubs have red-lit signs gleaming and popping with witty names of the places. Sex Palace. Banana Bar. Moulin Rouge. And so on. We finally find a club that is full enough to handle us (the others are overflowing). I just want some of that good rose’ beer. My boys are soon turned off by the fact that there are only four girls (me included) in this club so we leave soon after …

In the continuing series of of my tales from Netherlands, read:

Love, Sex and Drugs: Amsterdam (Part III)

Love, Sex and Drugs: Amsterdam (Part IV)

BONUS: Prostitution is legal in Holland with most of Amsterdam’s business running in the Red Light District. Window prostitutes have been allowed to legally display their trade since October 2000. PS: RLD hasn’t always been known to be the safest place in Amsterdam. From time to time, several crimes have been reported from there so while visiting, make sure you have company and be watchful.

 

10559344_10152507852712559_1010258845_nMy arrival in Amsterdam is in many ways synonymous to the story of the village man from Luhya Land who got a chance to visit Nairobi, for the first time, after winning millions through a Safaricom competition. As soon as I take my first walk from Amsterdam Centraal (CS) Station to our apartment building, along De Ruyterkade (five-minute walk from CS), I realize that I am a different kind of villager here.

I have seen tall buildings, but not buildings grandiose and sophisticated in form of medieval architecture as Amsterdam’s. I can’t help but stop every five steps, to take pictures of the cityscape always adjacent to canal waters and bridges. This happens every time I am out of the house, all through my 16-day stay in the Netherlands. One time, my friend Sylvia notes, “You are just like Chinese and Japanese tourists” because we spot them (especially men) taking pictures all over town. Only difference between my photography and theirs is how advanced their cameras are. While taking a boat ride once I spot one Japanese tourist with a selfie-stick (look that up).

10536950_10152507856977559_1886306721_nI have never seen streets and roads so neat, clean and perfect – you could literally lay your picnic on bare ground, and germs wouldn’t be aware. I am fascinated by the fact that during my entire stay, I don’t see even one person littering. Well, maybe that’s because there are mini and huge trucks simultaneously cleaning (washing and drying) city streets, day and night, every hour. Amsterdam saves me from the fury of having to see someone throw banana and orange peals or naked maize combs on the streets, like is such a Kenyan bad habit. Could it be that Amsterdam people don’t eat fruit anyhow? Or maybe they don’t litter anything at all?

What Amsterdam however seems to throw around carelessly is Love. I have never seen so much Public Display of Affection (pda) at one place. There is a couple holding so close at the Rijksmuseum – if I had a man holding me like that while trying to critic a piece of art work, I would have certainly preferred to take our display somewhere else, probably with more life … There is a constant dark veil between lovers and the streets or people. Lovers don’t care if anyone is watching them and people don’t care for couples. Another couple is kissing so passionately by the hundreds of bikes parked by CS. He’s got his hands entangled in her sweater and she let’s go of her bike; its fall nearly messing up the perfect linear parking of the rest of the bikes. The couple stops and start to laugh out loud.

Even elderly couples seem to be deeply in love. By Amsterdam’s famous Dam Square, I spot a couple of oldies holding hands while strolling. Some are kissing and others are leaning on each other while sitting on the stone benches at Dam. One afternoon after a shopping spree so tiresome my back is aching, I decide to take a break and rest on the Dam stones. This way I can also get a central viewing of pda. Funny thing happens. The 40-something year old man sitting next to me starts to talk to the 50-something year old woman. She asks me for a pen and a paper. Obviously no journalist walks without those two. As I reach my handbag I realize that these two just met on this stone and are exchanging contacts. Finally! I play cupid, thanks to Amsterdam.

10559091_10152507853217559_282060868_nOne time, while sitting with my friend Danny at the patio of a restaurant located on Rembrandt Square (another famous spot in the city); right after an afternoon pour, a couple stops right in front of our view and start to make out, so hungrily. I am afraid he will rip off her clothes right before our eyes. I notice that I am the only one caught in their make-out session. Passersby walk past the scene, and care more for the famed Night Watch (Netherland’s most celebrated painting by the artist Rembrandt van Rijn) sculptures in 3D, a few steps behind the kissing couple. “Is it that couples show more love to each other in Amsterdam or do stuff and visit places, more together, than at home (in Kenya)? Or that people in Amsterdam are in love deeper than love experienced in other places?” I ask my Kenyan friend Danny. Already accustomed to the Dutch lifestyle, having lived at Den Haag (Hague) for more than two years, now, he simply cautions, “You haven’t seen anything yet … you should go to Rome,” adding, “This pda is really nothing as compared to Rome.”

I am convinced that Amsterdam is a city of love because I am here to work and play but most importantly, attend my friends’ Wedding of the Year. If numerous people carrying lovely bouquets of flowers on their bike carriers; almost half the town is kissing and holding and rubbing each other’s butts, really is a sign of Love—I see it everywhere in Amsterdam. On the streets, at restaurants, museums, parks and pretty much anywhere I turn. It’s like a constant scene off a romantic movie filmed in Paris’ famous parks with couples fondling on the benches. Only this is real life. It is baffling why, from outside Amsterdam, I haven’t seen movie makers associate Amsterdam with love and pda, like they do in films shot in Rome, Paris and London.

10523292_10152507852912559_1414496986_n-1One time, while in Eindhoven, North of Holland – not even the rain could stop yet another couple from pda-love-games. The dude is pushing her and pulling her hair. The lady runs so fast from him, for a second I start to think that they are not really together. He catches up with her; she kicks him so hard. They have no umbrellas and don’t seem worried by the rain or that they are probably inflicting slight pain on each other. As they fade away from my view, I half-see them laughing and leaning over to share a kiss, while waiting for the traffic lights to turn Green.

It seems like Amsterdam is always All System Go for Love. In one part of town, there’s a lone piece of graffiti in white with the words “Love Me”. Just as I am taking a photo of it, another couple (holding) walk into my shot—a perfect image for the backdrop by the canal waters … I email my sister Emma, who lives in Miami (Florida) my observations. She responds, “You are experiencing some culture shock ..” Maybe I am.

In the continuation of my tales from Netherlands read:

Love, Sex and Drugs: Amsterdam Red Light District (Part II)

Love, Sex and Drugs: Amsterdam (Part III)

Love, Sex and Drugs: Amsterdam (Part IV)

BONUS: You might also fancy reading how it went down at my friends’ Wedding of the Year.

 

Bergen, north of Holland (about 45 minutes drive from Amsterdam), is really the place you want to wed. There, roads are winding, extra leafy trees stand tall and close together, the beaches provide warm and sunny weather; and houses (all stand out, in shape and architecture) are designed to build homes. Mine is the only bedroom (I think) located on the lower floor of the little yet charming 114-year old Hotel 1900 (where we are staying over the wedding weekend). It’s the most beautiful Saturday morning I have seen, since my arrival in Netherlands. A bright shy sun light with tenderness and assurance seeps in through my window. I know this will be a more than a good day. 10540657_10152506767507559_1733602766_n10529635_10152506780942559_1786459364_n From Hotel 1900, it’s a five-minute walk to the most beautiful remains I’ve ever seen—Bergen’s Ruïnekerk (Ruined Church). Surrounding the chapel’s front yard are high ruined walls made of golden brown bricks. The walls have holes, where there used to be cathedral windows. Epitaphs lean on the walls, as lifeless as high fashion models pose. A clay pot with lovely lilac and white flowers is sitting pretty near the church’s main entrance. The church provides a Holier Than Thou aesthetic gratification. The ceiling is so damn high (even higher than normal cathedral ceilings). Half its length is wooden brown and the other half – painted pure white. The windows are so large – all four Teletubbies could certainly jump through, at once. Several golden chandeliers dangle with church candles, or lights shaped as candles, burning slowly. In the fifteenth century, this used to be the largest church in the province of North-Holland. However, during the 80 years war against Spain, it was looted and burned down by Dutch Protestants. It was later rebuilt to its current state (making it now more than 300 years old). Wow!!! 10528039_10152506763562559_960094254_n10527929_10152506869552559_1729024944_nIt’s about 3:00 p.m. The Bridal March song goes off. Dressed in a simple non-lacy and non-flowing wedding dress with a white mini jacket and a statement Ankara belt, Nynke (the bride) walks in smiling. Her Dad is holding her hand. Such cute little flower girls in Ankara dresses just walked in front of them. Her man, Steve (the groom), is dressed in a cream-coloured tuxedo, a snow-white shirt with a matching smart bow tie. A twosome so different yet elegant—I assert – to myself, “Yes! Those are My Friends!” After what sounded like a Catholic mass and mostly conducted in Dutch, Nynke and Steve are just about to be married. The Father asks, in English, “Anyone with any reason why I should not unite these two; speak now …” A bad, or good joke (we previously discussed) comes into real play. From the very back, Bien stands up and shouts, “I have something to say!” All eyes on his serious face: “I know Nynke … She is a very good woman – that’s all!” The church bursts into laughter, more like a collected sigh of relief. After the You May Kiss the Bride speech, the couple kisses for an eternity. I like that the Father’s sermon for the couple is sweet and very Catholic-esque short. “You don’t need sunshine but someone by your side, always. Look out of the window, we expected better weather today but you don’t need blue, but trust… ” Later, Steve sings to Nynke an acoustic (only accompanied by a piano) version of Donny Hathaway’s A Song For You. (Isn’t that like one of the sweetest love songs ever?) She surprises him, and all of us, when she sings for him an olden (I think) Dutch love song, from the balcony of the church, accompanied by the beastly organ music instrument. Even though I can’t comprehend the lyrics, I feel the emotion pouring out of her, and then from me. I’ve never heard Nynke sing with such heart and soul. My eyes feel like I just rubbed red-hot Indian chillies on them. I feel like running out of the chapel to be free of this captivity. I look around the church and all (Yes – all) the women are sobbing – so I succumb. It’s embarrassing, but thankfully I didn’t wear mascara so I am not worried that I will look like the grim reaper after this. I told myself that I wouldn’t cry but these tears turn out to be my first, at any wedding. Sauti Sol throw a killer concert right in front of the church’s dais, transforming the peace and holiness into something else. They sing all their wedding songs and Pharrell’s Happy, led by Nynke. Later Steve and Nynke’s Paps both give such precise and wise speeches—I am awed. So is the church. There’s too much love, fun and freedom inside this Catholic church—I can’t wait to tell my mum (a staunch Catholic) of this liberty. 10550203_10152506740052559_1293265614_o10552187_10152506713877559_1455828313_o10536834_10152506829017559_795525125_nAfter a few minutes, there’s a cake cutting ceremony at a gazebo outside church. The cake has several storeys. Its colour matches Steve’s tux. It tastes like sorbet and everything nice. This is the first wedding I’ve attended without cake-hoarding servers. It’s a dream-come true for the kids. It doesn’t matter that I hate cake; I join their greedy game of relishing large portions to come back for more. Going around is plenty of champagne, congratulatory hugs and kisses to the couple, meet-and-greet pleasantries, and fashion. It is about 6:00 p.m. guests return inside Ruïnekerk for dinner. The church space is now like a scene from Jesus’ Last Supper table. The tables, laced in white cloth, have gourmet Kenyan and Indonesian (if my taste buds don’t fail me) finger-licking dishes. Sierano and me even share a second plate. Just as the wine is kicking in, Nynke and Steve are at the front of church with an announcement to make. But only a music mix kicks in, for a choreographed dance session from the two, now in different outfits. Azonto. Jika. Happy Dance. Dombolo. B-Boy Dance. There isn’t one cool dance move that misses out. It’s super dope! Suddenly, guests are standing on seats, and cramming, trying to steal a picture or if lucky – get a video. Watch Nynke and Steve’s super Dope First Happy Wedding Dance, recorded via my phone camera.

A group of friends then present a song and another choreographed dance to the couple, who join in the FUN. The after party (from a sunny and bright Summer 9:00 p.m.) is private and by the beach. The wooden white coloured establishment exudes the feel of a former beach house. The walls are made of glass. There’s a patio with a view (overlooking the vast North Sea) to die for. This is a scene off OC. The sand here is so clean and so soft it makes feet sink so deep. The water is super cold. Only sound close to the North Sea is the laughter from the party, fading music and water-sand back and forth motion as tides rise and fall. Good vibes, drinks and a lot of dancing to the killer DJ and the most private and heartfelt concert delivery I’ve ever heard Sauti Sol give. 10543229_10152506748782559_477459719_n10544478_10152506816007559_883111188_nAfter a super cute daughter, and years of anticipation, Nynke and Steve have finally made it official. Nothing about this couple is ordinary. She is super cute, super hardworking and super stylish. Steve’s voice and everything is smooth. He’s fashion forward and super industrious. Look up Free Spirit and Roho Safi in the dictionary—their faces show up. They are creative. Crazy. And fun. And accommodating. And loving. They’ve got such big hearts; if merged together and thrown like a meteorite from space into earth, they would form a love crater. 10544950_10152506846842559_725385406_n10552000_10152506715347559_2145560543_n Weddings generally make you feel sorry for yourself and your singlehood or dysfunctional relationships. But this one felt different. It was more of a global gathering of friends and family—guests came from Netherlands, Germany, Kenya, Brazil, USA, Dubai, Czech Republic, France and pretty much every corner of the world. It was surreal to be at one place with ALL our friends, and for it not to have been a funeral. There was nothing to think about but savour every single moment. More than Nynke and Steve’s celebration of love, their wedding was a massive and grand celebration of love, life, friendship and family. It ended up lasting another two days, following Sunday (back at Ruïnekerk) and Monday (at the Bergen home).

BONUS: So honoured and glad to have been part of your celebration Nynke and Steve – congrats to that and the awesome wedding dance. Because of your wedding, I ended up spending weeks [meaning it’s not infatuation] falling in love with Netherlands; reuniting with you, nearly all my friends from Europe and making new alliances. I am so inspired by the power of the beautiful thing we are all looking for. It’s called Love, and You are it!!

You might also dig: Love, Sex and Drugs: Amsterdam (Part I), the first of the four-part series: Love, Sex and Drugs – my tales from the Netherlands.

It’s Thursday. As soon as I arrive at the hospital, I know my 13-year-old friend; Paul Macharia (suffering from leg cancer) did not make it – his bed, located at the far left corner, is empty. For a second, my world abruptly stops and then my head starts to slowly spin.

Just a few hours ago, I was in town, running around like a headless chicken, trying to make sure I bought Paul everything he’d asked me to bring him. He wanted snacks, fruits, chips, Mbuzi Choma, toys and clothes “to wear when leaving the hospital” – he’d specifically requested.

Just a few weeks before, I’d met Paul (March 18th) during a visit to Kenyatta National Hospital (KNH) Children’s Cancer Ward while filing a story on children abandoned with cancer. We became friends by default. I was only drawn to him because he was too weak to get out of bed. And as the rest of the children took a drawing and colouring class in the playroom facilitated by my hosts, the Sarakasi Trust Hospital Project (STHP), he couldn’t join in, making me move closer to him.

IMG_0111After spending about an hour or two with Paul and Brenda, his art teacher from STHP, we all clicked as they painted some fancy birds. As the blinding afternoon light and Nairobi’s heat engulfed the ward, I suddenly felt like it carried with it a silent promise to the children of a brighter future. Paul was hoping to get out of hospital and go back to school … The boy was very inquisitive and bright. He wanted to know the origin of all the pictures in my camera, and take pictures with me. He caught me off guard when he asked, “So when are you going to come back and see me?” I promised, “Soon, I will communicate with your teacher.”

When I left KNH, I felt grateful, for my good health and family. I had found out that Paul had been abandoned by his parents. He told me they had never visited him since his admission to hospital. It’s a very tough conversation to have with a child. Later, Paul would have Brenda call me every day during art class sessions, asking when I would go see him and always reminding me to bring him the stuff he’d asked for. We passed each other messages and talked on phone once. But on the weekend that I was scheduled to go see him, I fell terribly ill with pneumonia. The following week, on Tuesday afternoon, when my Blackberry’s battery did the best it could to die, the boy had been trying to call me urgently. When I arrived home to charge my phone at about 5:00 p.m., I received seven notifications that he’d tried calling me using Brenda’s phone. On calling back, Brenda said, “It’s too late. Paul really wanted to talk to you urgently today.” I told her I’d be visiting him during oncoming weekend but she warned, “It might be too late, he seemed too weak today.”

I decided that I would go see Paul on Thursday.

Unbeknownst to me, the boy had died on that same Tuesday.

Back to present day: as Brenda and I stand next to each other at the ward’s entrance, silent, knowing too well why Paul’s bed is empty; one of the nurses summons Brenda after which she move towards me asking me to sit down. I know what she is about to say. I just feel like I should have made it on time. I start to wonder what I will do with the shopping and clothes I got him. One of the nurses calls me into the main office and tries to give me that mumbo jumbo counselling talk. But all I want is for them to take Paul’s clothes and make sure they get to his mother, who hasn’t yet come to the hospital since her son died. The nurses won’t take the clothes, because, they aren’t sure when and if the mother will come – they say. They give me her number to call and make arrangements but her phone is off.

Disappointed, I am standing at Kenyatta hospital, carrying a shit-load of stuff I don’t want to go back home with yet I don’t want to leave them with anyone if not Paul. The nurses won’t stop cajoling me to leave the stuff with the other children, “many are abandoned and orphans,” they bribe me. I don’t flinch. Just as I am leaving the nurses’ office, one of them suggests, “You can go see Paul at the morgue if you want.” After sitting with Brenda on the ward’s only bench for a few minutes, we decide to make for the morgue. A lot of people travel with corpses on Fridays to arrive to the burial sites by Saturday. Explains why, on this Thursday, we were met by a monstrous queue.

One queue is for paying about KES 300 to view the body, and the other is to get a number, to issue the morgue assistant to help identify the body. Brenda and I decide to take turns. I take queue number one (to pay). While she takes the last one, I sit on the wooden bench underneath the blaring sun. For the first time since coming to hospital, I shed a tear. I realize that I am glimpsing at life’s nothingness. I am looking at countless gloomy people, here to take their loved ones, one final time. Some women come out of the viewing room screaming and crying frantically. I start to freak out and text my sister Jackie, explaining my circumstance. She texts back, “Are you really sure you want to view a dead body? It will traumatize you.” Brenda is just about to get to the teller but I call her. She asks the guy in front of her in line to reserve the space. I ask her if she thinks we should back out … “No let’s just do it!”

When she gets back in line, she hears the guy she spoke to a little while ago, about reserving her position on the queue, say to the cashier, “Yes – Paul Macharia, that’s the name.” Brenda goes, “Hi – you know Paul? My friend and I are here to see him too.”

Turns out the guy has come (from the organization that had given Paul up for adoption) to represent the family and help with clearance. As the stranger walks away, Brenda calls me, pointing at him, “He’s here for Paul. Get his number!” I am so confused and in the moment, I lose him in the crowd. We sit on the bench waiting for our turn to be called by the morgue assistant to get into the viewing room and the guy just reappears from nowhere. We approach him and introduce ourselves properly. He says, “Even Paul’s mother is here. Let me just call her.” As he reaches his phone to call her, a friendly but shy-looking woman wearing knitted sweater despite the heat approaches us— Paul’s foster mother.

I can’t comprehend how we all just met miraculously, in such a crowded space.

We introduce ourselves to Paul’s mother as Brenda recounts Paul’s last moments. “On that last day, alikua amechoka sana. Alikua ananiuliza nipigie tu Anyiko, alafu vile hakushika simu, akaanza kuniuliza kama naona aki-breath. Mimi nikamwambia yeye ndio anaweza niambia vizuri, lakini alikua anaongea tu vizuri … (He was very tired and kept on asking for Anyiko. Later, he kept saying he was experiencing difficulty with breathing).”

The boy died on Tuesday, at approximately 5:15 p.m. soon after Brenda left the hospital.

Paul’s mother looks at us with gratitude so colossal, words can’t express. She smiles and says, “Nilijua alikua na marafiki na ni vizuri nimejua ni nyinyi.” Without a second thought, I know it is the moment to do the necessary. I give her all the bulky shopping I have been carrying around the hospital. I am still clutching onto the neatly wrapped funky jungle green African shirt and matching shorts I had got Paul at an Indian Shop inside Hilton Arcade. It’s hard to explain to Paul’s mother about the clothes but I try. “Mami, Paul alisema nimletee hizi nguo, za kuvaa akitoka hospitali. Ni bahati mbaya sikumpata leo lakini tafadhali chukua labda utamvalisha …” She takes them with open arms and blesses us: “Mungu awabariki!” We exchange numbers as they tell us of their intention to leave Nairobi with Paul’s body, same day. Just as they are leaving, the morgue assistant emerges shouting, “Watu wamekuja kuona Paul!!” We all stand still and look at each other. “Twendeni” I say … But the family (Paul’s mum and her sister) is hesitant. Together with Brenda, we move stealthily towards the small lifeless cold viewing room. Paul is at the corner, wrapped up in some dirty hospital clothes. “Songeni karibu m-confirm kama huyu ni Paul!” The morgue assistant prompts us. As Brenda and I move closer, I realise that Paul looks like he died peacefully. He just seems like he’s sleeping. Not scary. I also realize that his family are no longer in the room.

Are they abandoning him even in death?

My heart is at ease as we leave the hospital soon after. A few days later, I receive a call from Mama Paul. She tells me that the funeral went well and that she dressed Paul in the clothes I bought him. She says, “Ata kama Paul hayuko, nataka ukuje Nyandarua unione.”

IMG_0113BONUS: The guy from the morgue told me that Paul was an orphan who had been given up for adoption. He said that most of his older siblings had gone on to become chokoras (street children). Quite often I think about Paul and why his mother didn’t show him much love at the end of his journey. I have visions of Paul’s brilliant mind and for some reason, I feel like he would have become  a computer expert, had he lived on.

Writing this was a balance between thought and tears.

I keep wondering what Paul had wanted to say to me. Nevertheless, my heart has since found rest in my mother’s words of encouragement: “If you had gone to see Paul on Wednesday, you wouldn’t have met his mother. And maybe you wouldn’t have been able to leave his stuff anyway. If you had decided to go see him on Friday or Saturday, you’d have found his body taken. If you hadn’t decided to go to the morgue on Thursday, you wouldn’t have met his mum by chance. Lastly, if you had given in to giving out his stuff at the ward, you wouldn’t have given them to the mother later. Paul wanted his clothes and for you to meet his family, and it happened. You’ve done your work.”

Read the original story I went to KNH to file for UP Magazine: “A Visit to the Children’s Cancer Ward at Kenyatta National Hospital”

Quirkology  ImageHow can you tell that someone is lying? What do you know about the psychology of love and attraction? Is February the 13th really doomed? Is the world really as small as many people refer to it? Does it matter that he is tall? What’s the true measure of a real smile or a funny joke? And what’s the secret to cooking the perfect cup of tea? The book: The curious Science of Everyday Lives, details Professor Richard Wiseman’s social experiments and some by psychology professors and psychoanalysts. They all tackle all these questions among other fascinating aspects of everyday lives.

1. How to tell someone is lying

The more information you give away, the greater the chances of some of it coming back to haunt you. As a result, liars tend to say less and provide fewer details, than truth-tellers. On the contrary, some liars tend to talk a lot and exaggerate details. Instead of only looking at information given, check out for body language signs like how comfortable do they look while talking? Are they trembling, shaking or sweating. In the end, there is no conclusive research that has specifically discovered how to tell a liar from a truth-teller.

2. Secret to perfect tea making

The water in the teapot has to remain between 180 – 190 degrees Fahrenheit. It has to stay eight minutes in the tea leaves. This and the right proportion of Ketepa, milk and water mixture will save you from angry guests and spouses. Tea really is everything to me.

3. What’s the measure of a true smile?

Lifelong success and happiness can be predicted by the simple crinkling around the sides of the eyes. It’s that simple.

4. Is the world really smaller?

“People often develop magical believes about the world because they have experienced something seemingly weird. With the concept of coincidences, events appear to coincide in a way that both seem meaningful, and defies the odds.” It turns out that most people who tend to see the world as small know lots of people, and so are, without realizing it, making their own good fortune by constructing, an especially small world. This idea funxed with my mind a good one. I honestly think, this world is really small.

5. Does height matter?

“Although height no longer offers physical advantage, our primate brains hold onto their evolutionary past, and so still associate tall people with success. The psychological relationship between height and status works in both directions. Not only do we think that tall people are more competent, but also that competent people are tall. That’s why people are often surprised to discover that some Hollywood stars are below average height. Perceived height of a person can change with their apparent status.”

6. Ghosts and other weird feelings

Infra sound or low-frequency sound is deeply strange and can be produced from ocean waves, earthquakes, tornadoes and volcanoes. Animals are said to detect these sounds, they are said to be possibly the reason why animals fled the 2004 tsunami in Asia. These sounds can sometimes be produced during concerts or at church depending on a building’s acoustic. So the next time you think you saw a ghost, it might be the building’s lighting, ventilation and acoustics coupled with your wildest imaginations clouding your mental judgement. The next time you think a singer’s voice takes you to heaven or you were touched by the angel while at church—it could have just been infra sound or low-frequency sound waves. Very Freaky!

7. Psychology of compatibility

Do not meet someone on your first date on a high bridge or in an area above normal sea level. These kind of heightened environments makes the heart generally beat faster, so that fools the brain and you will tend to feel like you are more attracted to your date. Avoid overly soothing experiences like smooth music, country and wind chimes. Your best bet will actually be a horror film, a roller coaster or a rock concert. They will generically draw you closer.

If you’re a follower of Psych Today, this book is literally a longer version, complete with several chapters and sub headings. Everyone should read this book for some amazing and quirky life lessons, including why bad musicians always win at competitions and how comes incompetent politicians always get elected. This book asserts the wise words of the psychologist Arthur Conan Doyle: “Life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind of man could invent.”

BONUS: Professor Richard Wiseman is Britain’s only professor for the public understanding of psychology. There isn’t anything true about Friday the 13th being a bad omen, despite many recorded incidences in history of bad and freaky things happening on the date. That said, avoid road trips and being anywhere an accident could happen on Friday the 13th because the fact that people are conscious of the day’s said bad omen will most probably make them nervous and thus suffer cognitive dissonance, making them cause accidents or mishaps. Sharp ey?

bmj 3What’s not to love about Gabrielle Union? She’s gorgeous. She’s also the star of BET’s most successful original series to date: Being Mary Jane (BMJ). I really love black series (the likes of Martin, Soul food, Girlfriends and The Game) because I find them extra soulful. I relate to them.

The soundtracks in BMJ were excellent! They even played Lianne La Havas “Elusive” and Jessie Ware’s acoustic “Night Light”. Also loved that most of the songs were by black artists. When I tweeted that, someone called me racist on Twitter and added *Trevor Noah voice*. Now I didn’t know whether to argue with them or just move on, but just to set the record straight I am not a racist and I am not ashamed to declare that I am naturally inclined to drum beat towards black stuff, as the famous saying goes, Black Don’t Crack.

There were a couple of times, when I felt like the whole professional egotistical crazy black woman persona in BMJ was going a little far and was making me feel exhausted, but in the end I really loved how ordinary yet dramatic the love life stories in BMJ were, among other themes. Here are my five lessons from the series that I felt everyone could pluck a piece from.

1. Never Ever Fall In Love with a Married Man

The problem with love is that you don’t know, and can’t avoid who you will love. And in Mary Jane’s case, she started falling for Andre (played by the yummy Omari Hardwick) before knowing that he was married. But she continued to pursue the relationship anyway. Such scenarios will always end up badly. And every woman should consider sacrificing a man she loves for the sake of the togetherness of an entire family, including kids. Just get your own single man. Side note – why do they always give Omari Hardwick the suffering roles? BMJ. The Last Letter. For Coloured Girls. Dark Blue. Why oh why.

2. Check Your Sex Game but Don’t Steal Sperm

BMJ takes the crown for the steamiest premiere. The first 10 minutes of the first episode, with Andre and Mary J making out to Rihanna’s “Cake” creates a thrilling anticipation for more. Through Andre we get to know that men don’t like lazy head and care that women aren’t generally lazy in bed. By the time Mary Jane gets the balls to face her ex boyfriend David (played by the yummy Stephen Bishop) and talk out bottled up issues, like why she stole his sperm—she’s literally nothing but just another crazy black woman, drunk and a nuisance. When you want to talk to an ex, wait till the feelings have subsided, avoid it if you just hooked up with them, and lastly – don’t be under any influence. Finally, do not steal their sperm. As David says, “If you want a baby, just ask.”

3. Forgiveness Is Key

At first, Mary Jane is blinded by her own version of perfection and impression of how people should live their lives. It’s until Mary Jane is able to forgive her weakness and see her faults that she can apologize to those she hurt along the way. It’s another of life’s little rules. Forgive yourself, ask for forgiveness and then you will find closure, and later on – what’s you’ve been praying for. I really loved what her momma said when she found out that she was having an affair with a married man. “Cry tonight because tomorrow is a brand new day to make it right.”

4. A Job Isn’t Everything –Success Is

Mary Jane is a local celebrity and a recognized face among many Americans. This makes it very hard for her to socialize with everyone. This makes it harder for her to allow herself to fall. She is constantly under scrutiny, at work, at home and even on the streets. It’s very unfair that her extended family is lazy and she has to foot nearly everyone’s bills. She is caught up in maintaining people’s lives. Her pregnant niece asks her, “Where’s your man? Where is your baby and happy ever after” She realizes the importance of taking time for the self. A job is what pays the rent but we also need to align a lot of things that surround us. Take time to relax and enjoy yourself away from work. Make living your life and cherishing moments also part of life. Part of the reason why Mary Jane breaks up with her former boyfriend is because she was so caught up in the mindset of having to find an ideal man who makes as much or more money than her. Although money means a lot, appreciate other life’s simple pleasures like love and happiness.

5. Black is Beauty

No matter what anyone says about black skin and black girls, black girls will always be viewed and reviewed in relation to black identity. That’s because black is diverse and the skin also comes in different shades. We can’t help that other people associate black with ugly or weak and it’s unfortunate that some black girls have taken it the wrong way too. Whether you are in Kenya, America or abroad, your black skin is beautiful. Be proud. Let it not define who you but you must identify with it. Be your best person. If you don’t succeed, as Mary Jane says, “Stay at number BMJ 4two position. You are almost there but not yet.” Here, there isn’t as much pressure. Be patient and take time to learn and you will make it to the top. No matter how men or the society take professional women, or women who have everything a man has, or can do everything a man can, that doesn’t matter. Be respectful to all sexes but most importantly, don’t forget to do you.

P.S: Adored the male casting and fashion/styling in BMJ. Can’t wait for Season Two!

BONUS: It’s a little interesting that Gabrielle Union really is a Mary Jane in many aspects. It’s been widely reported that her fiancée Dwyane Wayde cheated on his ex-wife with her and still cheated on her (Gabrielle) with another woman and even got a baby. I don’t want to judge, but that’s messed up. Now watch this video of Lupita Nyong’o talking about Black Skin and Beauty.

You might fancy my article on What Hollywood and Kenya Thinks of @Lupita_Nyongo (Patsey)

Black-Couple-ArguingWhy women leave their things (mainly panties) behind, and what that means, is part of the intriguing conversations with male friends, I’ve had this year.

I decided to blog about it, hoping some man will make me understand why men are passionately repulsed if a woman visiting or staying over at their crib will either: leave lipstick stain on their shirt/cheek or random paraphernalia behind. Also blogging to try explain to menfolk why, some women might leave things behind.

It all started when a few of my colleagues invited me over for a heated discussion wanting to try understand why, while visiting at the opposite sex, women will always leave behind their personal effects like shower gel, tampons and little garments like lingerie and panties.

I am not afraid to say that I don’t have a problem leaving my things behind. Just because: it’s less cumbersome and easier – to carrying things around all the time like it’s always the great wildebeest migration. And as a real woman, I love to feel comfortable and self-sufficient wherever and whenever I am visiting.

There’s a thin line between the neediness and surrender that comes with any sort of relationship between two. So guys, you need to understand that it’s not only about you, but also about what the woman wants. Even though she might be visiting your space, and staying over, not leaving her things behind isn’t a sign accurate enough that she isn’t clingy. Tangible things like bras and bags are easily replaceable, and most women own lots. So, leaving things behind isn’t either the ultimate sign that she is clingy. Instead, focus on the intangibles, like – do you make her smile? Does she make you smile? Do you both share moments like cooking together? Did you enjoy each other’s company? Do you like to have her over?

Leaving things behind, as I found out, is mostly interpreted by guys as a way of women stamping their identity and declaring probable recurrence, within a male-dominated space. Most guys do not like this. Sometimes, it’s not paranoia but a reality that a new situation is building up. If she’s left nearly a suitcase worth of stuff behind, maybe it’s time to move in or be presented with Her Wardrobe. On the other hand, it’s sometimes, a woman’s way of gently communicating to  her man, saying: “I want to come back” or “I feel safe knowing my things are with you.” It’s a sort of sign that she entrusts you.

But most guys can’t and won’t see it like this. So what do guys really want?

Special HUGGuys don’t want to have to read signs, yet they are first to read into signs of a woman leaving things around. If a woman should return, men feel, it’s their obligation to decide or that they should be first consulted. Guys don’t want to be ambushed or caught off guard, especially pants down. “Whose are these?” They don’t want to keep making excuses when confronted by other women and having to use the same old excuse: “That’s my sister’s thong!”

But on the real, no serious woman will forever be carrying bags as big as Mary Poppins’ every weekend, just because you might ask her to pop in or she will have to literally carry the world with her when leaving. Quite frankly, that doesn’t reflect well on your character or hers, either. Any serious man will make prior arrangements with a woman, this allowing her enough time, to pack appropriately, shall she be headed over to visit, for some hours, weekend or days.

Turns out that guys have two main issues: letting go of their personal space and sharing it with a woman. My advice to guys: before you welcome a woman into your bed or space for that matter, you should have already been prepared to see more than just clothes. So don’t freak out when she leaves teeny-weeny things like earrings, veet, toothbrush, perfume and deo behind – think of what you will do if she leaves her feelings behind.

Guys will argue that because their space is their throne, nobody is allowed to leave their personal effects if not asked to or officially crowned the queen. But we all know that sometimes, this is used as an excuse to cheat or simply see other women. A clever man knows that women invited over will sniff around like trained bitches and detect any signs of the presence of any kind other female within that vicinity, from a mile away.

waiting_on_this_empty_room_by_petrichor_ish-d349ti1What this means, is that the annoyance men have for women leaving things behind is simply a grand scheme to being eternal bachelors. If you dig her vibe, don’t hustle to invite her over to torment her departure by asking her to pack up everything. Instead, be prepared to be a good courteous host. Prepare to be left with a lipstick stain, perfume scent or the burden of putting together her things left behind. It would be wise to have one place for such paraphernalia. And if you have more than one woman visiting you often, to avoid drama, ensure that the majority are related to you. Either way, create different cabinets for each woman, where you store things left and found. Keep it secret, this is where you magically find her stuff when she asks, “I might have left my toothbrush here last month.” Ladies don’t only want to be treated right, but want their things treated just as well.

Ladies: on the other side of the coin, to avoid being tagged as clingy and to cement the notion that you’re indeed self-sufficient, come with your things and carry them with you, when you leave. However, sometimes you find that the unwanted cycle somehow continues: he invites you over and you keep leaving your things over, thus annoying him. In the end, note: guys love women who won’t leave everything around but will additionally carry themselves with class and dignity.

Part II of this post, coming soon. In the mean time, guys – would love to hear from you, women alike.

BONUS: You might want to check out this old but fun post I co-wrote with Wanjeri Four Kinds Of Men or Is It Puppies?

Phone EtiquetteYour ringtone says a lot about you; so does your ring back tone. People, especially strangers, will read a lot into the kind of person you could be, just from how your phone rings. The next time your phone rings to Wale’s Clappers or Ken wa Maria’s Fundamentals or whichever tune; think about what your callers are enduring or enjoying, to get through to you and the impression left. Unfortunately, our best songs might not necessarily reflect on our personality and image the best way. They last a few seconds but can influence how accommodative the other person (especially potential employers or future partners) at the end of the line will be to us. Regardless, the phone will ring, and you will answer.

Many times we receive calls from genuine wrong numbers (forget about Kamiti prisoners text messages that read— “You have won 100,000 cash money, call this number to send 25,000 to come pick your prize”, or dubious people calling to say they wrongfully sent you credit or Mpesa). Genuine wrong number callers can be as hilarious and annoying as it gets. Once, a Somali man called me angrily demanding, “Tulituma ngamia, wapi pesa ya ngamia? (We sent the money, where are the camels?)”. Most recently, I was vexed by the food delivery man at our office for selling me some strange type of half-cooked beans instead of peas. I read out and dialed the man’s number from the food company’s brochure furiously trembling, and started ranting at hello, “Chakula chako hakiliki, I need a refund or the food I actually ordered for and won’t take any other thing!” The guy on the other line, shocked at my persistence and the wrath of a hungry and angry woman (double tragedy) shuddered, “Aki mami niko Eastleigh, walahi sijawahi uza chakula (Wrong number, I have never vended food). After an embarrassed apology, I thought that was over and done with. But the guy would keep calling and texting me insistently. One day he sent me a text – “Are you married, I am single”. I had to reply, “Yes and my husband doesn’t like me texting you” and he forever retreated.

Then there’s the nightmare of losing and acquiring phone contacts. Because of this, we all receive calls/texts from foreign numbers. What do you do or say upon answering? Usually I politely ask, “Who am I speaking to?” or state “Sorry I seem not to have this number.” A normal person should always introduce themselves on and off phone, it’s just courteous. However, there are people with the below 5 bad phone habits who obnoxiously think they are exceptions to the rules.

1. “Guess tu ni nani?”

In such times of economic hardship, if you are going to start calling someone for teasing purposes in the middle of the day, then you ought to get a job or at least spend your credit money wisely. Nobody has time for such old tricks. And when they do, it gets particularly awkward if the receiver guesses at least thrice wrong or a name that the caller recognizes and doesn’t remind them of good things. For instance ex-boyfriend Alex (random name) tries to change voice to see if you might guess it right and then you end up guessing its ex-ex-boyfriend Joe (another random name).

2. “You don’t have my no.!? Kwani you deleted my no.!?”

The only people allowed to ask such questions should be your family (parents, wife, husband or children). What makes some people outside this mix feel like they are too important that you must have their numbers? You will find that you already have most numbers that are important to you, and if there is anyone else so important that you must have their number, when in need – go get it! Recently thought I exchanged numbers with a colleague but unfortunately didn’t get to saving his. After responding to his “Bible quoted” Happy New Year text message with a “Thanks, sorry I don’t seem to have this number,” he responded – “Now you don’t have my number yet I gave it to you just the other day!?” If you’re going to be mad at me about your text message, at least custom draft mine before that.

3. You have 10 Missed Calls 

Sometimes you are taking a dump, or in a noisy as hell matatu, or in a very important meeting, or church even but on the other end of the line, the caller just won’t stop calling. The other day, I got some serious bashing from my buddy Bien for calling him five times. “Rosey – you don’t call me five times on seeing that I am busy, you wait and I will call you back!” He barked at me. But when I told him that I couldn’t have waited a minute longer to tell him that our former house help had given birth to a baby boy named after him, Bien Aime Alusa Gift – he forgave me. If it’s not about death, new life or something that’s life changing or threatening; try dropping a text when a call goes unanswered.  It’s as simple as “Hi. I am so and so and would like to talk to you regarding such and such. Kindly return my call or let me know when is best to call.”

4. “Just saw you, you look nice.”

It’s not romantic but creepy to send girls text messages wherever you see them at the bus stop, at the club or wherever. It’s actually courteous to walk up to them and say hello. That’s the essence of bumping into each other. I am just about done with the “I can see you” texts. I can also see a lot of people but if you’re not going to add, “Was in a hurry or didn’t want to disturb your peace or whatever else” to that text; keep it to yourself.

5. “Are you asleep? Where are you?”

A booty call is a booty call. No man or woman calling/texting you any time after 1 a.m. wants to just check up on you. They probably want to check in as well. The sooner we all learn to ask for what we want, the faster we’ll get it or move on to someone who will give it to us. In 2014 this business for always asking people if they are awake at 2 a.m. should stop.

Parting Shot

Phone Etiquette 2So when does phone etiquette start and end? It must be from the moment you hold your phone. Have you seen some people talking through the phone while it’s upside down? Or shouting at it as if it’s on speaker while it isn’t? It’s so sad that in 2014, the year of Digitalization in Kenya, these kinds of scenarios still occur. It’s going to be an uphill task following through etiquette if you can’t even hold your phone right.

Upon calling or being asked to reveal your identity, introduce yourself and the reason for calling, that’s perfectly alright. Return texts and missed calls in due time.

It’s very rude to be on speaker phone in a public place like a bank, work place or a matatu. Nobody wants to hear your conversations; they have theirs too, via the handset.

You have an iPod to throw all your musical picks to be heard at your convenience. So for your every-day attitude, ringtone and ring back tone; pick one that you and the world at large can stomach. There’s a very thin line between making a person’s day and ruining it, so let not your tunes play part and parcel, undesirably. If all fails, leave on your phone’s generic tones or vibrate.

Be humble and remember that in the eyes of the world’s millions of people, we are mere ants, working themselves around their colonies, trying to make ends meet. We will never all know each other but the more we do, the better we make the world. So no matter how many times you have had to introduce yourself to someone on or off phone, just keep doing it. Other people might actually be meeting more people than you do on an average, and if you don’t leave a lasting first-time impression, congratulations! You have the chance to re-work the magic at your phone’s first ring.

BONUS: You might also like to read: What if Courtesy had a price?

For the first time; I attended two funerals in one—and amazingly, it was like a sober wedding. Just that most people were dressed in black and were crying, tears of sadness and goodbye. Adieu to the couple starting another life. Farewell to the couple of Wahito and Mbugua, so inseparable, that they died in each other’s arms at the devastating Westgate Terrorist Attack. The duo had been at Westgate to buy wedding bands for their upcoming wedding just before the shooters stormed into the mall.

Wahito AnyikoThe late Rosemary Wahito was never a bridezilla, I was. At least from a 2011 photo shoot we did together for our friend Tabby’s business catalog for her line of wedding gowns. I remember I had to rush back to my former office (BBC) for some work. I literally made Tabby and the photographer hurriedly finish with my part of the shoot. But they convinced me to share the moment indoors with Wahito, as she would be having a special solo out-door shoot as soon as I left.

Wahito was down-to-earth, gracious and a very classy lady. I met her through my cousin Lau and her best friends. It’s always been a tight-knit friendship between about five girls: Wahito, Lau, Mtoni, Sarafina, Tabby and Herenia. During family events of either girls, from graduations to weddings and photo shoots, my cousin would drag me to most of them. A lot of times, I was envious of how the girls would do lunches and dinners and all those fancy things. Because they were a little older than me, I must say they inspired me to be as classy.

Wahito was very fashionable and I never saw her not wearing high heels. “Her impeccable fashion sense and jaw dropping collection of shoes will be frozen in time forever in our minds,” – never read a more befitting eulogy. I remember meeting Wahito and Mbugua at a concert recently, where they were supporting one of Mbugua’s relatives – a female singer. The two were all up on each other and clearly in love. That’s the only time I met Mbugua, Wahito introduced him as her man. I got the vibe that he was a good man and protective, the good-kind. But I could never imagine that he would soon be taking eight bullets while shielding his wife-to-be.

Wahito MbuguaAt their joint-funeral dubbed, “A celebration of Love”, it was so uplifting to hear both families of the deceased console and applaud each other, almost like it really was a funeral-cum-the-wedding-that-never-was. Mbugua’s Dad said, “After meeting her, Mbugua called me and asked, ‘Dad what do you think?’ – And like he’d taught me, I said, ‘Good Stuff!’ I had already started thinking about the future lineage of their family. Wahito’s family, so sorry for losing your beautiful daughter. I thank her for bringing my son such happiness.” And the sisters of Mbugua said, “Thank you Wahito for taking care of our brother, you were always like a sister to us.” Among other tributes, Wahito’s nephews and nieces were twice as sad. That their auntie has passed on and they won’t be matching as flower boys and girls at her wedding. That’s when I remembered that beautiful day, when we had an entire afternoon doing the wedding gowns photo shoot. She was such a natural, and beautiful, and all her gowns fitted perfectly.

But who are we kidding? What happens to wedding vows when you actually die and get laid to rest together? Death can’t and won’t separate you Wahito and Mbugua. Exactly a week, after your untimely demise, you would be both engaging your families in dowry talks, and in another, getting married. But like Monopoly, now you’ve got a free pass – do not stop – go directly and pass the finish line.

BONUS: To Wahito’s girls, stay together in her honour. My condolences to families and friends of the lovely couple; you are now one because of the power of love. You might like this poem I wrote in memory of what happened at Westgate: Lessons of Love

%d bloggers like this: