Ian should be writing this week, but like a relationship cycle, he is having a situational breakdown with every electronic gadget he owns. So I’ll fill in.
Last week, I was sort of internet famous; 436 Facebook shares of a post on Chapati is as close as I will ever get to being a real life celebrity with dangling gold coloured prison/slave chains on my neck and dark shades (cool kids of Nairobi have made me understand that carrying water in a tiny opaque tumbler and walking around with it everywhere in town is also as fashionable as having a David Beckham hairdo). It felt great being internet famous considering most people on the Internet don’t know who I am in real life; A boring kid with toe nails that look like a dusty-piece of used chewing gum. The short fame however doesn’t mean I’ve stopped waiting for someone to base a comic book on my life. The part where I offend animals I do not even own, will be the best read; there’s a dog in Highrise that I meet every morning, and I kill its hope of a better life every time by calling it fancy dog names like ‘Christie’ (It barks everytime I do that). I do that just to remind it its place in the capitalistic pecking order of dog naming. It belongs to ‘Rodgers’ and ‘Saddam’ category (I hate dogs. They have fur and they bark. Why do they bark? Why can’t they talk or do sign language or something less pleasant than a monotone improved version of a tuberculosis cough sound?) That’s that… I only wanted you to know I was internet famous for 2 or so days.
Now to this story… We all tolerate some level of nonsense. Do a feasibility study of the people around you, and it will baffle you the amount of bespoke-next level bullshit you tolerate in your life; Take a look and you’ll find that in your circles, there is a big breasted, tiny ass, feeble legged and fake accent gossiping girl who thinks the world revolves around her complexion… But you tolerate her. You will realize there is an non-proportionally bellied man, with the appetite of a whale and the shallowness of kitchen basin, who has nothing to offer you but sexcapades to Naivasha with his father’s money where he is the only beneficiary, whom you tolerate. There is an amount of colonial-inspired chicanery that self exists in each one of us, that lets us tolerate people just because. And it is not wrong, it’s just dumb, but we can’t help it. Look at it as more of a blessing, because without that sort of heavenly induced tolerance, Trump and Putin would have started World War III by now. However, there is an edge, a limit we all reach. There is that one thing we all know sets us off and lights a fire in us. The sort of fire that means you’re done, you are ready to stand up, do a dramatic walk to the door, bang it, come back in to pick your forgotten purse, and bang the door even louder… And you won’t be picking calls after that… There’s that limit. I think I reached it this past weekend.
One of the reasons I am sure I am not ready for marriage, is because I cannot stand the undeserved fury of a pregnant lady… By undeserved, I mean I get the fury of another man’s humping and jolly. I was invited to a party. Of course everyone knows I like the sound of my own voice in a room, and I like being alone. I repel human contact most times. But I was pulled by a male friend who needed male company in foreign territory (read: so many women in one place), to a name choosing party.
There is such a thing as a name choosing party (For an unborn baby by the way) while the only days you observe are Moi day and Terrific Tuesday. Pregnancy has the effect of pulling an entire society into one person’s hormonal imbalance and cravings (All Beyonce fans are now pregnant as well, waiting for ‘their twins. They have a right to share in Bey’s morning sickness and missing work). In a name choosing party, people write fancy baby names on a tiny piece of fancy coloured paper, fold it, dump it in some fancy glass bowl, engage in salubrious beverage (which I don’t, for the record), eat expensive fancy looking food which is usually served in very mean amounts and later make a fuss while the lady and her noisy best friend pick a name from the fancy bowl. All this knowing the girl will choose some fancy name like ‘Lelinde Soweto’ which none of you put in that glass. Basically, it was a real life expression of cinematic whiteness, because this was very western, white people stuff. We shall never understand humanity, and more particularly, women.
My male friend, whom we shall not name for purposes of celebrity security was right to invite me, because we happened to be only five guys among 17 women (He’s a real celebrity with an insane number of Instagram followers who go to his timeline to see nothing but a good hairline, fair skin and abs; so little to offer humanity). But he was busy all through; leaving me alone in my corner where I was taking some amazingly brewed ‘Hibiscus tea’ while my ancestors were rolling in their graves at the sight of the son of Kericho drinking an insulting mimicry of their crop. It was all fancy (I will use the word fancy a lot until it sinks… Ladies obeyed the yellow dress code so well. All men on the other hand had nothing that looked like colour on them, just blue, grey, black, grey and more black). It was also loud. There’s something with so many women and alcohol in the same environment that ends up being loud… Take women out of a club and it will be the deejay jumping to his own songs.
There was a girl, sober as I was, who from my counting had gone out and back in nine times. I was bored to death, I was on the verge of eating my own face for excitement, and that sort of idleness makes you count the number of times people walk in and out. 11th time, she came back in puffing, her face with more contours and walking faster. Ladies, if you are mad, you don’t need that quick dramatic hand-swinging walk to the nearest open seat next to you. But I love a fracas, and I sat there saturated with urine and joy, waiting for the party to come to life. Of course with my eyes looking straight at her.
People get angry in different ways. This lady here was the ‘I’ll screw your life if you try to touch or talk to me right now’ type. You see her and you see privilege, bias, nervously clutched purses in seven-second-long elevator rides and hysterical emails to human resources. I read the signs quite well and stayed as far away. My male friend, whom I must have said to you is a celebrity on Instagram, in his usual ‘I understand women needs and this one looks like she needs to be understood’ attitude, walks straight to this girl and sits next to her. There is a bit of poor vision and then there is a slap sound so loud you feel that obfuscating pulse getting to you. My celebrity friend stands up, walks to me, and says…
“**** (Very obscene word) this party. Jill, name your child Nambuye for all I care. Irvin twende…”
Trying to be diplomatic, I speak calmly like a Pope in waiting (Never seen a Pope speaking enthusiastically like Chipukeezy have you) and I say, “Calm down. Tulia… Kaa chini, wacha drama. Tulia.”
Now this dramatic ball of fury had already walked to us breathing close to my friend’s back and shouted, “Kwani hujaiskia wewe. Leave. Disappointment like all other men… Endeni, torokeni…” By this time, close to eight ladies had pulled up their phones, pointed cameras at us and were ready to record minutes of raw Youtube content.
My age supports misanthropy and pessimism. I believe the world sucks, and I have 25 years of empirical evidence to prove it. When I was younger, I wasted minutes every day showering and brushing my teeth and being courteous to undeserving people. But now at my age, I only care about when Jesus comes back. So something as dramatic as this doesn’t bother me much… My age allows. But here was a woman scorned by another man whom I have never seen or heard, and taking it out on us, two men whom the other man will never see nor hear. That is so capitalistic. I sat down (Of course I had seen the cameras), looked right at her, surprised at the upgrade that profanity has gone through these past few years (Woman was cursing some next level words at us), and waiting to stop being the center of attention. And then you know what she does? She grabs my friend’s shirt and starts sobbing on it. He holds her, girls say ‘Aaaawww’, guys like me doing the ‘what the **** just happened’ face, and walking out to take some air.
When you’re properly settled into a dead end job like mine, You can blow people off without ruining a chance for future financial fleecing. So whatever had happened was too ‘Mexican Soap Operaish’ for me and I wouldn’t look at my Instagram celebrity friend again in the same light. Of course she scorned at both of us, but he let her cry and wipe her tears on his white shirt, which he kept saying was so white while we were on our way to the party. But I am done with that line of friendship.
I later learnt via proper gossip lines (Whatsapp groups are so efficient) that the girl was pregnant. My celebrity friend apologized to the pregnant girl for the Nambuye thing (Where he got that word with his Ivy league school accent, I cannot tell) While I am part of the group that believe in the misinformation out there about pregnant women, such as the idea that they are sane and aren’t dangerous, this girl was a special case. Her gestational adventure has horrified me enough to decide that I am done being a friend to a man so popular on Instagram, who can convince me to attend a naming party. I’m not giving up my chances of future internet fame just to tolerate such a man… (It should be interesting that while the woman caused all the exciting drama, I am angry at a man. Pregnancy hormones flying around like a flu. Don’t worry, Ian will be here next week as my hormones find stability)