Man On Sarahah…
I am sorry I have not written in a while. This blog was not my idea of how adulthood would turn out for me. I thought I would be a tycoon by this age, switching between living in Karen and Kitisuru. It did not turn out as so… I simply dump my articles here for the amusement of my target demographic: people with low standards and too much time on their hands, so that I can feel good about myself. Please understand my failings when I lack the motivation to write. I spend my days daydreaming about my childhood dreams of adulthood. I had written a few things before for publication but they were so odd I never showed them to anyone for fear of being choked to death by the first person I would meet.
I have a friend called Beryl. A neighbor around where I live. For Beryl to finish the day in the outfit she started it in, it would take a minor miracle and maybe her falling sick. She has too many clothes. Her wardrobe is immaculately organized: Beryl sorts her clothes and into a series of piles based on color and possibly religion (It’s a thing, don’t argue with chromatography). Sometimes white clothes go in one side and colored clothes go in another, but there are exceptions for lighter colors and darker whites, which I’m pretty sure aren’t even a real thing.
Whenever I want to make sure I am still a man, I look at her wardrobe and nod in contentment, knowing my wardrobe sleeps every night dreaming it would wake up one morning looking like hers: I leave all of my clean clothes in a laundry basket or sometimes on a bed in a second bedroom I have (This is the worst financial decision I made, buying a bed I never sleep on) and pull them out as I need them. Sure, my shirts and shorts are wrinkly at times, but the warmth of the human body is not only useful during coitus. God had a higher purpose; body heat acts as a natural iron. Through the power of heat transfer, I can transform a hideously wrinkled shirt into one that was merely embarrassingly wrinkled simply by wearing it around all day. Try it sometime. There are no socks of mine folded in their rightful pairs by myself. I usually just struggle looking and whichever closely coloured pairs I find will work. I’m in trousers anyway…. While this paragraph seems useless and detached to the entire article below, kindly note that it is my first attempt at explaining the difference between men and women. I will explain later…
I was in Beryl’s house where she watches reruns of Nairobi Diaries. Once upon a time, being an adult was to work hard to get ahead. However what two episodes of this programme have showed me is that stupid people are Kenya’s most abundant resource. The best reality stars are too dumb to know if the audience is laughing with them or at them, and after the first few weeks of filming they’re too popular to care. Becoming an idiot isn’t as easy as it sounds; it’s actually much, much easier. Nobody makes it on reality TV through talent and perseverance, you just have to say ‘sicho’ to mean ‘psycho’ and voila. Contestants in this show settle minor disputes between themselves with prolonged shouting matches followed by wig throwing and hair pulling duels at dawn. But Beryl watches it religiously. She has Gigabytes of stored episodes on her hard-drive, and she’s still collecting… The only reason I stand Beryl is because she’s the closest neighbor I can speak Luo with, and that she also believes that instead of exercising, it’s better to take a nap and give up on life. She does not judge me growing older and lazier. I hate her dog. She owns a bull dog. I liked it when it was younger, it would chase around and jump on you. The chases were easier then because the dog both slower and lighter. Now, in addition to posing a serious threat to my lower back, the dog looks uglier than a regular SlayQueen on default setting. It has flabby cheeks with constantly dripping saliva or whatever fluid that is coming out of its mouth. The simplest description of its appearance is that looks like a scrotum with eyes.
In between her watching her episodes and me keeping eye contact with the dog to know where it is at all times, Beryl brought up a question.
“Irvin are you on Sarahah?”
For those who haven’t seen it yet, Sarahah is a creepy app that lets anyone ask you questions anonymously. While Sarahah is proof that we’re always morbidly curious about what other people think, it serves no purpose in human evolution, politics, science, nutrition or life. Unlike a High school reunion where you attend knowing your real purpose is revenge (Former nerds show up in Prados with high-end prostitutes, former prefects look like janitors while the rest of us drink cheap beer and complain about the government. Pure Karma), Sarahah is an app that lets people masquerading as your friends ask and tell you mean things freely.
It would have been simpler to tell her what was on my mind. Very simple. I believe that a man on Sarahah wraps a towel around his chest and sits cross-legged before going to the shower. I also strongly believe that such a man puts toilet paper on the toilet seat, even at home. I say this with full knowledge that I know what a flat iron is and how it works and that is already way too far into my feminine side if it exists. Men were not born to answer any questions, let alone from anonymous exes, crushes and paparazzi minded friends who want to know everything about how you fart and tell you they have crushes on you. Hardly. In the Bible, Genesis 3:9 where Adam had already tasted sin, God asked Adam, “Where are you?” The normal answer for this is “I am in Eden behind the Sycamore Tree, standing next to the short legged gazelle.” Adam set the example and precedence for all other men by responding to the ‘Where are you’ question by saying “I am naked”. I am not part of the generation that will downgrade Manhood 2.0 to Manhood 3.0 where Manhood 2.0 hunted buffaloes and chimpanzees for ornaments and drinking utensils and Manhood 3.0 answers “What color are your nipples” questions publicly on Sarahah. As a man, I insult you in your face, which is the purpose of this entire article. And if you cannot insult me to my face, I would rather not listen. The skill with which men avoid the “Utaoa Lini” and “Are you dating” question should already have been a benchmark, but oh well.
“No Beryl, I am not on Sarahah,” I said.
She turned at me… In agreement but said some pretty mean things about men on Sarahah…
“You know Irvin; I cannot date a man on Sarahah. How does a man even get into that girly thing? I am there myself and already feel like a thirteen year old girl who still thinks Barbie is real. They should grow up…” She said.
But God works in mysterious ways my people. He is a living God.
A few minutes later, Beryl’s fiancé whom we shall not mention for his high status in society and fear of missing out on free third-wheel based activities, walked in.
Beryl’s fiancé is your typical Luo. He is lanky and dark. Every time he picks a call, he announces who has called him. Always… looks at the phone first, then reads out the name aloud like “Jacob Ghost Muleeeeee” and lets out a laugh before receiving the call. By the time he is speaking, you know his contact list can fund your entire clan’s livelihood for years. But he has the distinct character of a man. He is forgetful as they come. Beryl for example wasn’t caught off guard when he proposed. She rummaged through his wallet which he leaves everywhere and she found the ring receipt. Exactly what she was looking for in the wallet has been lost to time and translation, but she should have known she wouldn’t find any money. We only leave business cards there. Part of my advice for their wedding is that making a marriage last takes patience, understanding, and a robust liver. There are breweries that pump less alcohol than a married man’s circulatory system. Especially with a forgetful spouse.
He shook my hand and kissed Beryl before they had 3-4 minutes of relationship-people-based inside/pillow jokes before he sank his back on the sofa. We were all waiting for a football match (He is a Chelsea fan, and I was watching for the general love of seeing 22 men chase a leather sewn sphere around thousands of cheering fans). There was an eerie moment of silence, where he had his face constantly on the screen. Beryl asked the most girlfriend like question of the 21st Century to break the silence…
“Kwani who are you texting and I am here…”
He laughed it off… “Aaah Babe, Wivu gani hii… There is just an app I have Installed called Sarahah that…” I did not listen to the rest of it. It was like that part in the movie where a soundtrack plays in slow-motion as the camera zooms in on the main character. Every other noise including important conversation is faded to some slow background noise to show that the main character has some serious revelation or is about to kill someone with a butter knife (Butter you to death)… The main character here was Beryl… Nothing is stronger than a woman’s love, except for her sense of guilt. Women have the innate ability to feel like failures no matter how much they do, as opposed to men, who generally think of themselves as greatest version of humanity even when they do next to nothing. I’m still patting myself on the back for using a fork and knife properly six months ago, and I didn’t even use the napkin on the table which I constantly thought was some beautiful table decor. You could see the guilt painted all over her face while the man who like all other men who disappoint women, had no idea he had disappointed her to the very last membrane.
She turned around looking at her phone with that look suggesting that she was not particularly attached to his manly charm anyway. I in turn paid her look back with a wry smile that looked like saying “ Don’t worry Beryl, you have around 50 years left before a timely demise releases you from your current conjugal obligations to your soon to be husband. Sarahah is nothing.”
Basically being a man on Sarahah is the womanliest thing a man can do… Of course from Beryl’s face. There is a stark difference between being a man and being a woman if you hadn’t noticed (Peep under), as I had explained in the first three paragraphs. It does not look good on you when other like minded men are tearing at each other with heavily loaded insults because of politicians who know nothing about them while you answer anonymous questions on what brand of tissue you use. You are the reason we are in Mesopotamia and not Canaan (This is on a very light note, I insist. If it isn’t light enough for you, please find sulphuric acid, take a comfortable position on your bed and sip deep). Leave that thing.
However as a disclaimer, I would like you to consider this as blatant propaganda, probably paid for by the women themselves. I would like to comfort you by telling you that we started this rant website when we finally realized our prospects for the future were bleak at best. Do not take us too seriously.
Lastly to Beryl, kill that dog. Do the damn hound a favor and mix its food with garlic and make it watch Nairobi Diaries. It will die naturally. Thank you Beryl.
Have a good week ahead.