You know it's going to be long journey when...

1. Your flight is at 5.30am and you only finally dose off at 2.00am.
2. The pal who's supposed to pick you up calls to tell you that she's asked another pal to pick you up "just in case".
3. You've just checked in your big bag when the stone faced security man, on seeing the large toilet bag in your hand luggage, points at the picture of a Ziploc with what looks like 3 lip balms in it. Damn those liguid bombers!
4. Mr. Stone face informs you that the airline has singled you out for further screening. At this point you wonder if your roommate's chemical engineer boyfi touched your bag the day he helped you move after work.
5. As you wait at the departure gate an acquaintance who's also on tua sits next to you with a big grin on his face. He proceeds to grill you on the activities of all the miros (Africans) in Southern California.
6. You get snappy and then realize that the elderly woman sitting next to him is his mother visiting from Zamunda.
7. She tells you she went to school with your mum. You believe her. Your mum went to school with everybody's mother.
8. You have settled in your seat and become comfy when the madam sitting next to you shows up. She smells like she has incense burning in her pocket.
9. You realize that the couple behind you are well on their way to creating a monster. The unabated kicking and screaming of their descendant is enough proof.
10. You remember that you forgot your motion sickness pills just as the turbulence hits. Miss smelly lady next to you offers you the tissue she just took out of her pocket.
11. You finally drift off to sleep, waking only in time to realize you missed the snack trolley. Miss smelly lady offers you her homemade sandwich.
12. After landing, you switch your cell phone back on and stare blankly as it dies.
13. You have no quarters.
14. Your bag is not at the baggage claim.
15. After 20 minutes you realize you are operating under "just in case". Your pal is MIA and you have no idea what your pal's pal looks like or what car they drive.
16. You can't find that miro chap and his mother.
17. Tears start welling in your eyes.

Blog title change

Today I renamed my blog.I have been thinking of doing so for a while now. Well, I just did. Moving swiftly along........

What does Atiriri mean?

Ok, so my bestest friend in this America is a Bongo sister. She thinks she's the queen's daughter and I love her so I humour her. Don't ask which queen, it's all in her head. Recently my bongo sister hooked up with a Bongo brother. Good for both of them. They make a good pair. This fellow is a little scared of me. I have no idea why. Well, maybe I looked at him with suspicion when he walked into our pretty picture, but what did he expect? Girls have to look out for one another. There are some loose fellows out there. One has to be sure of whom they welcome into their space.

So anyway, after a few encounters I gave him the stamp of approval and now I would drive her across the state to see him. Ok, maybe halfway. The point is, I support the union. He's still petrified. Maybe he should man up.
So even though I'm ndani, he is trying to win my good graces. One of the things he does is say, gleefully and quite loudly, "Aterere!" everytime he sees me. Bongo princess thinks its funny. I'm indifferent. Maybe that's why he thinks I don't like him. So the other day when we were in the same space I broke the news to him. I told him! I told him how "Atiriri" (true spelling btw, with accents on every 'i') is not a greeting, nor is it a term of affection or endearment. He was crushed. Ati, "when I was in Kenya I used to hear a lot of people saying that. Kwani what does it mean?" Blackout. I just stood there looking at him with a blank look on my face. So finally I told him it means 'ehhhhh'. He was not convinced.

I am a Kiyuyu speaking Kikuyu and I cannot find a sound translation for 'Atiriri'. If you know please help me out. Is it not a spacer in a sentence? Like that "ehhhhh" I was telling him about? Or maybe the pause we use in English? Ama something close to the "nini" we use in swa when we are buying time to construct the sentence or remember what we want to say? When I use it in a sentence it seems to be like a "tell me of this.... The 'this' being the 'aterere'.

These are some of the words I'm talking about when I tell mzungus that some words and phrases cannot be translated.

What does Atiriri mean?

P.S
So I'm off to the ATL to see what this is Kenyans do there over Thanksgiving weekend. I shall be quiet for a while. My tua ends on Tuesday. Someone at work suggested I come back Saturday night so as to be ready and fresh for work on Monday. Kicheko!

I wonder......

I have brothers. Big ones. Literally. So growing up was, for lack of a better word, challenging. By the time my sisters and I were dating we understood that it was not going to be a smooth ride. We could like boys, but the moment our brothers sniffed them out, balaa! Initially it annoyed us, but with time we realized that they meant no harm. They just wanted to protect us. So we developed a system.

Step 1: Acknowledge your crush on so and so
Step 2: Invite so and so over to the house
Step 3: Leave so and so with brothers for a bit
Step 4: Return to discover the fate of so and so.

I cannot count how many times we came back and found that the young man in question had fled the scene. Over time this routine became something of a sport. A pass time for my dear brothers and eventually their friends. I remember mentioning to my brother that I was coming back with a so and so to watch a movie and finding all his boys gathered around patiently. Ati, "we were waiting for you and your friend so we can start the movie". Enough said. I excused myself and left. After what I thought was enough time for the slaughter to be over, I returned. So and so was nestled in the midst of the boys cracking up like a hyaena with the rest of them. There was no room for my behind so I retreated into the kitchen barely catching the "si you make chips" from my brother.

My favourite incident with a so and so still cracks us all up to date. The young man was out to impress and ready to do whatever was necessary. He was a go getter (love that term). Anyway, he insisted that instead of me leaving the house to go and meet him, he would find his way to my house.

So I gave so and so directions to our house. The directions went something like this: "Take a number 33, 36 or 41 bus. Do not enter a matatu. Our route is not for taking matatus. Enter a KBS. I mean it. Otherwise you're by yourself. Those things can give you tetanus. And they go where they want. Enter a KBS. Ok, go all the way to the estate. When you get to the market, start counting the estate entrances on the right. Ours in the 5th one. There is a stage at the kiosks. Shuka there. Walk in through the gate, turn left. At the dead end, go right, ours is the last house on the right on that lane. House number XXX." I thought I had done a good job, for a zone with no street signs. In any case, once inside the estate he could look for the house number.

Our date was for 1 pm. I knew the earliest my brothers would be home was 4pm and since I liked this guy I wanted to spare him the agony until after we had at least hang out. Let him enjoy peace and tranquility kidogo before being confronted with the obstacles. I borrowed a movie, cooked lunch and sat down to pass time watching Channel O. By 2.30 I had retreated to my bedroom to fold the clothes mother had been hustling me about. I assumed I had been stood up and proceeded to be busy. At 3.00 my eldest brother walked into my bedroom shaking his head and bearing a sad look on his face. I will forever remember the words he spoke. "Weh, Nyeuthi, there's a chap at the door in a black velvet mbwenya. He says he's your friend. Begin by rehydrating that chap with a glass of cold water. Please." (btw, mbwenya = jacket)

When I found so and so, he was inside the house, standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the wall for support. His face was shining like the sun and when he finally removed his mbwenya the sweat soaked dress shirt underneath was revealed. Brother dearest was right, the first thing this my friend needed was a glass of water. He didn’t say much for the first 15 minutes. I decided to give him time. After a while, brother joined us. I knew it was not because he wanted to chat, or even to give the young man a hard time. After a long silence he asked so and so, "A chap, what are you doing? Do you know how hot it is outside? Well, clearly you do? Then why would you wear a black velvet mbwenya? And how far have you walked?"

Ok, this storo brings a lot of laughter to the family now, but that day it was not funny. That fellow could not have picked a hotter, dustier day to walk like he did. Apparently my emphasis on "NO MATATU" was not clearly understood. So as I predicted, his bearings got all messed up when he was deposited in the general locality of his destination, but on the wrong side of the market. Disaster. The great trek thus began. According to him, he didn’t remember which entrance to take, so he decided to enter every single one, walk around looking for house # XXX and/or ask around for kina Nyeuthi's place. Two hours later and kadha estates under his belt, he found our watchie who mercifuly pointed at our gate. My brother was just walking in when he got there. You know the rest.

Nothing really came of that crush. My brother told me later that he had mad respect for 'that chap'. Apparently he went above and beyond the call of duty. He says if it had been him in the same shoes he would have gone back home, or found a call box. I also think that would have been the prudent thing to do. Call me and ask for help. Even if he had done everything the same, he really should have removed the mbwenya. I wonder why he didn’t do that one thing.

Why is this strange?

This past weekend somebody asked me why I am still single. We were chilling at the most recent Genge party, bobbing our heads to Jua Kali's "Kiasiiiiii" and having a jolly good time. This young man whom I have known for a while now was asking many personal questions and wanting to know intimate details about me. Now, I have no issues talking to this my friend about myself, but I wanted to know where the conversation was going. I figured, if I knew the destination, then I could decide whether or not I wanted to take the journey. He finally told me that he was curious to know why a nice mama with her head screwed on tight had remained single for so long.

This is a tough question to answer. For many reasons. Some of my answers would definately result in me being accused of being a male basher, which contrary to what a lot of people think, I am not. Most of the reasons, however, are simple and straight forward. Reasons like the fact that I am yet to find that person who makes it all come together, so to speak. Or my preference for men who call Zamunda home. That one presents a real challenge. The options, outside of Zamunda, are limited and and quite frankly, the ones I know of are damaged goods. That's another storo altogether.

My soundest reason, however, has to do with a question I constantly ask myself when presented with a potential mate. "Would I leave this chap alone with my father?" All of my options right now fall under the NO category, with regards to this question, not that other issue I was on about earlier. As a result I have decided I will not bother. There is no need to waste anybody's time. Least of all my own. My dear friend was particularly interested in this reason. First he wanted to know if I would leave him alone with my father. Response, "No switi, not with that hair and especially not with your pants falling off your ass". He thought that was funny. Good, but I was being serious. So then he wanted to know why my father would come up in my choice of potencial mates. Ati, "kwani you're looking for a husband?" At this point the DJ shocked us with Bad Boy by Amani and I run off to join my pals on the dance floor. That discussion died. Until we meet again.

Here is my question. Is it strange that I think the way I do? I cannot begin to tell you just how much I value the opinion of my people when it comes to choice of mates. I have seen my mother call out a girlfriend that my dear brother thought was 'the one' with such precision. I suspect he shall forever be indebted to dear mama for that one. Ms Thing turned out to be quite the specimen. A cousin of mine ignored the pleas of the men in the family to put off marrying her chap for a little longer. They claimed something was up with him, they just couldn't put their finger on it. She showed up on her father's doorstep not long after the wedding looking like she had been used for target practice.

This is why I ask myself that question. See, if the answer is no, it means I can already think of reasons why I should not be with the young man in question. So then again I ask, why bother? If the answer is yes, then I know that according to my own vetting process, this young man is a good one. He can now meet my father who will tell me if he agrees. Surely this is reasonable.

I made it.

This morning on my way to work I almost died. Well, not really but that's how it felt. It was a super foggy morning and I could barely see past my nose, but the music of TID and Mad Ice was keeping me tickled and enthused. Then it happened. The loaf that I was happily munching on was unable to navigate my oesophagus and stopped for a breather.

It's my fault really. Dry loaf, regardless of how healthy it is, can be treacherous. It should be accompanied by a beverage, prefarably a hot one, or lubricated with some sort of spread. Surely after my stint in boarding school I know that. Anyway, I swallowed a few times, and switched TID off for a while. At a time like that heartfelt crooning about "Mpenzi wangu" is of little help. When I recovered I switched the music back on. He hadn't missed a beat, but Mpenzi was still ringaing. I got to work just fine and right on time.

Note to self: In the future, Siagi na Jam.

Another peeve

I wish someone out there would invent a 'Forward Quota Enforcer'. I will explain the concept behind this great idea. See I have a Forward Quota. Definition: The limit put on the amount of forwards that can be deposited in my inbox by any one person. Ever!

So far, so good. The problem I now face is ensuring that this quota is observed.

I have given everybody on my contact list a maximum of 5. That's it! That is as many forwards as I can bear. How long it takes to use them up is completely in their hands. For some it takes 1 month, others 4 years. I'm not a total rasa. I'm flexible with time frame. A good friend of mine, whom I love dearly and would give up organs for if she needed them, reached and exceed her quota in one sitting! I opened my mail and there they were. 7 forwards sent in quick succession. 11.04am, 11.07am, 11.13am....... I felt the stamina for life drain right out of my body. Only a cappuccino and an avocado could bring it back. Yeah, yeah asubuhi asubuhi. That's how I sustain myself. I still cherish and appreciate her, but she needs to change her ways. Soon. Tafadhali switi.

There are people out there who have never come across a forward that they felt I needed to receive. I have thought of sending them a message of appreciation, but then I realized it might become a forward so I let it go.

I cannot figure out what the novelty is with forwards. Most of them are cheesy, unoriginal and long. They are usually buried under masses of email addresses and the names of other innocent souls that have gone before me, subjected to the same affliction. I often stop scrolling down in search of the object of my misery and pause to look at their names (ok, to rest my fingers for a bit). I wonder if Mike Omondi or Josphat Kiptoo dislike forwards as much as I do. Did they open this one? Did they forward it? What is their relationship with the forwarding culprit? Such things.

When this starts to get boring I continue to the bottom of the page. Yap, I skip the forward itself and go further down in search of the deal breaker (at least for me it is). You know, the "If you do not send this to 375 people in 6 minutes your knees will grow hair...." crap that has become the standard with forwards. Should the forward before me possess such a clause, I scroll a little further and click Delete. At that point it does not matter what the forward was about. The moment it threatens to destroy my life, should I not transmit it to everybody I know, it has to go. How can one justify cursing me with an unhappy, loveless, bad luck infested life (with hairy knees), simply because I choose not to send those cushy puppies and dainty butterflies along to my people? I can only imagine the replies I would get from my siblings. I have been harshly reprimanded for lesser evils.

Back to my Quota Enforcer. This would be a program that keeps a tally of the number of forwards I have received from every contact in my address book. The foward would appear in my inbox as 2 of 5 or 3 of 5. Every time it would send a message to the sender saying something like, "You have used 3 of the 5 forwards permitted by this recipient". Once the quota is exceeded a message proclaiming so would be sent to the culprit. Maybe "Cease and Desist with immediate effect, all further forwarding", or something to that effect. Here is the kicker, and the reason I know I am on the verge of a breakthrough. Should a person choose to continue to send forwards, not only would they be blocked, but the same forward will be sent back to the sender as many times as the people to whom it was originally sent. If they had forwarded it to 10 people, then "You are my friend forever" will appear in their inbox 10 times. Let’s see how much forwarding happens after that!

In the meantime, since I'm bila knowledge as to how to design such a program, I am sending out a plea. If you feel it is absolutely necessary that you forward a forward (and trust me it is not), here are a few things you should do.
- Delete the Fwd: from the subject line. It is the least you can do. Sending a Fwd:FWd:Fwd: is forward overkill.
- Delete the clusters of names and emails before the message. Those things just increase the size of the email and I know that's where those strangers who send forwards get email addresses from.
- Delete the strange symbols and signs before every sentence in the forward. They are annoying and make reading how "my love radiates like the rays of the sun on a cloudy day" more difficult.
- While you at it, delete the forward.

Yes. No. Maybe.

I enjoyed a cozy chat with my girls the other day, over mandazi and some good spiced coffee (Ethios and Somalis are onto to a good thing). One particular discussion I want to share. It was about first impressions and this was the conclusion.

There are three categories a man can fall under. Everytime we meet a man and exchange that initial "Hi, my name is ______", we place him in one of three boxes. YES, NO or MAYBE. This swift demarcation is mostly carried out subconsciously. I figure it is one of our basic animal instincts that has to do with the selection of the best possible mate. I could be wrong.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is this. Women know, from the word go, whether or not they could ever be intimately involved with the man standing before them. Everything that happens after that either guarantees your stay in that initial box or books you a ticket into another. As new information comes in, it is processed as either important or irrelevant and changes to placement are made.

Now, passage from box NO to box YES is possible. Rare, but possible none the less. Factors that facilitate this type of transfer include primarily those of an economic nature, but also realisation of gross misjudgement or sometimes amnesia. Should a chap suspect their placement in box NO, and would describe themselves as broke or cannot name one person who likes them, moving on is recommended. This is not fair, but then again what is?

A chap's best bet, should he miss placement in box YES is box MAYBE. This one allows some room to maneuver. Gather up the troops. Formulate a game plan. Psych up. One has the time and opportunity to repair (should they choose to do so) and make a come back. One will remain in this box until they say, or do that thing that bumbs them up or down.

Box YES is a good box to be in. A woman who places a chap in this box has opened the door to vast possibilities. He is, as we like to say, NDANI!

N.B
Do not for a moment believe that being in box YES guarantees that anything will ever happen. Oh no! External forces are hard at work that may ensure otherwise. The wisdom, reasoning, prudence and plain old common sense of a woman may impose an embargo on such events. The honours is upon you, the box-ee, to impress upon her, the box-er, the pros of engaging you in further dialogue.

N.B.B
Be warned. As stated above, things you say, or do, could see your quick relegation (sometimes permanently) from this prime spot to a lesser box. Such things as spitting habits, public crotch scratching or pocession of miscellaneous oddities like drugs and firearms will require quick action. Enter box NEVER.

Bad manners.

Few things vex me more than people pretending to know you. Just because we have exchanged pleasantries every time we have met for the past three years does not make anyone an authority on my life. "You are the kind of mama who....", "You must have grown up....". Crap like that drives me nuts. How would they know? Were they there? Just when you think they have pushed all your buttons and you have finally become numb to the nonesense, they break out the, "Your father must have....". What the *$#@!! When did it become okay to take liberties when talking about other people's parents in their presence? That is bad manners. Plain and simple. Say what you will about me, leave my folks out of it.

You know what else is bad manners, leaving your guests in the house to go get yourself a meal, then proceeding to consume it in their presence. That one kills me everytime.

Disappearing for an hour with a chap at "home time" when I have offered to take you along for the 150 mile away Genge party is bad manners. Not answering your phone is very bad manners. Leaving you the next time you pull that stunt is something I think I can live with. Would that be bad manners? I wonder...

Not bringing anything to your pal's bash when the invitation expressly says you should. Bad manners. Eating and drinking more than everybody else there, so wrong.
Bringing the half empty gallon of OJ from your fridge is foul. Better the bad manners.

My boss refusing to acknowledge my pressence. All I was trying to do is to informing him that the tele-conference he had been waiting for with Japan had been on hold for 20 minutes. Bad manners. Me calling him unlovely names in vernacular (in my head), bad manners too. I guess we're even.

Atlanta mwisho!

I bought a ticket to Atlanta for Thanksgiving. I've been here four years now and I'm just now getting around to it. Better late than never. I want to see what all the hullaballoo is about. I am excited about this trip, much more than I have been about others to more facsinating places like Las Vegas or Washington DC. This trip has little to do with the location and more to do with the people. See, I have a date with old friends. A big date. A few dozen primary school and high school buddies is a big date. We have been exchanging frantic emails and phonecalls about deals on tickets and hotels, car rentals and ETAs. It has been crazy. Did you know that sometimes it is cheaper to buy 2 one way tickets as opposed to one return? I saved $100 with that little trick. Good for me.

The arrangements are now finalized so now I can sit back and ponder a few things. Like how much all of us have changed. I bumped into a lad from those innocent days earlier this year and was amazed to see how good those big eyes we used to tease him about look on him now. The handsome bugger! Of course he was just as tickled by the "humps" under my clothes. Silly boy....(giggling). Ehh...Where was I? Changes. Yes.

I am hoping that some in particular have changed intelectually. Please dear God! I have heard of spiritual changes. Madam C.U chairlady will have a drink on me, for the record. Then I will proceed to remind her of that little incident when she proclaimed that my shoes bore the mark of the devil. I foresee denial. We'll laugh about it and move on. Unless she still believes that crap, then I shall have to engage her in a debate and attempt to demonstrate that with time, and energy, any writings can become the mark of the devil when you "change the letter to its number in the alphabet, add 4, minus 12, divide by 8, times 1" and so on and so forth. Try it. Make FUBU become 666. She did.

There are those who were good friends and made school a blast. I cannot wait to catch up with them, without the restrictions of school rules, curfew and uniforms. We have already agreed that the events of the weekend are to remain were they happen and mum's the word. Deep down we all know that is a rumour. Others who cannot make it have already placed their bids for the low-down.

I am most eager to encouter those who made life in high school more difficult than it needed to be. Some were just random bullies, others were over zealous prefects with huge chips on their shoulders. (Before anyone accuses me of hating on prefects, I was one, but I was not an ass). I remember one in particular who cried for days after she was appointed prefect of the dining hall. When the well finally run dry she proceeded to unleash a wrath of bibilical magnitude on everything within the school boundaries. I want to bump into her so badly. I have prayed for such an encounter for a few years now. This is what I want to ask her, "Are you still a prefect?". Is that a bad question?

Dem!

Today this thing let me down. I typed out a whole entry that took me a while to get right. I thought it was a good one. Then I hit the spell check button. How could I have know that that little action would destroy my work. After correcting my little errors I decided to read through one last time. Its just as well. I have no idea what kind of spell check that was, all I know is that at the end of it I was less about half my writings. What a waste. I am discouraged. I'll have to blog about something else now. Maybe its a sign to leave the guys alone. Ok. For now.........

I don't want you! Eishhhh!

I am a nice person. Given the choice between brutal honesty and a half truth that would spare another hurt and shame, I would pick the latter. I cannot stand malicious people and I believe kindness is key.

Having said that, I realise that it may be time for a change. People have a tendency to misuse the kindness of others, but more urgently, fending off unwanted fellows has become a Herculean task. Some amongst us are unable to distinguish between a polite "no thank you" and playing hard to get. This is what I would like to say to all those undesirable chaps out there. Those who insist and persist in an attempt to convince women who do not want them to change their minds. This is to you.

1. I dont want you. I feel no attraction. It's my right.
2. So we had a long chat at the bash last week. It was about ODM, Genge music and Obama. It's called small talk. How does that mean I want you?
3. The next time you join me on the dance floor, resist the urge to grab me or grind. Don't even touch me. Maintain the 2 foot radious. Music, lights and the hearty laughter of merrymakers not withstanding, I still don't want you.
4. I don't want you to buy me a drink. You'll think I owe you and come to collect. In any case, water is good for the skin. Cheers!
5. Stop trying to bond with my brother. He hates your gutts.
6. Dont call me after 10pm. Ungodly hours are reserved for lovers and close relatives. Call at noon.
7. Dont ask me why I dont want you. It is none of your business and trust me, you dont want me to tell you.
8. Your boy is also hitting on me. Hard. I know you know. You probably talk about it. Just like you, I don't want him. Talk about that.
9. I know you're also hitting on my pals. We talk about it. By the way none of them wants you.
10. I refuse to use another man as the reason I do not want to be with you. So no,
(a) I do not have a boyfriend,
(b) I'm not getting over an ex-boyfriend.
I just don't want you.