17 Jul 2012

It's been a while

...is the title of the song I am listening to right now. It's a song by Staind, and its got nothing to do with this post. I am typing this as I try so hard to ignore this dude on Facebook who i am regretting why i added him.  He is telling me how much he has been looking for me, how he loved me (what?), and how he went to my former college to look for me and was told I left the country, and how that made him lonely to the borne (sic). So we worked together once, on one of those jobs I have stopped (actually never did) put on my CV. You know those inconsequential jobs that borders sales and hawking. Yep, I said it, I used to be a hawker. Something that made my mother want to lock me up in the house and explain to her what I lacked. I was 19 and rebellious. I packed my bag and left home. I was a grown up, I was tired of being told what to do, tired of wanting to do stuff and couldn't because my hometown is the kind that nothing happens. Don't get me wrong, Nakuru is a beautiful town, but its where people go to retire, not where ideas get bounced around and young people thrive. I mean, my parents built a 2 bedroom house, own compound and stuff for rent and they could only get KES 4,800 from it then! If only they could uproot that house and move it to...I don't know, Hurlingham. Then I would never feel the need to want to work. I lie, I still would. I wanted to do things with my life. My father wanted his girls to do nothing. Sit at home and wait for him and mom to provide. He used to say 'You have the house, a huge compound, TV, movies, books, what do you need to get out for?' He meant well. He had 4 girls. And if you had us 4 girls, you would want to leash us. We got our stubbornness from mother, and it was hard to reign us in. So one day, I ran away. To the big city. Like all rich girls do. We were not that rich, but we never lacked, and went to the best schools. You could say I was a bit spoiled. Not Paris Hilton spoilt - I had to do my laundry and share house chores with our housegirl, hard to work hard, but I did not know what 'not having' meant. And I thought people were stupid for saying there were no jobs. The newspapers classified section was full of them! By then, I had a few years of working experience. I had taught IT, worked at a  CyberCafe, Executive Assistant-ed some Artist...who in his right mind would refuse to give me a job? So I started job hunting.

Lesson no.1 - I had to pay to attend interviews. And I did. I know what you are thinking. I paid cash. I was 19, shut up. After a while, I discovered that there was a reason why many people were not clamoring for these pay for interview seemingly abundant jobs. There did not exist. I was running out of money. I made one final call. It was marketing company, they said. Earn and get trained. I went for the interview. I passed. Anyone could. As long as you could talk, you could work there. The job was simple. The company gave you a merchandise, you went out and sold it. You kept 10% of the sales. Sounds like a no-brainer, right? Except they gave you things like 'Thermo Coolers'. And they looked something like this
They are not small, trust me. They were 10 litres capacity. As if that was not enough, they came with their 'young ones'. 5 litres capacities that could fit inside the 10 litre one. Which was a good thing because we had to carry the damn things around!
Reason why I said hawkers. We would meet in the office, start off with inspirational / motivational talk. You know, those ones that show you an image and ask you if you see an old woman or a young beautiful woman with a hat...power of positive thinking....easier for him(our boss) to say, especially since he was always sitting in his cozy office as we too to the streets. I digress. We would then pick our products and head out. I was new to this thing. There were veterans. I had no idea where to start. So I got into a matatu to the city centre. Did not sell to anyone. Then I took another matatu to the neighbourhood I was living at. Walked around for forever, stopped for lunch, dropped by home to change from the high heels...Yes, I had gone to work in high heels. They never said I was going to spend the whole day walking!  Did not sell in my neighbourhood either. In the evening, I took another matatu back to the office. Few of us had not sold, others had sold and even gone back to get more. Three times! Second day I decided to follow one of the highest selling people. They did not like the idea, but if you know me, you know I can charm anyone into anything. I was determined. This girl could sell a fridge to an eskimo. I watched her in action and knew my future was not in sales...or hawking, whatever you wanna call it. She sold her thermocooler, and left me to go get more. We had a name for going back for more merchandise, i forget what it was. I sold the big one, was not able to sell the little one. We had been warned again selling the small one first. The price of the big one was 1000, the small one 500. But we were to sell both for 1,500 and give a 'discount' by 'throwing in' the small one. But sometime, if you met a really interested buyer, who only had 1,000, then you sold the big one only. I broke the rules once. I was easier to sell the small one, after all, people could afford 500. After 1 week, i was getting tired. I was running out of money--I was not selling, but was still spending on transport. You see, what I did not learn was that no one took matatus to their hawking areas. They walked. I soon learnt why when i completely ran out of money. I would leave the house- spend 50shs on transport to work. Get to work, pick my stuff. Pick an area in Nairobi get into a matatu- 20 shs. Assume I sold both thermocoolers, that would be 150 shillings for me. To go back to pick more product, pay about 20shs in busfare. Would take forever to walk to the office, pick more product and chances are I wouldn't sell as it would be too late in the day. Go back to the office to return unsold product, pay busfare - 20 shs. Drop off product, go home - busfare - 50shs. Morning go to work  50 shs. If you are doing the math, you can probably see this is not a very clever business- for me. So I stopped using matatus during the day and walked everywhere. Boy, did I grow thin! I was not eating either-- I was never hungry anyway. My appetite seemed to know there was not money anywhere, so decided to keep away. I would only pay the 100 shs to and fro work. Challenge then was that I had to sell atleast one one thermocooler a day to get 150, then spend 100 of that on transport, save the 50. Sounds easy, huh? Would be, if anyone was buying the stupid thermofuckers.

The sales pitch went something like ' Hello, My name is so-and-so from XYZ Marketing. Today I want to talk to you about blah blah, just arrived from China...If you put hot water it stays hot, if you put cold water it stays cold.' Over the weeks, I mastered the sales pitch, and even added fake stuff like, if you put cooked food, it worked like a freezer, would not go bad. Oh yeah, some bought that line! We had to dress as if we were going to an office. Boss always said that if we looked good and presentable, people would want to talk to us. Except we would be lagging giant plastics around in business suits....

***I found this in my drafts. I cannot be bothered to finish it. Maybe one day I will finish this story for you. Maybe.

9 Jul 2012

The Special Two

I rarely post songs here. But this one is speaking to me right now.

Lyrics below the video





I've hardly been outside my room in days,
'cause I don't feel that I deserve the sunshine's rays.
The darkness helped until the whiskey wore away,
And it was then I realized the conscience never fades.
When you're young you have this image of your life:
That you'll be scrupulous and one day even make a wife.
And you make boundaries you'd never dream to cross,
And if you happen to you wake completely lost.
But I will fight for you, be sure that
I will fight until we're the special two once again.

And we will only need each other, we'll breathe together,
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
When we're the special two.
And we could only see each other, we'll bleed together,
These arms will not be taught to need another,
'Cause we were the special two.

I remember someone old once said to me:
"That lies will lock you up with truth the only key."
But I was comfortable and warm inside my shell,
And couldn't see this place would soon become my hell.
So is it better to tell and hurt or lie to save their face?
Well I guess the answer is don't do it in the first place.
I know I'm not deserving of your trust from you right now,
But if by chance you change your mind you know I will not let you down
'cause we were the special two, and we'll be again.

And we will only need each other, we'll breathe together,
Our hands will not be taught to hold another's,
When we're the special two.
And we can only see each other we'll bleed together,
These arms will not be taught to need another...
'cause we're the special two.

I step outside my mind's eye's for a minute.
And I look over me like a doctor looking for disease,
Or something that could ease the pain.
But nothing cures the hurt you, you bring on by yourself,
Just remembering, just remembering how we were...

When we would only need each other, we'd breathe together,
Our hands would not be taught to hold another's,
We were the special two.
And we could only see each other, we'd bleed together,
These arms would not be taught to need another,
'Cause we're the special two.

With My Broomstick

I work better at night. Not with a broomstick. My brain. It comes alive. Inspiration seeps from the cracks in the walls and fill me up. The sounds of rats scurrying in my pantry, roaches biting at morsels on the kitchen floor... wait, that's for my other personality.

One minute to 4 am and I am not alive with creativity. I am just awake. I have been reading. Something I am afraid I might forget how to soon. See, they invented audiobooks for me. Times like this, I would get into my car and drive. With an audiobook playing. Or Andrea Bocelli'a Con Te Partiro. (A song I know all the lyrics to yet I speak no Italian). Yeah, I am crazy like that. Tearing down Lang'ata Road at 3 am is pure bliss. Not on a weekend though. Unless I am Florence Nightingwhatshername. And my car was an ambulance. Though I must admit there were a couple of Friday nights I have just driven at 2 am to see the many stupid ways people get into accidents. I do not stop to help. When your car ends up hanging off a bridge at 2 am when you're all by yourself, you were asking, nay, demanding for it. Other times I stop to help. Like this time.

Driving calms me. And cooking. Since I am not going to start banging pots and pans at bewitching hours, Nelly and I it is. Nelly is on a break though. Not consensual. Someone decided her behind looked better with a dent. So we are getting that fixed. What that translates for me is (a) Walk - Live 20 mins walk to work, (b) cabs, c) go nowhere. So far (a) and (b) are working fine. (d) is taking matatus. I hate them as a motorist. I detest them as a passenger. Last week, took them all of 2 times.

So I can't get out and drive. And I can't cook. And I am not feeling particularly creative. And I don't want to waste my GBs on Slutload. or Porntube. Yes, I know the sites. I go to look for stories, bite me. So I read. I decided I wanted to know more about something I know only fleeting information on. And my brain zeroed in on Stephen Hawking. Yeah, yeah, I know. At 4 am, reading on a theoretical physicist who communicates using some speech device. So now I know how not so smart he was in written examination, the bet he had with Thorne and Preskill, and what his favorite food is. Okay, last one was a bad joke.

This post was a waste of your time.

**This post was done about 2 months back. Found it sitting in my drafts...**

2 Jul 2012

Back from Bedlam

It's July. This month for me has always represented depression. Not in an 'need psychiatric' help kind of depression, but the 'nothing seems to make me happy' and 'I am too cold' kind. This started when I joined high school. Limuru is cold. I always suspected that if it wasn't so close to the equator, it probably would be snowing. It is where my crazy obsession with scarfs begun. Crazy I call it because I will scarf everything I wear.

As right as rain, this month has started with depression. Sadness. Emptiness. That word. That last word. It's such a beautiful world for such an ugly feeling. Empty. The caress of the E, the sweet moan of the M, the pure silence of the the P, the majestic T, the defiant Y. I have been that for a while. Then came the hint of a fill. A delicious feeling of being. That will probably end today. That started the fateful decline yesterday night. Oh how I was getting full. How deliriously happy I was about to be! Then July.

It has been 7 months since my last post. And it hasn't been due to lack of content. If anything, what's happened in those 7 months could probably be a new blog. It has been chaos. Work, family, health, life, love life, social life. Everything. There has been so much going on, so much that have brought me to that point of defeat. There has been good news. I have been acknowledged for the work I do. I have been celebrated by the people I work with. I have opened this blog so many times, stared at it, willing my fingers to click ' New Post' and I have lost that battle. A seven month long battle is not an easy fete. And when you have been beaten for that long, the scars do begin to be part of you. And you loose that identity you so embraced.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend invited me to join them on a trip that required bloggers. I had been recommended, he said. I laughed. You see, I believe you give yourself a title that you are true to what it entails. That was no my identity anymore. Given my non activity, I felt like piece of trash compared to the real bloggers out there.

I was driving to a meeting last week. I was driving to a meeting. I saw this truck ahead. Very slow it was. And I wanted to overtake it. Because I am such an impatient human being. There was another car approaching on the 2-way road. My impatience insisted that I could overtake and get back on my lane before the other car got close. So I stepped on the gas. Just when I reached the truck, the oncoming car decided it was time to accelerate too. Common sense and that instinct to survive made me slow down. So I did. The car drove by. Then another one. And another one. And another one. I was now stuck behind this truck. I drive with my windows rolled down, music loud. It hit me like a bitch-slap.

This stench. Strong, heavy, like a blanket dipped in shit had just been thrown over my face. I looked keenly. I was behind trash truck! And I was not going anywhere soon. I was stuck behind it. For a good 10 minutes. I started thinking. This is my life. I end up getting stuck behind trash trucks a lot. Why? Because I am impatient. Because I cannot just hang back and let it drive away. My first instinct is to overtake it. Well, sometimes, trash trucks just can't be overtaken. I am learning to hang back. To wait.

A friend is killing himself in Zambia. Looking for money, he says. He describes deplorable work condition. A few days ago he sent me a text that said he thought he was loosing it. But that's not the story I want to tell. The story is about a post he did on his facebook.

He was talking about shitting. How he had picked a spot to shit everyday. And since he is a very private person, he wanted to keep his shitting place secret. So he checked his excrement every time. He learnt his shit. He knew its colour. It's texture. Then one day, he comes to relieve himself. And there is unfamiliar shit next to his. And he is angry. Why? because he knows his shit. And that got me thinking. How many of us know our shit? How many times do we have to deal with shit that is not our, simply because someone else dumped it next to ours and we couldn't tell the difference?

To know my shit. To hang back until the trash truck disappears. That is what brought me back from Bedlam.




30 Jan 2012

Dream of Paradise

Its 2.30 am. Once again I am awake. Once again, I hate it. I made new year resolutions about this. Sat myself down one evening and told myself how much we were going to start spending more time with sleep. We shook on it. Me and I.

Insanity is…Except, this is not a choice. I am not doing this over and over again expecting different results. Wait. I am. I come to bed daily expecting to fall asleep. Given that this is a function that my body has to perform, I can hardly be expected to expect anything else, now can I? But those are not different results. They are the same results. So it might not be insanity after all.

Chances are that this post will not make sense. But then again, you do  not come here for the immense intellect I disperse.

I watch the sun rise, take the journey with it through the day and bid it farewell. It winks at me, just before it completely abandons East Africa for the US. I always think. There goes the sun. It got its visa. It doesn't have to go through cavity searches at airports. No one asked it if it intends to come back. Or how many dependents it has. It just ups, across, downs and goes. What if it never comes back? What if it finds a better life there? I look forward to its return. Well, not that anxiously. I like it when its around but hate that it comes to remind me that I have not slept a wink since it left and it expects me to just get up and be jolly along with it.

It was a very hot day today. Today I saw my very pregnant friend.  Her belly looked alien. And she kept scratching it. I asked,  Are you itchy or is it the baby. She said go away.  I kept staring. At her her distended belly. It was beautiful and ugly at the same time. Beautiful in the way it filled her out, making her look so ripe. Ugly in the way it just sat there. Like a huge boulder in the middle of the road when you are in a hurry. An obstruction. I did not tell her this. She would not understand. She would have thought the sun was getting to me.

I interacted with a street boy afterwards. Street young man actually. He was at the park watching my movie. I asked him what scene stood out to him. He told me the one where the little boy dies. I asked him why.  He said because he had no one to look out for him. But he knows that he is now happy, now free. The little boy he is talking about was a street boy who gets killed in the post election violence. I wondered if that boys death stood out for him because of the age of the boy, or because he identified with him. I joke around with him more. Asks him to say something for the camera. He asks if its going to be on TV. I say no. It's not entirely true. Neither is it a complete lie. I am not going to put him on national Tv. But he might end up on our online channels. I ask him what he is holding. He tells me its his ID.  To me, and to the rest of the world, it's a bottle half full of cobblers glue. I ask him to let me try it. He gives me a look. One that a parent would give his son if he ask to try a spliff. I understand not all parents would find that shocking. I am talking about a parent like the one in whose house I grew up in. The one I have never seen alcohol pass through his lips, or even a whiff of cigarette smoke. I insist. I try to take it. He kind of relinquishes his hold on it. My workmates, all of them who work for me scream my name. I don't know what they think. Actually, I know. I was going to try it. Was I? I don't know. I don't think so. I wanted to see if the young man would part with his ID. I know I wouldn't part with mine to a complete stranger with cameras and natural hair that has not seen a comb in months. Come to think of it. His hair looks like mine. Yet mine is artistic, a statement about my personality, my daring to be different and stand out. His? His is a street-boy who doesn't bother with grooming.  Reminds me of the stupid movie by whatshisface. The one where there is a line of clothing called Derelict. And the inspiration is are the homeless and street-dwellers. they are tattered, worn, dirt, smelly. Filthy is a word that comes close too. Yet when put on the runway, they are the shit, pun very intended.  I say goodbye to him.

I have a bed, a very big warm comfortable bed. Yet that has not guaranteed me sleep. I am sure that park we were at was his bedroom. I bet he is fast asleep. I bet he is dreaming of paradise. Cue in Paradise by Coldplay. I have wanted to sneak in that song somewhere in a blog post  since I heard it.

In the night, a stormy night
She close her eyes
In the night, a stormy night
Away she flies
And dream of para…paradise

It is not a stormy night. My eyes are not closed. I have flown nowhere. I love that song

5 Dec 2011

Back to People

I am fascinated by people's behaviors, what drives them to act a certain way, why they make one decision as opposed to the other...you get the drift. I like watching people, I like talking to them. I also have an annoying habit. The 'why' stage never really ended with me. It just got magnified to 'what does that mean?' I love meanings. That tells you I kill the heck out of a beautiful moment by wanting him to define the poem he is reading me, or explain what the bracelet he just got me meant. Puzzles annoy me, especially when they take too long to solve. I want to know everything. And I mean, everything.

Back to people.

I stumbled across Outliers. I have become so lazy in reading I want it read to me. Enter Audiobooks, Outliers being the first one on the list. One of the few books I can say has shifted the way I think, the way I look at life. He explores various situations that we take for granted, that we think are by chance, fate...Like how Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, etc came to be the masters of what they do. They have been called geniuses even. All we know is the Bill Gates quit Harvard to set up Microsoft. The backstory, what everyone forgets, is he started interacting with computers at 13, was programming for organizations at 15. Malcom Gladwell speculates that it takes about 10,000 hours of practice in any field to be really good at it. By the time he was quitting Havard, Gates had more than 10,000 hours in computer programming.

Gates grew up in Seattle to well-to-do parents and was enrolled in an elite, private high school, Lakeside. Lakeside just happened to have a Mother’s Club that raised $3000 dollars to start a computer club in 1968, which didn’t even exist at major universities at that time. Most computer programming used an unfathomably laborious technique known as a computer-card system. Gates’ high school relied instead on an advanced time-sharing system that greatly facilitated his ability to program efficiently and effortlessly. When the money ran out for his computer club, a mother of one of the Lakeside boys just happened to need a programmer at a computer company called C-Cubed, which turned into another opportunity to work at ISI then TRW. He happened to be within walking distance of the University of Washington, which allowed him to work on computers between 3 and 6 am. Now none of all that would be that remarkable today. But that was 1968 when computers really did not exist and computer programming opportunities were nil. Gladwell argues that the software billionaires of today all came of age at a very narrow window in time with a narrow timeframe of 1953-55 birthdates: Bill Gates 1955, Paul Allen 1953, Steve Ballmer 1956, Steve Jobs 1955, Eric Schmidt 1955, Bill Joy 1954 (btw a great story of Bill Joy, the founder of the Internet and UNIX code in the book), etc. For people in computer world, sometime in the mid 70's was the best time to be a young man / woman. The first person computer was invented around then. If you were over 30, you were too old. You probably had a fmaily and worked for IBM and thought those huge mainframes would last forever. If you were under 20,  You did not have disposable income to spend on an experimental piece of technology. You were still in high school. Perfect age to be? Between 21-25. Precisely what Gates, Jobs and Joy were at that time.

Back to people.

In one Chapter, Malcolm talk about effects of what he calls “The Culture of Honor.” He discusses why the famous American feuds like Howard-Turner (read more here) and Hatfield-McCoy (read more here) standoffs were steeped in a culture that traced back several centuries on a different soil. Gladwell argues that these intense clan battles that centered around familial honor originated in the idea of the herdsman living on the hinterland. The farmer, by contrast, who must work in a team to cultivate arable land, would not risk alienating those around him. The herdsman, on the other hand, living on the rocky highlands must defend his sheep and cattle from the encroachment of strangers and thereby defines a certain code of honor that makes his battles per force openly querulous and staunchly virile. Gladwell discovered that these individuals acted in such a fashion from a legacy that predated their arrival in the heartland of America. Coming from the lawless borderlands of the United Kingdom, these “Scotch-Irish” engaged in feuds and fights because they were classic herdsmen as found in the Basque region of Spain, Sicily, and parts of Greece. Their behavior had been imprinted through generations of predecessors before them. He does not mention this, but in my mind, I thought. Doesn't that explain Maasai, the Pokots and Sabaots... Somalis?

Maybe its a coincidence, how accurate Gladwell's observations are, but for me, who loves explanations, I have a few answers, less questions. I have been hurt by friends, and they chose to do it all at once. Separately though. I have been asking them why. None seem to be giving me an answer that heals the pain, returns the trust I had for them. In Gladwell's fashion, I have started going through my friendship with these people, the basis on how we started, the history of who they were before we met, in hopes of getting answers. I haven't gotten any yet. Still watching

Back to people.


7 Nov 2011

Ka-ching!

We live in a greedy little world--
that teaches every little boy and girl
To earn as much as they can possibly--
then turn around and
Spend it foolishly
We've created us a credit card mess
We spend the money that we don't possess
Our religion is to go and blow it all
So it's shoppin' every Sunday at the mall

All we ever want is more
A lot more than we had before...

In the music video of the above song (Ka-ching), Shania Twain  finds herself in an abandoned mansion and city. She goes looking for the inhabitants, finally finding them in a casino gambling away. Everyone is consumed with the need to spend money, their greed apparent in the expensive things they own that they have deserted.

I have not listened to this song in years. It used a favorite of mine. No idea why that stopped. I spent about a week in Cincinnati early April this year,  screening our film. Actually, I spent time moving between Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana. At one point, I slept in Indiana, had lunch in Ohio and dinner in Kentucky! I digress.

My friend who invited me there and organised the trip arranged for me to stay at his friends house in Cincinnati for the better part of the journey. Now, this house is a house like no other. It used to be a wood work machinery factory, dating back to 1887. Its a huge space. Very very huge. The first time I walked in, I did a double take. There was a lot of stuff. See, 'stuff' suddenly felt such an inadequate word. 'Things' even less appropriate. Over the next few days, I quickly learnt that if I did not put back my things in my suitcase immediately after using them, I might never find them again. Every empty spot in the house would quickly be filled up with something or the other. An empty space was abhorred in that house. Anything you can possibly think of was in there. It was as if Hurricane Katrina blew all the debris across the country and straight to that house. It is a three storied house, houses a few artists studios...you know the ones that has no canvases of surreal paintings, no easels, no paintbrushes...nothing. Thinking spaces they call them. Hogwash I call it, but then again, what do I know. I'm only a consumer of the brilliance that finally comes from those 'thinking spaces'. I saw a inside one of the studios, and the 'stuff' somehow ended up there too. For a 'thinking space', it made me think I was going insane!

I thought about hoarding. And how we seek to fill our lives with things to cover the emptiness within. How we, especially  those of the female-bodied form, think that that one shopping spree will make us feel better. It maybe a curse, every time I travel, I contrast situations, lifestyles, people...back home and what I am experiencing. In one part, I had a vision of a young mother in Kenya ( or anywhere else in Africa for that matter), living in a one-roomed shack, furnished with a bare bed, a stove, some cooking pans, a broom in a corner, a bed sheet separating the bed area from the rest of the room, a worn couch, half of which is used as a storage area for the children's clothing. The most expensive item in that house is the mosquito net, donated by a local NGO.

Then picture this:

That is a bedroom.Or used to be.

Couldn't help but wonder, is hoarding a condition of the rich? Can a poor person hoard? I once told someone that some conditions, sickness, etc are 'white people's sicknesses'. Between feeding 5 kids, dealing with a cheating, alcoholic husband, dealing with impossible inlaws and demanding family, we don't have time for panic attacks, postpartum depressions, etc.

I pictured that young woman with life sitting squarely on her shoulders like the proverbial troll, walking into that house. What would be her thought then? If the two women were to sit down and discuss what they wish they had, what they are looking for in life, what would they think of each other? Would each understand what drives the other?