Items by Tafsiri Hii
A Black Woman's Poem
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2 A.M. Souvenir
Posted: September 6, 2008, 10:20 pm by Tafsiri Hii
My father,
After
enjoying many a bottle of Tusker
enjoyed waking us
in the middle of the night
with loud, thinly-veiled threats
of disownment
while
with authority proclaiming
that we, his girls
were not worthy to carry his father's name
and instead, belonged solely to our mother
But before
my pre-teenage self
could courageously attempt
at a retort,
Would say, again and again,
"You will come back to me, all of you -
crawling"
15 years have come and gone
I am yet
to go down on my knees.
- All Rights Reserved
Kenyan Ramblings
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Eti mama nifanye nini???
Posted: September 5, 2008, 6:02 am by Tafsiri Hii
My mother, God bless her.
She is one of the most illustrious and determined people I know. In fact, I can confidently say that she is a superwoman in her own right. And I am not just saying that because she carried me in her womb for 9 months, went through hours of excruciating pain to get me out of that warm womb into this cold world and went through another form of pain while bringing me up for the past 20-some years. Perhaps if I told you how many children she has borne and raised single-handedly you would understand. When I was growing up, people would refer to my siblings and I as 'the football team' or 'the basketball team' much to my anger and consternation. If you are a sports fan you will appreciate that a football team is composed of more than five people. Anyone who can give birth to and bring up seven well-adjusted, almost-normal children as well as a number of relatives' children, and do so while juggling school and a career deserves an accolade. In fact, she deserves to have a statue erected and a street named after her a la Dedan Kimathi.
This blog, however, is not dedicated to my mother's many virtues. Rather, it is dedicated to her sometimes quirky traits, one of which is her difficulty with the Kiswahili language. With my mother-tongue (which I refuse to disclose for the sake of national solidarity) and Kiswahili being Bantu languages, one would think that my mother would speak Kiswahili with ease. Alas! This is not the case. For as long as I can remember, my mother has been struggling with Swahili. However, she does not know this. She thinks, NO she believes, that she speaks Kiswahili as well as the next ordinary mwanainchi. But, she not only mispronounces words (lala, for instance, becomes rara), she also mixes up her native language with English to come up with incomprehensible words that she passes off as Swahili.
But perhaps her most endearing trait is her habit of mixing up the meanings of Swahili words. In other words, she often mistakes the meanings of certain Swahili words. To my mother's knowledge, dara is one of those flexible words that can be used to mean almost anything.
So, my mother would say to a naughty child who is asking for a beating: nitakudara!!
When streetboys come too close to her shopping bags for her comfort, she threatens them
by saying: ukidara hizi mifuko nitakuchapa!!
Those of you who are familiar with the Kiswahili language know that the word kudara means "to feel", "to caress" or "to embrace". And as for its meaning in Sheng, well, this is a child-friendly blog!
****************************
Enter Priscilla. Do you know those people who are in the wrong profession? Like that attractive accountant who was meant to be a model cum body builder? O.k., I realise that the phrase "attractive accountant" is a bit of an oxymoron so how about another example? Or that petty thief who is always running away from the cops when he really should be running in the Olympics 1500m race and doing Kenya proud? Well, Priscilla is one such person. She was not meant to be a maid, a domestic worker, a hauzi! She was born for bigger and greater things. And boy, does she know it! Her dream is to leave the country and start a new life abroad. She believes that money not only grows on trees in the land of the wazungu but also that the roads are paved with it. I try to tell her that life is hard abroad, that she can make a good life for her and her son in Kenya. But she believes that everyone she knows who has been outside the country, including her cousin and I, is conspiring to make sure that she does not have her share in the gold mine that the West supposedly is.
Priscilla is one of a kind. She is big and loud, and can drink any man under the table. She is not afraid of any man, any woman or anything...except maybe a frothy beverage know as Whitecap that causes her to become slightly catatonic once she has partaken too much of it. She is also wont to have theories about life. Her favourite is a strange one about families like ours that have many girls. She often declares that in such families, by some strange hand of fate, one girl never moves out. Every time Priscilla says this, she stops whatever chore she is doing to look directly at me:
Nakwambia Tafsiri, ni lazima msichana mmoja abaki nyumbani. (Am telling you, Tafsiri, one of the girls in this family will not leave home.)
Pause. Long pointed look at me.
Hivyo ndivyo mambo yalivyo. Hayo ndio maisha. Kwa kila familia kami hii, ni lazima
kutakuwa na msichana ambaye hataolewa kamwe na yeye ndiye atakaye saidia wazazi.
(That's the way life is. In every family like this one, one girl always stays at home to take care
of her parents when they grow old.)
Pause. Long pointed look.
Hata huyo msichana akiwa na mtoto. Hataolewa! (The girl will never get married, even if
she gets pregnant!)
Pause. Another pointed look at me.
(Well, Priscilla, just so you know, I am no longer living at home. I may not be married, but I
am not living in my mother's house, damn it! So, there!!)
***********************************************
My mother comes home after a long day of hustling in the City under the Sun. She puts down her handbag, briefcase and kiondo (any guess what her profession is?), removes the godforsaken pumps that have been biting at her tender ankles all day and then proceeds to sink thankfully into the couch. In a few minutes, she will make herself a plate of ikwacie - the sweet potatoes that my grandmother sent to Nairobi with my uncle, the truck-driver, specially for her. She will also boil a pot of tea and mix it with fresh ginger and garlic, so she can have something to wash down the ikwacie with. But just for two minutes or so - and especially before my noisy siblings come home from school - she plans to sit down in silence, gaze ahead and rid her mind of any thoughts. She has succeeded to do just that. That is, until her gaze shifts to the right and she notices that her precious curtains are exactly the way that she left them in the morning: unwashed.
She stands up and goes to do a closer inspection. She touches the curtains and brings the material close to her eyes: dust is interfering with the silkiness of its texture. And is that a dried-up piece of ugali stuck to the embroidery?! My mother turns around to face the kitchen and in a loud formidable voice, calls out for the maid:
Priscilla! Priscilla, kuja hapa! (Priscilla! Priscilla, come here!)
I do not like her tone of voice. It brings back painful memories of my youth; those days when my mother would bring out an assortment of father's belts, ask my siblings and I to carefully choose our instruments of torture and then proceed to demand that we assume the position. I call it the I'll-beat-your-puny-butt-into-a-pulp intonation.
Needless to say, I decide that it is safest to bury my head deeper into my book. Any movement on my part - however slight - might cause me, not Priscilla, to bear the wrath of this woman whose curtains have been treated with scorn. Priscilla takes a long time to come to the living room. Not that my mum's house is so gigantic that the kitchen is one kilometer from the living room. No. There must be some really urgent business that Priscilla is taking care of in the kitchen. Either that or she does not realise, or for that matter care, that she is at that moment my mother's least favourite person. I must say that I secretly admire her courage. She is the only person I know of who has the guts to keep my mother waiting. When she finally strolls in, mum is fuming. She is not only seeing red: she is seeing all the colours of the rainbow.
Oh, mama umerudi? Habari ya kushinda? Eh, na leo kumenyesha! Sasa unajua hizi
matatu zitaongeza bei kwa sababu ya mvua. Hawa makanga wamekuwa wabaya sana!
Sanasana hawa wa Kangemi! Hata afadhali nitembee nyumbani leo, mama!...Sijui kama
umeniita? (Oh, ma'm I see you are back. How was your day? What a rainy day! Do you know, the matatus will definitely hike up the fare today. Evil turnboys! Especially the ones on the Kangemi route! I would rather walk home today. Did you just call out to me?)
Priscilla, the queen of small talk. Any other day, my mother would have indulged her. But on this day, she could only think of her curtains and of hard-headed house-helps who never listen to their employers. Hence, the only thing she could say was:
Priscilla, si nilikuambia udare hizi curtains??!
I am already on the floor laughing when Priscilla, hands akimbo, looks at my mum with puzzlement and queries:
Eti mama umesema nifanye nini?!!
******************************
Someone should really tell mum what the word "kudara" means. Someone like, say, my brother M. That's right, M! Man up!
-
PMS Blues
Posted: September 2, 2008, 5:54 am by Tafsiri Hii
Am lying, frozen in bed. I. Cant. Move. Torturous pain....
He comes home, gives me a perfunctory kiss, sits to read the paper then realizes that am in bed wearing a strange expression.
Everything ok, he asks.
NO! Cccc....cramps, I manage to get the words out.
Oh, it's that time of the month! He observes. Anything I can do, asks he. Sweet man.
Yes, a towel soaked in very hot water will help ease the pain.
Ok, he says....and then goes back to the paper.
Tic, toc. Tic, toc. Minutes go by. Nothing! The longer he looks at the damned paper, the more agitated I get. The more agitated I get, the worse the pain. The more the pain, the blacker my mood. After about 5 long agonizing minutes, I can't take it any more. Involuntarily, I jump out of bed and let out a loud scream: actually, what comes out is a sound that is a cross between a lion's roar and the screech of a hyena. I clench and unclench my hands, and grit my teeth. Am beginning to look more and more like a lion...or a hyena. He looks up, surprised.
What's wrong, honey? The poor sweet ignorant man asks.
What's wrong?! WHAT IS WRONG? A million wicked mini-devils are inside my womb: poking one side with their red-hot forks, and biting and tearing the other side into tiny bite size pieces. Their cousins are slowly working on my lower back. I was perfectly fine, suffering my torment silently...until you came home and offered to assist! Why you would offer to help me and then sit there reading your paper is beyond me!
His cheek looks like a good place for my palm to land and my teeth are itching to do a Mike Tyson on him...Murderous thoughts. People have killed for lesser things.
Before I do something I might regret, I stalk out and use my own two hands to get my self-sufficient self a towel soaked in steaming water to place on my tortured womb......
For those who do not know what am going on about, or for those men who do not understand why their women turn into pit bulls once a month, listen to Angie Stone's "It's the time of the month" or to these words by Dolly Parton.
Even better, how about this hilarious letter written by blogger Wendi Aarons to Proctor and Gamble's Brand Manager:
Dear Mr. Thatcher,
I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years, and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core™ or Dri-Weave™ absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills." Isn't the human body amazing?
As brand manager in the feminine-hygiene division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in capri pants. Which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."
Are you fucking kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness—actual smiling, laughing happiness—is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlúa and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreens armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory. For the love of God, pull your head out, man. If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong"? Or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your accounting department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flexi-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.
Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin, TX
A Black Woman's Poem
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Culturally Speaking
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:34 am by Tafsiri Hii
Laugh at me all you want
But I
Refuse
To straighten my tough kinky hair,
To speak in your imported tongue,
To adopt a name that my heavy tongue cannot pronounce.
For I
Am N -,
Daughter of L -,
Granddaughter of M’Ndegwa,
Great-granddaughter of M’mirii,
Great-great-granddaughter of Kanake.
And I
Will hold my black head up,
And walk tall and proud.
Because I
Know where I come from,
Am part of the soil that feeds me,
Understand the ways of my people.
So you
Foolish women,
With your creams lotions powders
That lighten skins and straighten hair,
And you
Silly men,
With your nasal accents, foreign gadgets and superior ways
That illustrate your disdain for things indigenous,
You should know that I am deaf to your laughter,
For I
Embrace my background
And I
Belong.
– All rights reserved© -
Tribute to the African Man
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:30 am by Tafsiri Hii
What you are,Is sturdy; strong like the mugumo tree in my backyard
And like that tree, you are firmly rooted in the ground
A native of the African soil
What you are,
Is a warrior; fighting battles and coming out unscathed
And like that soldier, you should be recognized,
Valued and nurtured
What you are,
Is a king; deserving to be treated like royalty
And like that king, you are regal and wise
Your actions are just
What I would like to do,
Is to sit back for a minute or so,
And take in the very essence,
Of you
What I would like to do,
Is let my eyes feast on every inch of your silky skin
Admire that beautiful spot, where pelvis meets thigh
And celebrate your very blackness
What I would like to do,
Is to let my fingers worship your muscular body
From the tip of your blackened toe to the top of your dreadlocked head
Soft and slow, now
– All rights reserved© -
3,000
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:28 am by Tafsiri Hii
What do you know about laws –
You who fall asleep instead of making them
Mouths wide open,
Legs spread-eagled,
Hands on bellies,
Bellies full of rich 3 course meals; threatening to pop out of 300-dollar shirts
Eyes tightly shut;
Dreaming, dreaming of more money to steal, more houses to buy, more women to fuck
A siesta at 3 o’clock…after a tryst with your 3rd mistress
Fat cats.
You who dare arrest a woman
For buying a 30-shilling loaf off the streets:
An unthinkable crime!
Guilty: she, of wanting to feed her family
And the hawker, of peddling goods and struggling to survive
Illegal, you say
Selling goods without a license
Chaotic too:
Law and order are necessary in a civilised society!
A fine of 3,000 shillings for the crime of buying a 30-shilling item:
An amount that she can only dream of ever blessing her eyes upon,
Her salary for 3 months,
Not nearly enough to feed her family of 13 for a week,
Fools.
Yet you wonder why
Her sons grow up to steal from you, kill you
Her boys, they had so much potential
Could have replaced you and done a better job too!
Farmers, architects, artists, leaders: their future down the drain
Their euphoria short-lived, when they realise that you are all words and no actions
Where are the 300,000 jobs that you promised to create if they voted for you?
They still have no access to free education
So they join gangs and attack you
After all, a young boy is restless and can remain idle for so long
What other choice is there?
Felons.
Why are they so unhappy, when the economy has grown by 3%?
These 30 million people, living from hand to mouth
The rich getting richer, the sick getting sicker, the prices soaring high
Why would they care about abstract concepts like the GDP?
You congratulate yourselves and award yourselves by increasing your salaries
(Big men need big cars)
Draining an overstretched public reserve
That is replenished occasionally by your foreign friends
But nothing comes for free: your friends have their conditions
They will rape your women, rob you, run you out of business and erode your culture
Only then can you appreciate the extent of their generosity, their ‘aid’
They laugh at you behind your backs, you know
Your so-called friends, they laugh at you
They have many words to describe your country,
A country teetering on the edge, like a drunken woman balancing on high heels
Threatening to fall over any minute.
- October 2007. Not for Publication or Distribution -
– All rights reserved© -
Once, We Were Men
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:26 am by Tafsiri Hii
Once, we were men
We hunted
Our weapons crude, our clothing barely protecting us from the harsh weather
Still, we hunted,
Gathered
And brought home the spoils
Proudly, we watched
As our women roasted the wildebeest and our children shared the wild berries
We lived as one; my child was your child
My people were your people
Your home was my home.
Today, we no longer hunt game
Instead, we hunt each other
And gather dead bodies
In the name of love, God, country, tribe, race, resources, and freedom,
We crush each other, easily
As we would crush an irritating bug crawling on our skins
Ethnic cleansing, genocide, crimes against humanity
Sophisticated words for heinous deeds
Racism
Tribalism
Nepotism
Xenophobia
-isms and phobias
We focus on our differences and find a reason to shed blood.
Once, we were men
We tilled the earth
Ignoring the sweat and the pains from our exertions
We would dig, plant, weed, water and harvest
We coaxed and cared for the earth, gently
(Like we would a beautiful woman)
Until it bore us fruit
From sunrise to sunset
We would speak to the soil
And to the crop it bore us.
Now, we no longer work the earth
Instead, we steal
It’s a hard-knock life, we explain
So we take out our guns and rob our brothers, our neighbours and our friends
Our children, they walk the streets aimlessly
Begging
Pleading
Beseeching
For a morsel to still their grumbling stomachs
The light has gone out of their eyes,
The youth out of their limbs
They no longer run
They drag their feet instead, slowly like old men who have seen too much.
Kwashiorkor
Malaria
Diarrhea
Malnutrition -
Unwanted companions for our children
Our children are dying
Our women, they can’t stop crying
Yet, our only concern is pleasure, self-gratification
So we fuck indiscriminately – man, woman, child, and animal
And just for the hell of it, we rape our sisters, our daughters and our mothers
Cruelly, we bear more and more children
Only to subject them to the same fate
Once, we stood tall and roared like lions
Today, we crawl in our own shit like dreaded rats
- All Rights Reserved ©
-
Country Woman to Urban Son
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:21 am by Tafsiri Hii
Did I not –
Feed you from the same breast that fed my children?
Blow on your steaming cup of tea, every morning, so as to cool it?
Preserve the biggest sweetest gikwacie, not for my husband, but for you?
Use the smallest of thorns to remove jiggers from your hardened feet?
And was I not -
Always there when you needed me?
Did I not -
Comfort you and shield you from all types of threats, real and perceived?
Till my shamba from dawn to dusk so you could have a meal on your plate?
Sell my livestock so you could go to school?
And yet,
You,
With your important airs
Metallic conveniences
Plastic cards and plastic smiles
You –
Sneer at my bare feet and my wrinkled face,
Wrinkle your nose at my sagging breasts and my bent back,
Laugh at my smoky hut and my pit latrine,
Scorn my old, contorted hands.
These same hands that held you, comforted you, and fed you.
-
Second Wife
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:19 am by Tafsiri Hii
It does not disturb me that you smoke, puffing in and out –
Looking every bit the modern woman, without a doubt
Or that you prefer potent brews to sweet soothing tea –
And that you cannot fall asleep without having at least three.
It does not bother me that your low husky laughter
Gets into a man’s head and makes him totter
Or that your bright smile
Makes my husband’s loins stir
It does not worry me that you sneer every time you hear my name
Or that you declare me too docile and tame
And that you laugh at my efforts to keep house
And even jeer at my way of dress
What really concerns me is my husband’s madness
This craziness that has gotten into him since he met you
This sickness that has made him take to heaping abuses
On my head, and criticizing every thing that I do
What gives me unease is my husband’s forgetfulness –
It has slipped out of his mind that he is a father of two sons
That growing boys have to eat, drink and sleep
He does not remember that he has responsibilities
What disturbs me,
What really gets to me:
Are your generous breasts
That have been suckled dry
And can no longer fight gravity
What I do not understand is,
Why my husband would choose to leave me,With my firm body and youthful energy,
And make you,
A woman ten years my senior,
His second wife.
– All rights reserved© -
Monalise Smile
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:14 am by Tafsiri Hii
Funny thing is, I got used to your strange ways,
And although I was angry that day,
When we finally parted ways,
I always knew it would happen sooner or later.
I imagined sending you a letter,
But afraid you would reduce it to tatters,
I decided against it.
In my rage, I wanted to dint,
To smash up car, glass or your favourite seat.
I wanted to drive madly,
To make you tremble fearfully,
And to laugh at you hysterically.
Then I remembered your constant kindness,
I thought of your endearing madness,
And your unmistakable sweetness.
And in my mind, I could tell,
Would always remain a picture
of your Monalisa smile.
– All rights reserved©
-
Untitled
Posted: August 24, 2008, 6:04 am by Tafsiri Hii
Come to me, you say
And with heavy heart,
A smile painted on this tired, old woman's face,
Struggling not to fall apart
Yet,
Hoping for a coup de grace
I drag my broken limbs -
I come to you
And come undone.
– All rights reserved©
Kenyan Ramblings
-
The African: Some of the most IDIOTIC statements ever made!
Posted: August 22, 2008, 11:23 pm by Tafsiri Hii
Yup, it is that time of the year again. That 7-day period when we celebrate our dear ignorant and idiotic brothers and sisters who persistently pester us with foolish questions about our backgrounds and make statements about.....wait for it, wait for it..."the Dark Continent". Let's call it Tafsiri's List of Idiotic Statements and Questions on Africa (with Tafsiri's remarks beneath every statement, naturally). Here goes:
1. This, from my younger sister's American or Canadian penpal (needless to say, she never wrote back): "So, do you guys like live in caves or trees or something?"
(Yes, we co-exist peacefully with monkeys. It's very environmental-friendly. Try it some time. I hear being friends with the environment is all the rage where you are from)
2. Looking perturbed, scratching his head, a young caucasian man asks his African colleague: "You are from Africa?! How did you get to Europe?!"
(Well, Sah! It is a long story, see. I walked a great distance from my village in the Highlands to a village along the shores of the great sea known to you as Indian Ocean. On my way to this village by the sea, which we call Mombasa, I had to battle a few savage tribesmen and be on the lookout for wild animals. I even killed a lion. Upon reaching Mombasa, I made a raft, climbed it and steered it to this here your great land)
3. A young, energetic student who clearly greatly believes in her own intellectual abilities puts her hand up to make a comment in a class of students from multiple regions: "The fact is, in the country of Africa...."
(The fact is, Africa is a continent not a country. Hard to believe, seeing that ALL Africans look alike, walk alike, think alike and even talk alike, right? I would suggest that you look at a map of the world.)
4. I kid you not! My Japanese colleague asked me the following question after seeing some photos of wild animals I'd taken at a Game Reserve in Kenya. One of the photos was of a leopard devouring some poor tiny furry animal: "Are these your pets in Africa??"
(Sweetie, does money grow on trees? Do pigs fly? Does the sun rise from the West? Do cows bark? If you answer 'yes' to any of the above questions, then those. are. my. pets.)
5. George Bush, Jr. on some State business in Sweden in 2001: "We spent a lot of time talking about Africa, as we should. Africa is a nation that suffers from incredible disease."
(Supra note 3!) -
Dark and Light; Black and White
Posted: August 22, 2008, 8:34 pm by Tafsiri Hii
"There are two wolves fighting in a man's heart. One is called Good. The other, Evil."
- from a movie whose name has escaped me
I took an interesting course recently. It involved sitting cross-legged on the floor, chewing thoughtfully on popcorn, watching movies and documentaries intently, and having heated, stimulating discussions about said movies and documentaries with about 10 other like-minded individuals. 'Film and conflict', the course was called. Until then, I would never have considered 'G. I. Jane' a topic for intellectual, or at least scholarly, debate. Which brings me to the subject of today's blog. One of the war films we watched was 'Apocalypse Now'. No words can truly describe how brilliant that movie is. That is my opinion, of course, and you do not have to agree with it. And no, I do not work for Francis Ford Coppola. But you will at least agree that it is one of those movies that one watches at least two...or five times. But I digress.
In one jungle scene, the Director plays with lighting to expose one half of the protagonist's face and leave the other half hidden by shadow, by darkness. This, to me, is the ultimate representation of the human psyche and serves as one of the most striking thing about 'Apocalypse Now': it captures the battle that goes on within every living human being - that between good and bad.
I have grown up hearing - from mother, father, church, school, society - about the virtues of doing good by others and the dire consequences of doing bad. At some point during my tender years, I actually believed that God allocated everyone a large white sheet at birth. Commit a sin and God would place a tiny black dot on your sheet. By the time I was 10, I strongly believed that my sheet was already half black. Not that I sinned much then. As I grew up, I started questioning what mother, father, church, school and society fed my young mind. When I was about 19, I went through a major "Does God really exist and how do we know it" crisis. Well, it wasn't really a crisis but at 19, everything is a crisis. Anyway. I questioned religion, I demanded proof, I wanted answers. Did we have control over our lives or was our fate already decided by some powerful external factors? If God existed, why did bad things happen to good people? Why did innocent children suffer; why did evil people get prosperous? How could a poor man who stole a goat to feed 7 hungry mouths get 14 years jail-time, while a greedy pot-bellied politician who stole a billion from tax-payers went scot-free? My mother grew irritated; my friend suggested that I read a book that apparently had the answers to my questions. My mother got over her irritation and I did not get around to reading the recommended book. Eventually, however, I stopped questioning.
I decided that some people are good, that some people are bad, that sometimes good people do bad things, and other times bad people do good things. I decided that God existed; but in different forms and with different meaning for different people. I decided that every human being has free-will: the independence to decide on how to act and how to treat others. I also realised that luck, opportunity, attitude, hard work, and more luck do play a role in bringing good (success) to a person's life. However, I am still convinced that perhaps we are all sinners. But in the spirit of the proclamation by the pigs in George Orwell's Animal Farm, I would argue that all people are evil but some people are more evil than others.
Still, sometimes I do wonder. Are human beings infinitely evil or ultimately good? How can a man rape a two year old girl and yet stand tall, put his head up and call himself a man? How does a woman who benefits from trading in other humans sleep at night? How could you ignore me at my moment of suffering? Why didn't I help the man who was being beaten by muggers on the streets?
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Technorati
Posted: June 1, 2008, 10:02 pm by Tafsiri Hii
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Untitled
Posted: May 31, 2008, 5:50 pm by Tafsiri Hii
Come to me, you say
And with heavy heart,
A smile painted on this tired, old woman's face,
Struggling not to fall apart
Yet,
Hoping for a coup de grace
I drag my broken limbs -
I come to you
And come undone.
– All rights reserved© -
Na Kwa Habari Nyingine...
Posted: May 25, 2008, 10:11 pm by Tafsiri Hii
My Prof., a short man with a Napoleon Complex who cannot tear his eyes from ANY bosom without great difficulty, calls himself............
A Feminist
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Top 10 Swahili Comebacks!
Posted: May 25, 2008, 5:33 pm by Tafsiri Hii
And just because am rude, a few of my favourite comebacks gotten from Lesos/Shukas/Kangas, my book of methali, and some random Swahili songs:
10. To those nosy neighbours:
Mavi usiyoyala, yakuashia ni?
Translation: Sh*t that you do not eat, why should it bother you?
Meaning: Mind your own beeswax! (Also, Pilipili iko mtini, yakuashia nini?)
9. To those envious acquaintances:
Mwenye wivu ajinyonge
Translation: let the envious hang themselves!
Meaning: self-explanatory! (Also, Meza wembe!)
8. To those who can just never get it right:
Kuelekeza si kufuma
Translation: To aim is not to hit
Meaning: A little less talk, a little more action!
7. To a disgruntled female friend (and possible 'compe'):
Hata ukinuna, buzi tumelichuna
Translation: You may be ticked off, but we have skinned a big goat
Meaning: A boastful statement made by a woman who has slept with a successful man (buzi)
6. To 'compe':
Kwangu anakula keki atufute nini kwako we hefkeki?!
Translation: With me s/he gets to eat real cake that is why s/he does not want you, half-a-cake!
Meaning: S/he has aaaaaaall this, what would s/he possibly want you for?!
5. To your man, if his eyes start straying:
Mke mwenza! Aa! Mezea!
Translation: Co-wife? Hai! Swallow it!
Meaning: Ati you are considering getting a mistress/second wife? Forget about it!
4. To those determined suitors/stalkers:
Hodi hodi naikome, mwaka ujao naolewa (Also, utangoja!)
Translation: Stop knocking on my door, am getting married next year!
Meaning: Leave me be, am taken!
3. To anyone who rubs you the wrong way (and 'compe'):
Usitake ushindani nami, uniwezi aslani!
Translation: Do not compete with me, you can never beat me!
Meaning: You. Can't. Handle. Me.
2. To those who like to make you to wait (both literally and figuratively!):
Ngoja ngoja huumiza tumbo
Translation: Waiting, waiting hurts the tummy
Meaning: I can't wait forever!
And, my all time favourite
1. To those annoying people who always have something to say about your life:
Uta-do?!
Translation: varies from so what? to what is your problem? to what you gonna do about it?!
Meaning: self-explanatory!
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Addicted
Posted: May 24, 2008, 11:07 pm by Tafsiri Hii
Centuries after blogging was discovered, I have finally caught on. What can I say? I have been busy... doing grown up stuff. I love it, I love it, I love it! Finally, I can stop writing on Kartasi notebooks, full scaps, banana leaves, toilet paper. Plus, I can't remember the last time I laughed this much (to the horror of my neighbour, I laugh loud and long): reading other people's blogs makes my day. Kenyanchick takes the cake. Am so addicted to blogging that:- I just turned down a dinner invitation because I was blogging (ME, who has had a love affair with food since the day I was born),
- It is 8.22 p.m. on a Saturday night. I am indoors,
- I have made 3 entries (or is it 4?) today,
- Injinia is threatening to make me an IDP if I continue paying more attention to my blog than to him.
Best thing about this blogging thing: I can write ANYTHING and snugly hide under the cover of anonymity. Delicious! -
Vaseline? Vaseline!
Posted: May 24, 2008, 9:41 pm by Tafsiri Hii
Listening to Capitalfm.
"Napenda Vase-line, napenda Vase-line, napenda Vase-line...(kapuka this, kapuka that)!"
This is what Kenyan music has been reduced to: a bunch of 'musicians' singing about the joys of using Vaseline...and no, they were not referring to Vaseline's ability to make skin soft as a baby's bottom. This being a child-friendly blog, I shall not go into details about why the musicians are so in love with Vase-line. The creativity of Kenyans never ceases to amaze...
Can't get the darn song out of my head. "Napenda Vase-line, napenda Vase-line, napenda Vase-line....."
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Basic Kenyanese: For Foreigners, Tourists and Wannabes!
Posted: May 24, 2008, 10:07 am by Tafsiri Hii
If you are traveling to Kenya for the first time, or if your past interactions with Kenyans have left you feeling confused, or if for some strange reason you are a Wannabe Kenyan (I met someone like that this year), this is for you. I intend to shed some light into some peculiarities about Kenyans. Mind, there are millions of strange things in Kenya (including rivers that flow uphill) but due to lack of space and time, lets just stick to language.
By now am sure you have heard: we begin every, and I mean every, statement with "Me, I..." Why do we do this, you ask? Well, that is what happens when people directly translate their mother-tongues to English (sort of what the Chinese do!). So if you want to be integrated into Kenyan society (especially you, Wannabe), sprinkle those "Me, I"s generously into your sentences. A few examples,
"Me, I am so hungry I could eat a donkey."
"Me, I have no idea what he is talking about."
"Me, I am going home now."
It might be a bit of a challenge to follow what we say. Mainly because of the way we pronounce words. Kenya has over 40 ethnic groups, each with its own language (refer to your guidebook for confirmation). These languages are as different from English as Cain was from Abel. So, you will forgive us if we butcher the English language. As we are fond of saying, English came on a boat! We are guilty of two things: one, shrubbing and two, pronouncing many words the exact same way. To understand what I mean, here is an illustration:
Instead of "run" some of us say "lun", we may pronounce "darling" as "ndaring" and "head" as "end" (this reminds me of my favourite Safaricom advertisement:
Employee calls boss and says: Sorry I can't come to work today, Sir. I have an ENDACHE.
Boss: ENDACHE?
Employee: An ache, Sir! In my END, Sir!)
That is what we call shrubbing.
Speaking of pronouncing many words the exact same way, an American friend of mine laughed his head off a couple of years back when he realised that I pronounce "butter", "batter" and "bata" as BATA!!
If you are familiar with NGO-ese you know that one word NGO types throw around is 'participatory'. Participatory training. Participatory monitoring. Participatory evaluation. Well, one thing to know about Kenyans' way of conversing is that it is participatory. Meaning, that narrating something (or, 'beating a storo' in Kenyanese) will usually involve the audience. Makes 9 Oclock News a very entertaining watch. Here is how:
Agitated Kenyan: Sasa, hiyo siku nilie...?
Friend/Audience: Ulienda
AK: Nikapata nyumba yangu imefung...?
F/A: Imefungwa
AK: Eh...nikaona huyu mtu ananicheze...?
F/A: Anakuchezea!
Loose translation:
Agitated Kenyan: So, that day I wen...?
Friend/Audience: You went
AK: Only to find that my house had been lock...?
F/A: It had been locked
AK: Eh...i thought to myself that this man is jo...?
F/A: He is joking with you!
On a final note, here's a few things you should learn:
How to express surprise in Kenyanese: ala! hai! woiyee! yawa! Ngai! wololo yaye! wa wa wa wa wa!
Words regularly used but whose meaning no one knows: You guy, maze, si, haiya, kumbe
And, some sheng/slang words:
Loco (local): neighbourhood pub
Tale, pinto, kinywaji, kanywaji, dawa, one-for-the-road: Tusker, beer, booze
Papers, lewad, high, kahighness, kunywad: Drunk
Fegi: Cigarette
Manzi, dame, chic, mama: Girl
Amebeba: She is well endowed/she has a shapely body
Mahaga: hips
Supuu: pretty girl
Catch strokes, catch rubs, cook the ngegende: Have sex
How to effectively use above-listed words in a sentence:
"Jana, after jobo I went to the loco. You guy, I was stressed. Me, I needed a tale. After a couple of kinywajis, I went out of the bar to smoke. Dame akakuja hiyo place nilikuwa nimesimama. Akanishow nimpe fegi. Ala! Si anunue yake! Lakini alikuwa msupuu kwa hivyo sikuweza kukataa. Kalikuwa kamebeba! Eh! Kwanza hayo mahaga!! Before I knew it, we were on her bed catching strokes!"
(For a hilarious guide to Kenya, check out KenyanChic's "A Kenyan's Guide to Kenya" on http://howdidigethere-kenyanchick.blogspot.com/2006/07/kenyans-guide-to-kenya-vol-i.html
Also check out sheng.co.ke if you are interested in learning more sheng words)
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Second Wife
Posted: May 23, 2008, 11:06 am by Tafsiri Hii
It does not disturb me that you smoke, puffing in and out –
Looking every bit the modern woman, without a doubt
Or that you prefer potent brews to sweet soothing tea –
And that you cannot fall asleep without having at least three.
It does not bother me that your low husky laughter
Gets into a man’s head and makes him totter
Or that your bright smile
Makes my husband’s loins stir
It does not worry me that you sneer every time you hear my name
Or that you declare me too docile and tame
And that you laugh at my efforts to keep house
And even jeer at my way of dress
What really concerns me is my husband’s madness
This craziness that has gotten into him since he met you
This sickness that has made him take to heaping abuses
On my head, and criticizing every thing that I do
What gives me unease is my husband’s forgetfulness –
It has slipped out of his mind that he is a father of two sons
That growing boys have to eat, drink and sleep
He does not remember that he has responsibilities
What disturbs me,
What really gets to me:
Are your generous breasts
That have been suckled dry
And can no longer fight gravity
What I do not understand is,
Why my husband would choose to leave me,With my firm body and youthful energy,
And make you,
A woman ten years my senior,
His second wife.
– All rights reserved©
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Tribute to the body of an African Woman
Posted: May 23, 2008, 10:52 am by Tafsiri Hii
These thighs, I tell you
Refuse to be forced into, squeezed into, crammed into small items of clothing,
These big thighs.
These free thighs,
Have put many a man under a spell.
These strong thighs,
Have been a comfortable seat for children.
You see these hips?
These magnificent hips,
That move to a beat and rhythm of their own?
These wide hips,
Have stopped many in their tracks,
These child-bearing hips.
These slim hands,
Am telling you,
Have carried heavy loads for long distances,
These soft hands,
Have prepared tasty meals for hundreds,
Held many close and offered great comfort,
These seemingly small hands.
These breasts, I tell you
These round breasts,
Will not be hidden or ignored
These firm breasts
Have no shame in them
These breasts,
Have been the source of nutrition and the cause of confusion
These proud breasts.
– All rights reserved©
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Tribute to the African Man
Posted: May 23, 2008, 10:48 am by Tafsiri Hii
What you are,Is sturdy; strong like the mugumo tree in my backyard
And like that tree, you are firmly rooted in the ground
A native of the African soil
What you are,
Is a warrior; fighting battles and coming out unscathed
And like that soldier, you should be recognized,
Valued and nurtured
What you are,
Is a king; deserving to be treated like royalty
And like that king, you are regal and wise
Your actions are just
What I would like to do,
Is to sit back for a minute or so,
And take in the very essence,
Of you
What I would like to do,
Is let my eyes feast on every inch of your silky skin
Admire that beautiful spot, where pelvis meets thigh
And celebrate your very blackness
What I would like to do,
Is to let my fingers worship your muscular body
From the tip of your blackened toe to the top of your dreadlocked head
Soft and slow, now
– All rights reserved©
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National Pride???
Posted: May 22, 2008, 6:14 am by Tafsiri Hii
(written in July 2007, when Kibaki still Toshad and before the words "grand coalition" appeared in front of "government"!)
Why does it seem that we become more patriotic only when we leave Kenya? We wear our 'Tusker T-shirts and display our Kenyan flags in our rooms and loudly announce to anyone who's willing to listen that we are very proud to be Kenyans! We join groups on the web and reminisce on the fun we had when we went to 'F2, K1 and Carni ' over our summer holidays and 'Coasto' over christmas. Oh, lets not forget nyama choma, our national beverage (tusker) and Kenchic. Sigh...and then we go back to speaking in a foreign tongue, listening to foreign music, wearing 'designer' clothes and basically emulating a culture that is not our own (preferably the American).
How many of us young Kenyans can speak fluent Maa, Meru, Kikuyu, Dholuo, Hindi, Kamba or Luhya? (by young, i mean those who were born a few years before and after the´82 Coup. No, the definition of the word 'youth' is not flexible no matter what those darn MPs say!) Basically, how many of us speak our mother-tongue fluently? And what happened to 'Swahili Sanifu'? You know that Kiswahili that you learnt from Class One to Form Four? Why consider your fluency in French/Italian/Spanish/English an achievement if your Swahili sucks?! What happened to the Kenya National Dress? How many of us know our family's, clan's, tribe's and country's history? How can we appreciate another culture if we do not understand our own? Who among us can confidently represent our great country as a cultural ambassador?
One Kenyan mission in Europe is housed in a beautiful building called, not surprisingly, 'Kenya House'. The decor inside Kenya House is disappointing: besides three unattractive photographs (there is one of Maasai Market) and two posters of Ketepa Tea and of the Kenya Tourism Board, most part of the building that the public has access to is, well, empty. There are none of those celebrated Kamba soapstone carvings, no wood carvings, no batik paintings, no kikoys or khangas, no kiondos, no photograph of Tusker or of a Maasai Moran...basically, none of those interesting items that are oh-so-Kenyan are displayed in this Embassy. Neither is there literature on Kenya; whether cultural, socio-economic or political. Yet this building is associated with, and houses people who are charged with, the representation of Kenya's interests abroad.
While I am all for multiculturalism, I do not believe in cutting off one's roots and completely taking up another's way of life. There is nothing more embarrassing than a foreigner teaching you about your culture and your country. I should know, it has happened to me. I applaud the Government's 'Najivunie Kuwa Mkenya' initiative, but this is not enough!! I propose national cultural schools and clubs! How about teaching our kids about our history, our ways, our languages and our music from a tender age? Then we will have a future generation that identifies with, and is proud of, its country! And finally, maybe we can put an end to this tribal nonsense.
This is a challenge to Kenyans at home and abroad: go back to your roots!!!! -
Once, we were men
Posted: May 21, 2008, 10:31 am by Tafsiri Hii
Once, we were men
We hunted
Our weapons crude, our clothing barely protecting us from the harsh weather
Still, we hunted,
Gathered
And brought home the spoils
Proudly, we watched
As our women roasted the wildebeest and our children shared the wild berries
We lived as one; my child was your child
My people were your people
Your home was my home.
Today, we no longer hunt game
Instead, we hunt each other
And gather dead bodies
In the name of love, God, country, tribe, race, resources, and freedom,
We crush each other, easily
As we would crush an irritating bug crawling on our skins
Ethnic cleansing, genocide, crimes against humanity
Sophisticated words for heinous deeds
Racism
Tribalism
Nepotism
Xenophobia
-isms and phobias
We focus on our differences and find a reason to shed blood.
Once, we were men
We tilled the earth
Ignoring the sweat and the pains from our exertions
We would dig, plant, weed, water and harvest
We coaxed and cared for the earth, gently
(Like we would a beautiful woman)
Until it bore us fruit
From sunrise to sunset
We would speak to the soil
And to the crop it bore us.
Now, we no longer work the earth
Instead, we steal
It’s a hard-knock life, we explain
So we take out our guns and rob our brothers, our neighbours and our friends
Our children, they walk the streets aimlessly
Begging
Pleading
Beseeching
For a morsel to still their grumbling stomachs
The light has gone out of their eyes,
The youth out of their limbs
They no longer run
They drag their feet instead, slowly like old men who have seen too much.
Kwashiorkor
Malaria
Diarrhea
Malnutrition -
Unwanted companions for our children
Our children are dying
Our women, they can’t stop crying
Yet, our only concern is pleasure, self-gratification
So we fuck indiscriminately – man, woman, child, and animal
And just for the hell of it, we rape our sisters, our daughters and our mothers
Cruelly, we bear more and more children
Only to subject them to the same fate
Once, we stood tall and roared like lions
Today, we crawl in our own shit like dreaded rats
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The Art of Globolisation
Posted: May 19, 2008, 10:39 am by Tafsiri Hii
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The Decision
Posted: May 18, 2008, 2:33 pm by Tafsiri Hii
PANGA: to plan,
to organise,
to arrange,
to prepare.
PANGA: metal glinting in the sun,
a large metallic object with a wooden handle,
knife's older brother,
a machete.
PANGA! Eyes fiery red, his strong fingers curl into a fist
PANGA! He looks but he does not see
PANGA! He remembers limbs cruelly seperated from bodies, blood as red and as rich as earth
Closing his eyes, he gives in the hated thoughts, the dreaded memories
Ear-piercing, never-ending, mournful screams of his mother-sister-daughter-wife-aunt-lover
He ponders, mulls over the irony of women singing dirges at their own deaths
(Those sad grieving women) with the wrong last names, the wrong skin tone, of the wrong ethnic group
PANGA! He clenches and unclenches his hand
PANGA! He looks down and tightly grips the object in his other hand
PANGA! A nerve threatens to pop out of his head
He considers, and reconsiders
His hand slowly releases the object and allows it to fall
PANGA. He chooses the future
He chooses to plan
He chooses life.
– All rights reserved© -
Uncle (Or, Caught in the Fact)
Posted: May 18, 2008, 1:40 pm by Tafsiri Hii
Did he see us, did he hear us?
He said nothing -
but avoided my eyes
So, he knew he knew he knew
Foolish, to leave your shoes by the door
No other men in the house, except him and my brother
My brother's young feet cannot fit in those Size 10 shoes
And my uncle, he does not own dirt brown sneakers in Size 10
So, he knew he knew he knew
Foolish of us too, to close all windows and lock all doors
We did not hear him approach
Neither did we hear him knock one, two, ten times
Too busy exploring each other's bodies with maddening urgency
Me, barely out of my teens and recently discovered the joy of two bodies joining
You, full of energy and virility
So we kept him waiting, knocking
Until we were spent, our combined sweat forming rivulets
Only then did we hear his knocking....
Do you think he told Ma?
- 2008. Not for Publication or Distribution -
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The Possibilities
Posted: May 18, 2008, 1:14 pm by Tafsiri Hii
And so I walked
Soon, to come across a lot
A sizeable piece of land, really
Half, a grassy field
The other half, naked soil
As lush as the grass was on the left,
As tantalising as the fruit on the trees looked,
As soothing as the shadow beneath those trees seemed,
I could not resist the soil's call.
I turned to the right and went to the bare patch
The earth was warm, reddish-brown and smelt of possibilities
Without hesitation or due forethought,
I untied my shoelaces, pulled up my pants
And sunk my greedy feet into the inviting earth
It spoke to me:
"Here, a crop to feed the nation,
There, a shop to sell your harvest,
There, next to the spring, a picnic with your love,
Here, herbs that would heal the ill,
Over there, a place you would call home,
Here, somewhere to bury your dead."
With my eyes shut and my feet planted into the soil,
My mind easily slipped into a world of 'what ifs'
Regrettably, I peeled open my eyelids, rolled down my torn trousers and put my worn shoes back on.
I bade goodbye to my friend the soil,
And walked on.....
- 2008. Not for Publication or Distribution - -
Three Thousand
Posted: May 18, 2008, 12:51 pm by Tafsiri Hii
What do you know about laws –
You who fall asleep instead of making them
Mouths wide open,
Legs spread-eagled,
Hands on bellies,
Bellies full of rich 3 course meals; threatening to pop out of 300-dollar shirts
Eyes tightly shut;
Dreaming, dreaming of more money to steal, more houses to buy, more women to fuck
A siesta at 3 o’clock…after a tryst with your 3rd mistress
Fat cats.
You who dare arrest a woman
For buying a 30-shilling loaf off the streets:
An unthinkable crime!
Guilty: she, of wanting to feed her family
And the hawker, of peddling goods and struggling to survive
Illegal, you say
Selling goods without a license
Chaotic too:
Law and order are necessary in a civilised society!
A fine of 3,000 shillings for the crime of buying a 30-shilling item:
An amount that she can only dream of ever blessing her eyes upon,
Her salary for 3 months,
Not nearly enough to feed her family of 13 for a week,
Fools.
Yet you wonder why
Her sons grow up to steal from you, kill you
Her boys, they had so much potential
Could have replaced you and done a better job too!
Farmers, architects, artists, leaders: their future down the drain
Their euphoria short-lived, when they realise that you are all words and no actions
Where are the 300,000 jobs that you promised to create if they voted for you?
They still have no access to free education
So they join gangs and attack you
After all, a young boy is restless and can remain idle for so long
What other choice is there?
Felons.
Why are they so unhappy, when the economy has grown by 3%?
These 30 million people, living from hand to mouth
The rich getting richer, the sick getting sicker, the prices soaring high
Why would they care about abstract concepts like the GDP?
You congratulate yourselves and award yourselves by increasing your salaries
(Big men need big cars)
Draining an overstretched public reserve
That is replenished occasionally by your foreign friends
But nothing comes for free: your friends have their conditions
They will rape your women, rob you, run you out of business and erode your culture
Only then can you appreciate the extent of their generosity, their ‘aid’
They laugh at you behind your backs, you know
Your so-called friends, they laugh at you
They have many words to describe your country,
A country teetering on the edge, like a drunken woman balancing on high heels
Threatening to fall over any minute.
- October 2007. Not for Publication or Distribution -
– All rights reserved©
Blah blah blah
Fish cakes
Alas a fish cake.
Yet more fish cakes
Guess what ... yeah ... fish cakes.
The end of the fish cakes
