I don’t know what to call this; hence this

Sauti Sol dropped a single featuring Amos and Josh called Nerea, which is, according to their facebook, about males taking responsibility for pregnancies instead of not doing so and contributing to abortions being undertaken by females. Most people are lauding this song as a great push to have males take said responsibility. They say it’s feministic; it’s awesome.

I say it’s bullshit.

Okay, not entirely bullshit, but it’s far along enough to be within sneezing distance of it.

Most of people against, or unsupportive of the song point out the flaw in the message as attempting to shame females who have abortions, or have had abortions, and triggering those who did it under duress. They point out how the song doesn’t hold the contributing factors leading females to have abortions. I agree, it doesn’t. I have other problems with the song; mainly, the subject-non-subject off the song: the baby.

A few days before the song was released, my sister was informing me of the Medical Dept. of the govt having approved measures that would make access to safe abortions easier for females. She explained that she was neither pro-choice nor pro-life because neither teams thought of the baby/fetus involved. She is pro-prevention. Prevent unwanted pregnancies from happening, prevent unnecessary abortions from being carried out. It’s a supreme position, I must say. I didn’t bother telling her my stance; the talk wasn’t about that by that point. The talk was about how the fetus/baby isn’t centred in the argument/war about abortion. It’s control of a female’s body that is centred. So, when Nerea was released, and I listened to the lyrics, I had the ideas in mind. And therein my problems with the song.

The song doesn’t care for the baby no matter what Sauti Sol, Amos and Josh, and the marketers say. The child in question is an idea; it’s an icon, which begs the question, why are you even having a baby if all you want is an icon? Have a baby, not an icon. Don’t have Nelson Mandela, or Wangari Maathai; have a human.

Additionally, what sort of parent are you that you want your child to be brutalised? Good parents don’t want their children to have to fight for rights, to be beaten by police; to be exploited by governments that promote goodwill using their experiences and profile, but do nothing to implement and operationalise that which the icons were fighting for. They want their children to live in a world that practises the ideals of such icons.

Secondly, this song has nothing to do with men save making people sympathetic to their pain when they want children the female subject doesn’t want to have, or can’t have. The song talks solely about the female, and what they want their child to be; which is annoyingly normative. The song asks the female not to got through with the abortion because the man will raise it but says nothing about what it will take. Who will nurse the baby? Who will hold it when it needs be? What if its cholic? What if it’s disabled? What if it’s autistic, or albino? How will it be raised? What if it’s transgender or genderqueer? What if it’s non-heterosexual? What if it has a mental disorder, or illness? What if that child is boringly average? What then? Will they still want to have their non-Mandela child? None of these is addressed. What is addressed is the yearning of the men to raise this child they will neither carry, nor birth; nor really have a plan to raise. Thy just want this child who will be an icon. Ole wako when you you’re not an icon, baby.

It’s good to bring to attention the need for males to take responsibility for an unwanted pregnancy. It’s good to highlight that some men want children that their female counterparts might be unwilling to carry to term, and birth. What’s not good is doing so superficially. Centring the pain of a man without thinking of the other subjects involved. Desiring a child to make them great instead of have them human.

Nerea fails because it doesn’t do much beyond the superficial, and the patriarchal. It’s not all about you, men. It’s about so much more, for which you should be prepared when you decide to go imploring a female to carry a baby you want too term. Have a human, not a project.

Hi, You’re Not Nice Either

This is what I had planned for this entry.

Pointing out how displeasing it is for people to hide their truth, their real personalities to be agreeable, and pleasing too other people. To lie, and make it such that people know one side of them, and that isn’t nice. It is exactly what nice people do. And it’s not pleasing, or appealing in the long run. One of the parties involved will end up leaving the acquaintance, the relationship because they can’t keep up with the farces put forward for everything to be okay.

Then, this past weekend happened, and I hung out with people. I experienced, once again, why people do what they do, why they present one side to themselves, and aim for the niceness effect. People want friends, and family. They want connections that last beyond an hour, or a day. They want illusions of deep, strong connections if they can’t have more than one day. People, in general, play at being nice to have people around them. It’s not nice, but it is necessary.

More mammals than not are social animals in the core of their existence. We are wired to seek community; to create one, and run with multiple entities around them. It’s why despite epically deplorable conditions, some communities manage to thrive. And why despite epically amazing living conditions, some people living alone don’t live long; and those who feel lonely or rejected even if they are surrounded by loving community members commit suicide. Too many of us need communication, connections that feel tangible inside our psyches to risk alienating people by acting in the manner we feel is natural to, or nurtured within us. This is one of the major reasons people act in whatever way society decides is nice.

Because society decides what is nice when it feels like it. When I was under eighteen, nice girls sat primly, spoke softly, were always polite, and never flamboyant. Nice boys were assertive, ambitious, wore baggy trousers, and jackets. Nice people went to places they were told to go like clockwork: church, school, work, home, to sleep. I am hoping my nieces/nephews grow up in a time where nice people are those who look to the positivity of an existence. People who acknowledge their flaws, and apologise for them, even when they know they won’t change. Accept apologies, and save themselves harmful things that are repeatedly thrown out into the world, and declared acceptable. Nice people shouldn’t have to sacrifice their heath, their personal care and regard when it’s positive, and healthy, for things that harm them. For things, ideas, and actions that take away from their goodness.

I’m idealistic, though. I fear that it will harm them if the world remains with ideologies spread about the world by European imperials.

The same ideals have me disliking nice people, because I know eventually they will reveal their true selves; and it won’t be pretty, or acceptable. Because they’ve hidden it for too long, instead of allowing me to know them gradually. The weekend hang-out lent me a few acquaintances, but no one I will be making a friend; because there was alcohol, and a.m. arguments that implied what was being hidden.

Hi, I’m not Nice.

I really am not.

When I was growing up, the idea was put into me to be a nice person. Nice people don’t talk back, they don’t yell, they don’t sit hunched over or with their legs spread if they are a girl. Nice people don’t question authority, they don’t sneer, they don’t resent anyone. Nice people help everyone. Nice people don’t talk to strangers. Nice people raise money for charity. Nice people don’t give away their parents’ hard earned money. Nice people believe in God, but not every God otherwise they won’t go to Heaven, and Nice People want to go to Heaven.

It got to a point where I started hating the idea of being nice. Nice people did nothing if they followed everyone’s rules, and ended up not being nice when they did try to follow everyone’s rules because at some point, you’ll give away money that your parents will deem a waste. But that wasn’t the only reason. I just couldn’t like myself enough to be nice.

So, I decided to check up the word in the dictionary; try to get to the basics of the word to see if it would help me embrace it. Nice, initially meant gullible, naive, foolish. It came from the Latin word for not to know, ignorance. Declare me displeased. It evolved to its present meaning of pleasant, agreeable, and/or satisfactory in general. Knowing the original meaning, I can’t help but feel the current meaning is in line with the original to some extent. And that the current meaning doesn’t mean one can in fact, counter anything put forth to them even if they’d be right.

I don’t like myself enough to be nice; be it in the original sense or the current one. People are generally displeased when you point out something off about them, or their ideas and opinions. This irks me because I still want to be a nice person. Old habits are hard to kill; or leave behind. But moreso for the people around me, than myself. I want them to experience having niceness in their lives; or in hanging out with me. But I don’t want to be the nice that is taken advantage of. I don’t want to be the nice that agrees with everything, questions nothing, and doesn’t set people straight on whatever wrong, or one dimensional idea they put forth as the only thing to be. I am not satisfactory, not to myself, not to the general public, not to my family. I don’t feel enough.

So, I’m not nice; and I wholly accept the displeasure that comes with it, no matter how hurt I am by it, or frustrated. Sometimes I don’t even care.

it’s not about you, and things people don’t ask

This week has started off to a rough start for some of my acquaintances. A friend of theirs has died, and from all their “Why? What could I have done?”s, it is assumed it was as a result of suicide. I used to have this person as an acquaintance, and as such, news of his death startled me, but I didn’t ask why, or what I could have done. I asked what happened, and what will happen from now on.

Because it’s not about what I could have done, or anyone else short of physically intervening in the act if it was suicide. It’s about what he felt, where he was, and what he wanted to happen after doing it. It’s not about how they feel, or how affected they are by the death. It’s about what he was going through, and what led him there. Maybe why for some, but not for me; because the why is pretty easy. Existing is just not worth the effort.

Why suicide is mostly about the people committing it weighing the efforts expended in staying alive to the worth off staying alive. Some aim to commit suicide and find that staying alive is worth it. Others find that it isn’t. Some are motivated by external forces; bullying, financial ruin, academic pressures and demands, work stress, social burdens like ungrateful, demeaning family and friends, and a social environment that demeans one’s existence, or caring for family with conditions that drain upon one’s energies. Others are motivated by internal forces involving mental unhealthiness. Mental disorders, and illnesses can lead one to try and commit suicide multiple times. Stress is inevitably a common factor in motivating suicide. People are not.

Making suicide about the people who cared for the deceased can be noble, and appreciative of how much they feel for the deceased, but it isn’t the only thing, or the greatest concern. Unless one person’s suicide is a motivator for others’, the focus should be on the deceased. On what motivated them, and how one doesn’t need to look dishevelled, and distraught to be suicidal.

Stating that they were always smiling, or cheerful; that they were outgoing and friendly every time you saw them doesn’t mean they were always that way, It means they were that way with you; and even then it doesn’t mean they never once thought of suicide in your presence. It  means they never showed it to you, or said a word.

So when someone commits suicide, don’t look for moments of sadness, or hopelessness. Realise that suicidal people smile, and interact with others regularly without any hint of their feelings of dying. They can have children, and families; they can have exceptional careers, and strong spiritual faith. They can be suicidal, and fighting it everyday. You don’t push them over the edge. When they decide to do it, they have decided to do it. Some may regret it for their decision was flimsy, and had a solution. Others probably won’t care, others still be relieved because the fight with death and life is over. Whatever the case, keep in mind them, their moments of greatness, and moments of great failure. The small gestures that pleased them, and those that made them flawed. For the suicide is about the deceased. May they rest in the peace they sought; and those they’ve left behind be at peace, eventually.

Love, and Things People Don’t Ask

Often, people don’t ask me what it is to love, and be okay with not being with that person. They ask if I’ve ever been in love, and I tell yes, but it seems adding that I didn’t like that person ceases the conversation for them. It doesn’t for me.

Every time love comes up, and the wonders of how can one live without their love, I think of the simplicity in doing so. Literally, just stay away. Don’t communicate, don’t interact; just don’t involve them in your life. Does this men you don’t love them? No. It means you don’t have anything to do with them beyond feeling for them.

Most people find this strange, and the opposite of loving someone. I have observed their ideas on this through their analyses of stories they read, or watch. They believe proximity denotes intensity of emotions; and ridicule the idea of someone being able to love someone else without using any of the five senses in regards to them, that is sight, touch, hearing, taste, or smell. But it happens. People love other people without seeing them, without hearing them, without touching. They do it through having love within themselves.

A lot of the time, people expend too much effort to promote an idea of love being evoked in someone, instead of love already existing in people, and only finding an object of desire when its energy crosses their path. They make movies, write books, preach it in religious spaces and life coaching seminars (which really are religions by themselves), Too many cultures have a binary, cause and effect approach to every aspect of life, which leaves a lot of things deemed unnatural as they can’t be explained for what they are when the mentalities of the cultures refuse to consider what they are as natural. So, ideas like love is inside everyone regardless of an object of desire or affection are deemed ridiculous, and dismissed.

Doing so doesn’t eradicate their existence, however. It doesn’t take the love out of existence. One still loves, one still feels for to whomever they direct their love. They can despair the feeling, or enjoy it, but they don’t have to interact with people to do so. It doesn’t mean that they don’t love the person; but it’s a good option, especially when being close to that person is dangerous in a tangible manner.

I prefer to enjoy the feeling. The warmth it brings, the headiness, the cheer. Despairing has such a lonely taste to it, and hopelessness. That isn’t what one should feel along with love.

When one is raised to believe physical proximity is the only way to experience love, it may seem downright invalidating to love from afar. Despite growing up with parents who were apart due to work commitments more than living in the same house, I still thought interacting with my love everyday was the only way to be in love. I missed out on 2 years of enjoying being in love because of it. I wasn’t supposed to interact with them, though. I tried to do that in the 3rd year of loving, but it didn’t work out. I hate physical proximity. Familiarity breeds contempt with me, and so, the love feelings started dying. I had to let it go for the sake of myself, and feeling good. It wasn’t easy. It hurt a lot, but accepting that was greater relief. It was worth it. A little practise, and a lot of resolve made it happen.

No title, just thoughts

All the intentions of writing regularly go out of the window when I find everything I want to write about is something negative. And I’m more tired, and incoherent than not when I want to. These feelings, tangible and intangible, make my writing suffer. Most times I want to care, but I don’t. Other times, I care, and try to write on paper, especially now with electricity outages occurring as if they’ve been paid to do so. Writing on paper is easy access, and reliable. It’s also less about editing and more flow. Even that, though, isn’t remedying the restlessness, the inefficiency in me. Exercising, long walks, music; nada. Meditation just makes me sad, and is always being interrupted by family. I want to return to gicagi. I’ll trade red spiders with smooth skin for non-productivity and feeling overwhelmed by anything. I’ll trade hot rooms, being awake at 2 am after sleeping four hours, I’ll stay in darkness and shower in a room I don’t like to write and write well. To put things out that feel like what I want them to be. To have space to feel, and think, and execute my plans. To ge back to writing, and writing well.

It’s Valentine’s

And with the obviousness set forth, I say I’m actually excited for the season. I’m thinking of doing it the way I did way back in 2010, and there’ll even be cake and sweets. It will be a sweet one, I hope.

I don’t do Valentine’s in a big, blatant manner though I wish I did. I wish I was the type to buy manila paper, and art craft equipment. To search online for do it yourself videos, and sit down to make cards, and banners; decorations to put up in my space; and give to people I know for the season.

I wish I was the type to have a device in which I can set up playlists for every day leading up to the end of the season, which is the end of February for me. Have themes like current hits with Beyonce, and Ellie Goulding, and Paramore. Old school hits with Stevie Wonder, and Charlie Pride, Aretha Franklin, and Chaka Khan. Erotic with The Weeknd, Tinashe, and Michael Jackson, and Nicki Minaj, Nickelback, too. Cuteness with Ed Sheeran, and Kelly Clarkson. Sexy with Aaliyah, Toni Braxton, Xcape, and Ciara. Enough to keep a smile, and the mood alive for weeks.

I’d like to be the kind to cook spicy, savoury finger foods; and wear lace, and satin, silk, and velvet.

I am not. I do t-shirts and slacks, slippers, and tea in the evening. It isn’t inspiring, but it doesn’t deter me. I’ve been making playlists featuring Sam Smith, Beyonce, Aaliyah, Ciara, Alicia Keys, Michael Jackson (cause the man had sexy tracks like give in to me, whoo!). I have a bunch of romantic movies to watch like Something New, Beyond the Lights, Jason’s Lyric, Rent, and Twilight. And I’ll make my favourite treats, read romantic novels like Jude Deveraux’s Velvet series, and maybe an erotica if I can find a good one. In between all this, I’ll be writing.

Valentine’s should be good, in the least. So far, it has had good moments.

Happy Valentine’s.

sKenyans, shame on you. Dishonour on you, your family, your children’s children, and your cow

Ah, some Kenyans (sKenyans) on twitter, and facebook; aren’t you lot just a terrible example of humanity? Not a reason have you to be terrible, but there you go sharing what has been unsolicited, and is harmful. I don’t know why these 4chan-esque posters are allowed online, but I have this deep desire to see them no longer. And for the most part, I have managed to avoid them; but with the ability for people to have multiple accounts at a time, and that thing called manual reposting, it’s not an entire success. Hence how I found myself reading tweets by unnecessary bigots regarding a kiss.

This kiss is heterosexual, and boring which in itself isn’t worth much furore if any attention. However, because sKenyans on twitter, and facebook apparently have to fill some quota on being harmful negatives, they pervade the kenya-twitter-sphere with their misogynistic slut labelling of the woman involved in the kiss.

If their problem was the man involved, I’d probably be less moved to comment on it. It’s not, however. It’s not that the man is a liar, a sexist, misogynistic, sycophant government official, who spends more time making the government look irrational than communicating effectively enough to manipulate people into seeing the government in a positive, or non-negative light. Because there’s no one working for a government’s communication department that isn’t manipulating people with their messages. Their problem is that the woman was pictured with a man who isn’t the man she was pictured with prior. Their problem is that she’s a female. And that’s misogynistic.

sKenyans are a shame; repugnant excuses of humanity. Exaggerating a kiss to sexual acts, and then slandering a woman as being irresponsible with her sexual life is revolting, and undeserving of any consideration that doesn’t lead to rebuking of their behaviour. Equating a promiscuous lifestyle to deserving of rape in the case of a woman is violent. Expecting them to learn different, to be good is a pipe dream. There’s more chance public money stashed in Switzerland will be returned with all the interest gained than the likes of @masaku will stop being hateful, spiteful persons committing violence against women for the sole reason that they are not him.

trigger warning, depression

It’s a day in which waking up is an inevitability, but unwanted. I can’t sleep for more than two hours this week, and getting to sleep is a struggle, although I am sleepy all the time. I want to hate it, but the effort is too great. So, I’m in this limbo where nothing is happening, and I’m whining because there are options I should take, but I won’t because I’m too tired, or apathetic, or watching a series and unwilling to turn it off for a few minutes to deal with the insomnia.

It’s a day in which the ground is firm, the sun is hot, the air is dry, and my hair is glossy because the sunshine warms the lotion in my hair, and makes it work the way putting my hair under a drier for a few minutes would if I tried to go near a hair dryer. My skin is dry, my nose bleeds, and my eyes water a lot because of the air. So, when I feel like crying, I have an excuse.

The world is going on with their plans around me. There’s a pregnancy, a loan, a renovation. People are getting jobs, and promotions. Income. People are doing things they want, or as close to it as they can get.

My world remains the same: try to sleep, try not to wake up and fail. Write the story, and keep writing no matter how much I hate it. Listen to music that doesn’t make me cry, or curl up in myself. Listen, and watch shows that will keep my mind from thinking that it’s a good time to google what types of drugs I can overdose on that won’t destroy my organs. I figure contaminated blood is a loss worth the rest of my organs being viable for donation. Or run away from home. Leave and say nothing to anyone. And never return.

It’s been a day; the kind that I will put down as one I found at its end with me still in existence.

Tying my lesso

Originally posted on chanyado:

What I remember about that night were the sounds. The scraping of the bed being dragged across the floor. The insistent pounding of fists at the door. The thudding of my heart echoing in my ears. The muttering of prayer tumbling out of my mouth in a stream of whispering.

They had come after me.

Earlier that evening the driver of the matatu I was travelling in kicked us out slurring, ‘nimechoka. Tokeni.’ Though we tried to protest, his erratic swerving had left us jittery and we felt we were safer walking than being at the mercy of this drunken driver. So several hundred metres away from Oyugis, we started walking. I was on my way to a funeral and was carrying a huge white box overflowing with flowers, stuffed with the wreaths I had been asked to bring from Kisumu.

The walk is a blur to me, but I…

View original 1,620 more words