OF GAYS , LESBIANS, BISEXUALS AND TRANSGENDERS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Who wouldn’t want to be a woman? Even Levi’s wife looked back to see if her girlfriend was behind her. Pun intended. There is a certain flair attached to womanhood that men would never relate. Well, unless they transition into this formidable species. The LGBT or GLBT community better known as the gay community are taking over the world by fag (*cough* storm). Gay pride is the new black and no one is bleaching it.

“My name is Chris”. First thing I thought was definitely this is a man. Probably my type too. The name has a nice ring to it, something like Nate or Tony. Its rasp is masculine, humble and extremely striking; like chocolate, vanilla and strawberry together. Apparently it was short for Christine, her cues were impeccable. She looked like a man, sounded like a man; how on earth did she have lady parts? Everything about her screamed testosterone; downright to the nitty gritty. Impostor. She would probably have taken me out and I introduce her to my family before knowing her true identity. I am actually blonde but born black.

For some reason people tend to be more comfortable with lesbians than gays. There is something about a man being feminine that makes eyebrows meet the hairline. Being partially trans phobic, borderline conformist and full on homophobic, I am not very willing to actively interact with this particular community. However, after researching and getting to understand their daily lives in this cruel world, I am much more open minded. Hey Caitlyn!

LGBT community are constantly faced with discrimination. It’s almost like being black in 1757 or Lupita in that porn movie. Horrific. Nobody really understands them and nobody wants to. Biblically they are cursed for having fetish for the same sex or cravings of being of a different gender. Socially they are not worth more than a poodle chained to the kennel. There is no such thing as right or wrong; it’s just is what it is. I mean Shakespeare said ‘To be or Not to be’. Who even knows what that means? Yet nobody never questioned that.

There is nothing wrong with being who you are. If it feels right then it is right. Never live your life within the confines of other people’s version of reality. If you are gay then you are gay. Just don’t tell my mum and a billion of other people who might end up stoning you. Stop homophobia, after all we all living this life for the first time; there was no handout

CONFESSIONS OF A GARISSA ATTACK VICTIM

It wasn’t what he said that scared me, it was how he said it. The rapture of his voice could send a vampire back to its grave, his tone was not that of trauma. It had something hazy, some sort of hidden fear marinated with great strength. He saved himself from the jaws of death in the land of paradise he says. He never wanted to leave Garissa. It was his Canaan. The militants egyptified it.

There were rounds of ammunition fired, really loud bangs then grave silence like something bad was about to happen. Two minutes after that a pandemonium escaped; chaos everywhere. I was in my room when it all happened. The militants ordered students to come out of their rooms and lie face down on the school grounds. Some did, others couldn’t live up to the task.

I couldn’t leave my room, my friends and I were frightened and knew Hell’s gates were flooded. We hid in the last room of the dormitory side. Thank God our room looked more like a storage facility from the outside; something which always bothered us but who knew it would be our ticket out of the heist.

After realizing that some students were still hiding in the halls of residence, they set out for them. Each room was ransacked and those found were made to kneel outside along with the rest. I didn’t know it was about to blow up. We only thought they were out to scare us or send a message that Garissa has gone back to its ancestral ways. But we were wrong.

The militants were targeting Christians. It was definite, they conversed in Arabic but addressed in Swahili. Being a Christian, I was certain I would not see another day if I stepped out of that room. It was my safe haven. Luckily I had Muslim friends who dressed me in a Kanzu just in case. A few students were saved by the Kenyan Defense Forces but those who remained were not as fortunate. Another round of shots was heard. It did not seem like they had killed two people.

We quickly hid under the bed and covered our ears. There was a lot of screaming and I could smell death from round the corner. The militants then told the girls to separate from the boys. Some few boys pretended to be female thinking that they would be pardoned. They thought wrong. The radicals shot every single one of them in cold blood in front of the others.

Earsplitting wails could be heard once more but they were ordered to calm down or they suffer the same. By this time I was no longer scared. I had accepted my fate. I had lost hope. I no longer froze at the thought of death. I just lay on that floor waiting for it to come find me and be done with.

I lost friends, classmates even enemies I might say. I was not ready to give them up, they were taken from me and from their families. I only have memories now, there is no point of memories if you can’t remake them with those who you loved.

Moi University Garissa branch was an amazing place after it was reckoned. The sun was always up, the community was united and commodities there were accessible and cheap. Anyone would have fallen in love with it after a few days; it was paradise to most of us. I guess nothing good last forever. I want to pay a tribute to all those who passed away and many condolences to the family.

-The above is a former student of Moi University Garissa branch and a survivor of the second deadliest attack made on Kenyan soil.

A moment of silence for the 148 students we lost.

KENYANS DONT READ, THEY INSTAGRAM by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I realized I was born in the wrong continent when I had a five shilling coin transformed into a note then back to a coin. If you didn’t go through the twenty shilling note and five hundred shilling Moi note, it is illegal for you to be perusing my blog. You should get out of those diapers and get some big girl panties or big boy pants (non-existent). Many escapades passed that confirmed my doubts about this country’s prospects. Only one sets me off till this date; writing is a janitorial work.

The only people who consider writing as a source of income are writers themselves and landlords. They are the two lots who get paid through writing. I saw your warning Bwana Chela (landlord). The rest of the population dismisses it as gum stuck under their shoe. Writing is considered uncool almost placed on the same level as reading. Thank God the odds are over and not draw. (See what I did there). Most people would rather watch a dog chase its tail in demented circles than hold a book.

Kenyans don’t read; they Instagram, they Tweet, they Snapchat and occasionally visit my blog. Typical. Everything we do involves reading or writing which is a tad too ironic. Using hashtags, setting locations, putting down captions, setting statuses, updating quotes; come on people. Then after all that; you’ll hear Njoki WA Wairimu saying in that fake Briton accent; “I don’t like reading”. Ms Wambua and several other writers pull the trigger one after the other, others also willingly go to flooded areas; sorry Huruma.

The worst feeling a writer has is to write a five hundred word article only to achieve five views. This is the number one cause of suicides among the artists behind the words. Worse still is to write a whole novel and no one shows up at your book signing apart from your mom and siblings. A book only a mother could love is averagely not a very good book. It gets worse when you forward your friends links to your work then get asked what are these stuff you keep on sending. It’s worse than onions next to your pupils.

Being a writer has so much encompassed but very few know the struggle that comes along with it, most don’t give a damn. Well, we also don’t give a damn. You readers are selfish and the worst human beings on earth. I should probably take that back before my page views become ancestral.

Reading is not limited even socialites read; remember Huddah Monroe realized it was Prince who died? We read for the most part of our lives and it makes us better people, more interesting and diverse; try it, it won’t kill. As for my fellow writers, we may not be Biko Zulu or my personal favorite Oyunga Pala but who wants to be them anyway?

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IF YOU HAVEN’T SHOPPED AT GEAN, YOU HAVEN’T SHOPPED AT ALL.

Style On Fleek.

WHY KENYANS WOULD NOT BE IN THE BIBLE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Easter should have come early. February early. No I would not wish to quicken Jesus’ demise but with the January blues spreading over to March; even Judas would have been paid 15 coins. I haven’t been this broke in so long that beggars on the street would share their daily collections with me. All of you who think Kalekye lost weight because of gym continue being delirious. At some point last month it would have taken a hundred shillings to actually be considered broke.

Back to Easter. There is something about this fish that should spark interest. Jesus was a shepherd but no mention of eating sheep, goat, cow or chicken. Not so much of a cook, not so much into animals on land but a lot into unleavened bread and that wine. We could never measure up to be His Highness but if Kenyans could…… Nyamachoma would be prepared on a daily basis, the famous Keg after every meal, people kubruce (getting wasted) before prayers, disciples engaging in corrupt deals and stealing Jesus’ miracles and you bet XYZ and Churchill would make all sorts of parodies. The whole of Luke 24 would be filled with verses of kufisiana (hunger expeditions) and Jesus would probably resurrect on Thursday. Kenyans would never be in the Bible.

I have to give it up to my main man Jesus for His loyalty. How many of us would die and willingly come back to those who ended us in the first place and not kill them? You literally have to have a higher power for that kind of composure. I mean if somebody simply steps on my right foot, I would make it a personal mission to go to war on both of his feet. We all need a little Jesus in us especially in this season. Easter is a representation of love and sacrifice for a greater purpose. So in every situation try asking yourself What Would Jesus Do? Sometimes you will not find an answer, the devil is a lie, ten Jesus pieces bruh!

HAPPY EASTER!

HOW YOU SAY HELLO CAN COST YOU FRIENDSHIPS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

 
Have you ever kept tabs on how you greet? Rather who you greet and why you greet them? Well, personally I have never given two cents about it. The only thing I keep track of is who I do not greet. (Chuckles) not so many but I would wish to add a few on that list who checked into the friend zone after stalking.

Greetings are like the appetizer then the main course kicks in in form of a conversation. They are like the gateway to how good, boring, sad, interesting and slanderous the tête-à-tête will be. No one really pays attention but the way someone responds to your hello determines whether it will be a hellnah or a wassup.

Different people have different ways of greeting. The French love a little kiss on the cheek with a sultry comment ca va? The Spanish love hugs and screams and a lot of hullaballoo that makes it seem like a wedding is taking place right there and then, accompanied by a Como te va todo?  Red Bull for breakfast? Kenyans love that low key niaje niaje but you have to have realized the Spanish in our women. The high pitch Arianna Grande scream, the hands in the air being waved like they just don’t care buttered by a long hug as if you are Samson and you just found out Delilah left you. Spend one day in Kenya and you will leave with all your scars healed and all your money gone (let’s fight corruption).

When greeting a lady make sure it’s proper especially if it’s for the first time. This means no hugging, if you want a hug, go get your sister or a tree. There is no Hi-five, basically we are way past the diaper stage and you are not my grandpa. Nevertheless, it’s annoying, that weird finger-locking confusion where the thumb goes in between the middle finger and index finger so the whole greeting is kind of messed up as you cannot figure out whether to rectify the finger position or simply ignore and continue with the conversation. You feel me? The proper way is a handshake which no one in the varsity and whole of Kenya remembers. Treat every woman like a queen as they are a part of somebody’s throne.

When greeting an older person, do not curtsy as it’s not a performance. The same goes for bowing. But depending on different cultures, you must be well versed with what they consider etiquette. Do not bring a rude boy vibe to a Chinese restaurant; those chopsticks are deadly. Men normally do not have that much bodily contact and if they do, please call Caitlyn Jenner. She/ He will help you accordingly.

Women are naturally delicate (do not read as weak) human beings and we love to connect with everyone in general. Thus boundaries are easily marked if any and hugs, pecks, hi-fives are not really limited when it comes to fellow counterparts.

Mind your Hello, do not let it be a goodbye.

NOT ALL FIGHTS END IN DEATH UNLESS IT'S A LOVE TRIANGLE

 

Two words; cat fight. Whoever came up with that phrase cannot possibly be alive and if he (must be a he) is, he is under heavy security right now. If I happened to be thinking along his shallow dismissible lines he must correlate the woman’s stealth like nature to that of a feline. Cats purr when you sooth them, chin up when you pet them and claws out when you provoke them; women do not operate this way.

Women will give you any reaction whatsoever when you cuddle them, frisk them, ignore them and aggravate them. We operate on a more complex level compared to the cat. Point is, us females do not want to be labeled in any type of way so unless you have nine lives; Keep walking bruh.

With that misrepresentation set straight, let’s get into the real deal. A story about two men, a lady and one coffin. Yes, in the twenty first century love triangles usually have two males and a female and in certain occasions it’s a parallelogram.  I have nothing against females and their affinity to multiple men to score at, in point of fact I am for it. For so long women have been mistreated and belittled by men thus for them to have a dose (scratch that a pharmaceutical) of their own medicine then I dare a doctor to stop it. Play on my lovelies, outline the game for them. However keep in mind that this is just like Sport Pesa; nobody goes home the way they left.

Back to the coffin, two innocent men and one lethal woman. I have seen real deep love, probably lived it at some point but it would be a lie if I say the side dude died for love. I mean who do you all think you are? There is no Romeo, there is no Jack Dawson (Leonardo DiCaprio) so let’s all come back down on earth and be Juma and Onyango. Oh wait Juma killed Onyango already.

Every situation has its own complexities, there is no black and white. And if there is find out whether it’s charcoal black and if it is really white or Navajo white. Because of so many alterations, I will not delve into the nitty gritty of how the murder came about. Also, I did not get the unbiased story from the men in blue. Typical. Nevertheless, it’s so unfortunate that one does not get to live to their full potential before being laid to rest. Condolences to the family and the girlfriend.

Advice to everyone in an uncomfortable situation whether it’s a love triangle, pyramid, square and so on, DO NOT TAKE ANYONE’S LIFE EVEN YOURS; like that guy Mbaratha says it; it’s never that serious!