BEING DIFFERENT IS NO LONGER A CURSE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Ever felt like you are trapped? Nothing physical withholding you yet you are incapable of doing anything. You are trying to move forward, probably better yourself or even wreck yourself but you can’t seem to find the keys? You can clearly see the knob, the windowpane has never been so clearly cut out, the roof can never get that amiss but there you are, you can’t crawl, you can’t roll, and you almost can’t breathe. The El nino is swooping you over but it’s the dry season.

You are so confined within your own skin, your will is surpassed by what you think is reality. You get so submerged in what others (family, friends, strangers) think or feel is right that you forget that there is no right or wrong; it’s just mere opinions turned into facts. Your walls cave in but you no longer fight back because you used up all your strength trying to convince others that your glass is actually half full. Before you realize you are so comfortable in your discomfort that it befits normal.

You beat up yourself as you are a spectacle and no longer human. People use you as a point of reference, discriminate against you for being different, shunned for the choices that might have been made for you; they owe and applaud for the mess you have become. Forced to take up everybody’s opinion but yours; you lose yourself by trying to live up to everyone’s idea of who you should be. You then realize that there was nothing wrong with you but it’s too late. You spent so much time convincing others that you were the perfect fit for everything. But nobody really cared.

Celebrate that your skin colour matches the dark, appreciate those zebra stripes on your hips and butt cheeks, flaunt your idiocy through your craftsmanship, parade your womanhood and take the presidency and don’t you dare forget to spray that bald head for the sun to mirror a little sharper. You are beautiful, do not be ashamed to show it to the world just look a little deeper. Do not lead a life of incarceration. Do not just not die. Live! Live! Live!

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 39 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The first reaction I get when I tell people that I listen to reggae is simply startling. Hair falls like winter, hearts cringe, eyebrows meet hairlines, teeth separate; amusing, yes? No? I never quite understand why, considering music chooses you and not the other way round; rest in peace Kenyan music. I bet if I had dreadlocks, wore a straight outa my mom’s closet blouse and a cap pointing to the sky I would fit in perfectly. But I am not about that life.

Reggae music has a sacred tune to it that awakens at the same time calms nerves that you rarely feel. Its rhythmic contortion of different instruments at the same time having one key higher than the rest is purely artistic; a resonant above the rest, a salvation to the deaf. It feels African yet not fully conversed to our ways at the same time not corrupted by the Western noise. It’s beautiful to the ears, its eerie yet identified with; it’s the stream of life and the way to death. Reggae music can kill you without you feeling the pain. Instead you find yourself savoring the intricate moment of a combination of knife on neck to a mellow beat. It’s the type of music that you dance to at a wedding, disturbing all your pearls without making a complete fool of yourself.

Tonight, its Reggae night! My kind of music. Culture has been in my records for so long I should be arrested but I can’t seem to leave him behind, kicking it off with “Frying Pan”. It’s amusing how the genre speaks so much sense yet maintains a fun and dramatic vibe throughout. If you do not have the legendary and overrated Bob Marley; gerrarahia please. I am absolutely absorbed in “Could you be loved” and of course one of his number one hits “Get Up Stand Up”; who is not? You cannot be a reggae fan if you do not embrace creative artists like, Marlon Asher, Don Campbell, Admiral Tibet, Freddie McGregor, Burning Spear, Richie Spice and my all-time every time drug the talented Gregory Isaacs.

Reggae is the only genre which has remain loyal to its heritage compared to all other fields. As much as it has branches like roots and culture, raga and dancehall, all these branches like the tree have a little bit of the Genesis in them. Reggae music soothes, stimulates, lifts, stirs and empowers all at the same time. It’s not just music, it’s a lifestyle. Unfortunately I still can’t sleep after this, my search for a ‘Cure’ continues and not ‘Jah’……..

Buo buo boom!!!

MY VERY OWN GOLIATHS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The real identity of this person shall not be revealed due to security and mortification purposes.

My life as a drug peddler

Which substances do you deal with?
I do not have a limitation as to what I put in the market but on a daily basis I sell weed. It does exceptionally well at all times, I suffer little to non-losses.

Is this the ‘career’ path that you wanted to take?
No, Not at all. I would wish the circumstances were different and I would be the president (he giggles) but life has a way of giving you lemons and I decided to make drugs out of it. My background is definitely the root cause of what I am doing today, I lost both of my parents when I was very young so I live with my grandmother who is the sole provider; she can barely make two ends meet. I ventured into hawking, washing cars even a public toilet cleaner but none paid off.

How much do you make on a daily basis?
(Chuckles) I make close to three thousand a day on a very good day and it’s always a good day. But it goes down to one thousand five hundred float because you have to pay your mignons and it’s crucial that the police get their fair share. In a month I can bring home fifty thousand just from selling pot only.

Selling illegal drugs is risky business, why not start up a shop instead?
It is a risky business. The police are not even the ones who pose the threat, doing jail time does not scare me one bit, it’s the veterans and the publics that give me shivers. You can get killed at any time once they feel you are threatening their market. Opening a shop is a good idea but it’s just not for me. I am not cut out for that kind of business. I want to pay rent for one structure and that’s for me and my family, I can’t keep on checking expiry dates of milk and bread or asking suppliers to drop off a new stock. However, it’s something I can consider once I find a wife. (Smiles)

How is it that you balance school and your businesses?
School is actually my core business. I thank God for being so kind and allowing me the opportunity to learn and to get sponsors who have helped me all through. I am in second year right now pursuing a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Balancing the two is as easy as eating peanuts. You would find students make fifty percent of my customers, twenty percent are lecturers and the remaining are workers and locals. The two support each other.

Clearly you have wits and the papers to prove it so is it a lifestyle that you have acquired or a necessity?
I do realize that with my level of education, it’s ironical that I am venturing into the ‘wrong’ path as many would say but what people don’t see is that I have a family to take care of. I have been taking care of my grandma and siblings since I was seven. I may not be using the correct channels to put food on the table but that’s not the matter in hand. I was blessed enough to get sponsors but the two siblings following me have found a hard time . Food must be put on the table, books on their desks, clothes on their backs and shoes on their feet. It is a lifestyle yes and a necessary one.

No given today that you are provided with everything you need, you and your family, would you consider quitting?
I would consider leaving the practice but it is not as easy. If I happen to leave this life, I would be causing mayhem amongst many people. Especially with the police. They get a certain cut so as not to lock me down and if it so happens they do not get that cut, I am not sure what will happen to me and my family. In this line of work, you cannot just up and leave anytime you want, you are answerable to many people.
Do you ever regret doing what you are doing?

DIRTYL AUNDRY PART 2 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The floor was cold, the stench from the ‘restroom (read bucket)’ became stronger, the one blanket to be shared reeked of urine worth of centuries, the blood on her chin had then clotted, and her kinky hair had gone afro from all the sweat. It is nearly dawn. Her fellow jailbirds would take turns in throwing up, with the bucket full, it would slowly flow towards where they cramped up. The guards pretended not to take notice.

Kantana reached out for the blanket, she covered her back and face just to forget for a second the situation she was in. She could feel the bedbugs making their way down her back but no pest could compare to the one she was facing. She gently began to scrape off the blood from her face. She spit in her hand and rubbed off the stubborn ones. Her stomach felt uneasy; she hadn’t eaten for three days. The bile tortured her insides occasionally trying to find an outlet. She was weak but she pressed on.

‘The jury finds Ms. Kantana Ferusi guilty as charged, sentenced to thirty years in jail!’ Her eyes were blank, no emotion as she faced her verdict even her lawyer was taken aback by her reaction. She showed no dispute, no sigh of relief either. One would say she took it like a man but even a man would be broken if they were to spend the prime time of their life behind bars. She would get out when she was fifty, her one and only son would be thirty three by then, and probably Peter Kenneth’s son would have taken presidency. She thought randomly.

Prayers were her cocaine, her grandma taught her that God listens to those of broken spirits and of damaged souls. She prayed for her son, not once did she remember herself. She would think of him when she wanted to give up and end her misery; she might have given life to him but without him, she wouldn’t have kept hers for that long. He motivated her, he was her little Messiah in her apocalypse.

Day 1478. It’s March 5th 2007. Her son’s 8th birthday. She calls home to speak to him as tradition, she was always the first to wish him a happy birthday and she made sure of this. Kunta was growing big, his naivety has shrunk down a couple notches. The neighbors were talking and the fallacy that his mother was in the army seemed less true by the day. However, he loved his mother, he would take her word for it to the grave. She would tell him the sun is black and not yellow and he would live by her word to the very last. Conversely, She was a stranger to him, barely remembered the curvature of her face, was her skin bronze, was her hair long, did she have a birthmark across her back, was she tall and lean or short and thick? He would ask his grandmother.

Despite all the mystery, she was his hero.

BEAUTIFUL WOMEN DO NOT END UP WITH 'BEAUTIFUL' MEN by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Beauty is a curse and a blessing. A fact that those with rare beauty dispute but given a day to walk in Beyoncé’s shoes, you would wish you were Birdman. Whatever Lil Wayne meant when he sang ‘Stunning like My Daddy’. Beautiful ladies never get the respect they need no matter how hard they’ve worked or how much they have achieved. They are always the pretty face in the office and we all know the stereotypical view that no striking woman has brains. I want to personally thank Kim Kardashian, Amber Rose, Becky Arunga, Vera Sidika, Huddah Monroe and Vanessa Chettle for being so kind and propagating this notion. You all deserve a brain.

To begin with who exactly are beautiful men? There are different categories of men depending on looks, money and……well that is actually just it. Michael Ealy from ‘Act like a Lady Think like a Man’ is beautiful, our very own Nick Mutuma is a beautiful man, Alonso from Tujuane is a handsome man, Ian Mugoya is a handsome man, George Clooney is not human; he is a god, Jamal from Empire is a very huge loss to society, Mwai Kibaki cannot be categorized due to various physical features that only Lucy Kibaki could handle, Paul Muite; bless your heart. I have no intentions whatsoever in questioning the Most High’s word, but how are we all created in the same image?

Attractive ladies suffer the most when it comes to dating because of one or two things. They can get whoever they want, whenever they want and however they want even when they do not want. This means they are spoilt for choice and would hardly settle down with anyone. This Marylyn Monroe mentality tends to cloud their judgment of everyone, both male and female. With a pretty face, all doors open without you knocking but with brains you are allowed to get in.

Having the knowledge that you are actually an attractive person, allows you to understand how someone in the opposite sex who is equally attractive feels. They all feel like gods and God bless Casanova and his legacy for he has rendered cupid unemployed. Beautiful men go for manicure, pedicure, massage, eyebrow-shaping, it’s like dating a woman only that the anatomy differs. Beautiful women are used to the constant attention so when they date from the same caliber, they feel threatened or belittled. This is because their glory has to be shared and therefore no one pays as much attention to them as they did before. You cannot blame them however, you cannot drive a Phantom your whole life then all of a sudden start walking, it’s not right.

For a woman it is easier to date a man of lower ‘standards’ than one of the same or higher level. It creates a certain psychological balance in the relationship. For example Jay-z and Beyoncé, I look at them and wonder how did that happen? Was it at gun point? Is it illuminati? Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, Nikki Minaj and Meek Mill, Uhuru Kenyatta and Margaret Kenyatta, the list is unending. Some of these are charity cases, apologies Meek. Therefore ladies, for you to be married for long years and wear those jerseys written ‘Together Since Before Christ’ choose well and choose rare beauty.

MEN PLEASE STOP THIS BLACK AMERICAN NONSENSE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Kenyan men have adopted a new style of talking, walking and carrying themselves, I would say it is good but I do not have time for lies. I have no idea why they are all acting like they carry a gun all day and belong to street gangs like it’s an actual job description. Apparently they are all from The Bronx, New York and they have been hustling their way to the top by selling dope and crack. We all know you live in Lang’ata next to the Shopping Centre and your mother still whoops for coming home at 7pm instead of 6pm.

I thought it was only one man that was like that until I met my good friend Derek, now referred to as Rich Hommie Derscrapntenae. Just to clarify, he is not exactly rich, I am not sure about the Hommie and what does Derscrapntenae mean? How is it even formed from Derek? Anyway he is a self-proclaimed rapper and has several mix tapes- the main reason he dropped out of medicine school and terminated a six year sponsorship. Bless his mother’s heart. I don’t like putting a brother down but music was meant for some to hear only.

There is a certain thuggish aura that is being passed on from comrade to comrade, most of them are broke so I can’t judge them for aping black American men. Plus I would hate to be Mutahi Ngunyi and be forced to eat a humble pie. Apologies for referring boys in campus as men, truly from the bottom of my heart. However some few of them are actually grown up and decent. The rest are busy trying to look like snoop dog in his song ‘What’s My Name’ and accidentally come off as Prince of Bellaire.

The clothes, the hair, the shoes and to top it all off the slang; sisters, run. We all know thugs don’t have money. Saying words like ‘Wassup ma’?’ boy I didn’t ‘birth’ you therefore keep that WhatsApp as an application and go get educated on how to address women. Statements like ‘wachu doin’?’, ‘we hang’, ‘you real cute lil ma’, ‘you bangin’ and others that are too below my literacy level should cease! Effective immediately. Hang? Hang what? Clothes? Probably yourself if you talk like this and no, I am not little, I will bang your head if you approach me like this. I will not touch on the grammar as I will fall down because of poor game disease.

Be yourself gentlemen. You do not need a bunch of women so as to show who is boss and if you do that means you have never been one your whole life. Focus on getting that money, honey. They say money doesn’t matter and those who say that don’t matter themselves, get it right. It’s a broken world already, don’t add broke to it. Women are manipulative, they will use you and leave you like you were a theory but don’t bother unless they are stopping your cheque. Don’t conform to who you are not and stop running around in packs like lesbian women.

Keep it real and keep it one hundred.

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 43 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I have always known I will be one of those mothers who buy cake for their kids instead of baking one. Who said baking is what makes a mother a mother? If I ‘birthed’ you then that is it, my job is done. I have earned the title, I have carried myself for two decades plus so in a farfetched way I have been my secondary mother even before I have walked down the aisle. You don’t see me baking myself anything and for that reason those nine months are not of my concern. Apologies to all the actual real mothers, my condolences to your freedom of having to lack certain knowledge.

It’s going to be a long night ahead and no one gives great company like Martha Stewart. She is so inspiring; gives hope to all the cooks out there and all the non-cooks who still try to cook and they are already in their forties. Better switch up hobbies; if they cancel dinner on you for a decade, sweetheart bless your heart. They will never make it even when 2030 comes, let’s just say it is not in their vision.

I love good food, if it isn’t good then I am not eating it unless it is the serious case of munchies; with munchies I can even eat a sponge and assume its vanilla sponge cake. It gets realer. Determined to pull a Hell’s kitchen in this house and I am not even prepared for the heat. Raise your hand if you know what a skewer is, anyone? A dredger? A marzipan spacer?
Crickets………plus I really can’t see you, you know, the art of writing and everything.

May the games begin, so far I have a mixing bowl, baking powder and a sieve. How efficient am I? Somebody bow down. Clearly this ship is about to pull a titanic on me but I’m going to bring a Noah stunt and save us all. For I have a dream and my dream is to bake cake, cookies and biscuits for my proponents of good genes and not even a dredger will stop me!

Two hours into time, I am already tired of running around the house trying to coincide with whatever Stewart is saying and doing. Zero knowledge of what she is talking about therefore proving my work half-baked, literally. It became more of a work out session than a baking frenzy. With a void existing in my culinary skills, zero to non-tools, Instagram posting of \bakingtingz \kenyanmarthastewart \isacutteraknife? And constant replying of text and WhatsApp messages my baking didn’t even take off, sad tale. Here I am staring at food network wondering; Martha Stewart, who is your mother?