A Man Can Get Any Woman, Any Woman Who Wants Him That Is…

Keep Talking, Am Listening.

And your partner is not. Or they are, but still have no clue what you’re on about. We’re told often to communicate, but we’re not told what to communicate, how, when. Or even to who. ‘Talk!’ we’re told. ‘Keep the lines open’

We have been told, and were shown pictures. That’s a lot of times if you consider that a picture is a thousand words (in simple logic, it follows that a word is therefore one thousandeth of a picture. ie. If you cut any picture into a thousand pieces, then each piece is a word).

We’re told to communicate. But men are too simple emotionally, it is impossible to talk amongst themselves or to them. Women are too complex, they can’t talk to us or to each other or even to children. We’re a little better off in that regard, we speak the same language as kids. Boys only though. Young girls are interns from the time they can talk, so Sankofa, my 8 year old niece, er, she’s been professional since 2002. And as most interns, she is better than her teachers.

Men are simple but logical. And simple logic works for most things. ‘I go to ATM at Kasuku, fuel at Shell, go up the road to Red Sea, eat, drink, watch soccer, SMS her, meet the boys, admire beauty, SMS her, home by 11pm, sleep solo, wait for Sunday.’ Of course things go wrong right after ATM. With cash in pocket and phone at hand, some alterations just happen. The dude becomes critical of his own decisions. Why text her twice. (‘her’ here is you, his woman for the last 36 months). So he doesn't text you and doesn't come to pick you as agreed.

I know the logic fails often, but this is the best guide there is. Talk to them in simple logic. Not the complex language of emotions.

You have driven, yes, driven, from an island, let’s say, Madagascar (II), to see this boy in Nairobi. You’re doing 3 degrees courses simultaneously, Law, Medicine and Nuclear Physics. Scholarship by Da Furher, Herr Hitler himself, Hitler comes in person to pay your fees. Your dad is an ex-teacher, was sacked because he killed some kids, shot them, for coming late. You also work in a children’s hospital 12 hours a day. But you drive from Madagascar (II, it was funnier) to Hurlingham, Nairobi, Kenya, to see this chap. That act in itself is a show of love of the highest order. So how should you announce your little surprise visit. You need not, the facts are bare, there.

If you know anything about men, this is how you’re talking to him.

‘I come here, now, to see you, (insert his name, first name only, short form, otherwise he thinks you’re talking to his dad, and then switches off) because I like you (here insert your name, whilst pointing at yourself, don’t point at the chest, otherwise it gets sexual, not at tummy or he thinks you want babies, or worse, you’re pregnant, framing him. Point at your Driver’s Licence, or elbows). That is the same reason why I have been calling you daily for the last year. I like you. You are good man’

Simple short sentences, with poor grammar are winners.

For guys, call often, and express simple clear feelings. Feelings you have towards her. I am happy when I am with you. You make me happy. I sent you a text when our team won, because I want to share my happiness with you.

That should be simple enough for most of you us to do. We still won’t quite get each others point though, but the conversations will be painless.

Most women however speak in WMT, Women Mother Tongue. They use literary styles we’re unfamiliar with. Sarcasm, irony, hyperbole, repetition (oh, this makes us sleeeeeeepy, wot!) (where did that ‘what’ thing come from?) rhetoric, and a myriad of micro and macro facial expressions that make us think of procreation.

‘You think I came from Australia to Nairobi because? Hallo! Duh! (girls, if the the guy responds, ‘am fine, to the 'Hallo!' please just ignore him). And you know how strict my parents are? You just don’t get it? do you? What do you want? Eh? (guys, don’t answer, this is not a question, don’t play with phone, don’t smile or grin, don’t pocket, don’t look away, don’t look at her, don’t fold arms at chest, in fact, don’t even breath).

The girl is sure her point is clear. It is actually, but only to her. And some of her friends, Only some. The chap, he is now completely lost. He is analysing the facts with simple logic. You overcame great odds. You drove on water. Your sponsor killed 6 million Jews. Your parents are strict. You have not mentioned sex. You have not mentioned my name. You’re angry. Ok, you probably came to see some other dude. Maybe my pal? No. You came straight to my crib, but you don’t like me (for one, you’re fully dressed and are talking). Simple logic: you have obviously come here to kill me. Logical thing is to act calm, distract her, take her to a public place with many witnesses, just like in CSI.

So that’s how come you always end up at Buffet park, where, once there, safe in the company of his 11 closest pals, he is talking with your best friend. The above mentioned, who did not get your point.

Buffet Park is good. I would lock myself in the room and we would communicate by SMS. ‘Wen r u gng bck? I no chip txi guy, cheap bt gud’ ‘Uber gud’

_____________________________________________

For guys, talk in simple emotions. There is really no other way, we’re only equipped with simple emotions, all of 3 of them. Happy, sad, horny (btw, guys, the last one, women still don’t think it’s an emotion lol, can you believe that, anyway, don’t use it yet. Let’s be reasonable and give them time).

In the above game plan, most men would attempt a logical explanation. Give the facts, for you to deduce the meaning. The man would be tempted to explain to you in simple logic how he was planning to SMS you twice that night, after the soccer match, to tell you his team won, and after seeing a cute chick, to tell you he has seen a cute chick, and that is a sign that he loves you. He couldn't come pick you because of the soccer match. (duh)

To other chaps this makes a great deal of sense. We’re at the club, and you’re at the phone twice, texting, not surfing, and it’s the same woman? Dude, you’re in love. Your team won, you SMSed. You saw a hot chick, you thought of her!! And even SMSed her! Dude, you’re so whipped. Your boys will say this and laugh at you. And no one likes being laughed at.

For women, this is a hair pulling story. If she tells her pals. They cannot believe it. They have no words. They have arms. Toned arms being waved, shapes in the air, mascaraed eyes being rolled. Ati what?

You repeat ‘Ati Kibaki (his real name) told me he was going to SMS me twice on sato, you remember when he was to pick me? He didn't SMS, he did appear’

In unison, all your 4 girlfriends, ‘eeeeh uummmmhmmm’. Like a choral verse at Kenya Schools Drama Festival, Coast. They wave for you to shut up.

‘ati what? Repeat that story. Just to annoy us’ They clarify, with emphasis that last part, in unison. But their eyes tell you don’t repeat.

So you don’t repeat. They push their chairs back. Stand. Walk to cars at Azalea parking. Reverse all the way home, shaking heads. Go to their en suite bedrooms, shake head and wave arm for 15 minutes in front of mirror, then reverse back to Azalea pub and lounge. They reverse, as a symbol of disorder, things are not right.

They come back, pull chairs back and sit. They smell of Kenchic. Chips and Chicken. They couldn't resist passing by a fast food.

‘Don’t even talk! The nerve of that mannnnn!!! Don’t even talk’. ‘Talk’ is said like ‘Torque’ They mean start talking in great details. You get more points for diagrams and illustrations.

And so you talk, you tell them. And they get the point. And they are mad.

Except one of them. One of them did not even reverse home in madness, she drove normally, she was even shaking the wrong arm, and her micro-expressions were of fake anger. After she left the parking, she went and called your man and asked him how he is doing. Has he eaten? Where is he? She will pass by his house with some home cooked food. She dropped him rice and stewed chicken and came back to Azalea.

Women are too complex to talk to each other. As you explain to them this scenario, some think that your man is very simple, so, easy to keep, the perfect man. And therefore they want him. Or you explain, and they think, this man is complex, we will understand each other. So they want him. And as you all know, a man can get any woman who wants him. She wants your man, she’ll get him. And you were his marketing director. Brand manager. Ad agency. Copy writer. You were his Peter Marangi.


On the other hand, men are too simple to even talk to each other. They just grunt, shout, and repeat newspaper headlines or what the commentator is saying.

‘That’s a penalty!!!’ Supersports says.

‘Yeah, that’s a penalty’ you say.

‘argh! That’s a pena!’ All the men in the pub say. In unison. Drama Fest.

On occasion, men explore emotions.

‘Dude, ati she came from Melbourne to see you? Be afraid, she wants something. Ignore her. What’s her name again’

‘Yeah, she must have done that to many other guys, she’s funny that one. I told you to stop calling her, you didn’t listen, you never listen to me. ’ This is usually the most emotional of your friends.

‘No, she has some sugar daddy paying for her these, dude. Watch it. and she looks the controlling type. I think she even wants me’ This is often the dude who lives in Langata. Macho, they think they are.

One of the guys will be quiet. He gets the point. Her point. This is a committed woman looking for an understanding man. He sees gap. This guy drinks white wine or Smirnoff Black on serious nights. He once drank 2 beers on a Friday and did not go to work till Wednesday. 'Si I drank you guy? I Kunywad! Wot!'

His car is not tinted, doesn’t even have a CD player, he has Aaliyah tapes. And Jazz, Dave Koz. He buys Newsweek, Time and the Economist weekly. Wears clear specs, has never worn sun glasses. His ringtone is monophonic Nokia 3310. He wears shorts and an over ironed African kitenge shirts on Sundays.

Your girl, she thinks he is dead boring, but needs to teach you a lesson using simple logic. So he’s humming Mozart at Java Junction on Sunday at 7.30 am. With her by his side. She is smiling, she is so sad.

Meanwhile your sluttish self is still with her airhead friend, at some nameless off-licence pub in Nairobi West. You’re planning an escape using simple emotions. You tell her you’re horny, she takes flight, you go home. Free. Sad.

__________________________________________

Men, express your feelings. We only have 2 emotions but we can be creative with those two, use different tenses. I am sad when you’re away. I was sad when you went to Australia. I am sad when you talk to other men for long at the party. I am happy, I am sad. Women understand very complex emotions, so these 2 are good and they are easy for us to explain. I saw a beautiful woman, and I thought of you. I will be happy when I see you.

Keep talking. But don’t talk to your friends. Love is not war, that you have sides. Friends and foes. Winners and losers. Love is just love. In love, no one wins and losers weep (The Bee Gees, Still Waters Run Deep – 'When we lie to each other, no one wins and losers weep' Listen to that song). Talk to each other, talk before a relationship, talk during a relationship, talk after a relationship. Very important this last one. Talk in their language. Talk in simple logic, talk in basic emotions. Don’t talk to your friends. (Just look at the decisions they make. Ha!)

If you must talk to your friends. Lie to them.

Let's Have A Drink

A delicate dance. You buy, I buy. I buy two, you buy two. I buy the whole evening this time, you buy the whole night another time. There are subtle and not so subtle reminders of who is paying when. There are clear rules known to the players. Going to the toilet when the waiter passes by, picking your phone, a sudden keen concentration on a non-existent SMS on your phone when the bottles are empty. It matters who chooses the pub, who orders a round, who comes with company. Every small thing matters. This ensures order.

That’s what it means when a man invites another for a drink, that you’re really just buying yourself drinks in a different pattern. Reciprocity is implied heavily. You’ll buy him just as many drinks as he buys you. If you know the rules, you can ‘buy’ a drink for 10 strangers, yet it will only cost you 10 drinks, and you will drink 10 drinks.

I had this pal back in Uni who used to invite me for a drink and at the end of the evening he would announce in his soft nilotic voice how he forgot his wallet home. He was 400 pounds and had a short temper, so such an announcement was met with loud laughter and nothing more. I hear he is now ‘born again’ and he ‘denounced the ways of the world’. The ways of the world usually means alcohol and the above mentioned loud laughter, silliness, suspension of reason and common sense. I suspect that lack of willing drinking partners was a major contributor to his decision to be conceived again and the rebirth.

______________________________________________

It’s a delicate balance having a drink with another man. If I pay all the bills, am saying am higher in the food chain. I can take care of you. I am the top dog here. Roi. But sometimes am saying I want a favour, so let me pay now for a future payment in cash or kind. Sometimes its historical, am repaying a debt, real or imagined.

Sometimes it is age. I have this uncle, very nice chap, old-ish, a primary school teacher from the time he was born. This guy is from the old school, these guys, they can never take a drink from someone younger. Naturally, these are my preferred drinking mates. However, their choice of pub and discussion topics are usually a put off.

And the body language is another story. The same act of paying the bill for the whole evening can be done with contempt, or with gratitude or with genuine brotherly respect.

Personally I ignore all these rules. I buy when I want to and can afford, and don’t buy when I don’t want to, or when I can’t afford. Simple. And very annoying to some people. Luckily I don’t do drink dates anymore. Can’t afford the money nor the time.

_____________________________________________

So anyway, Simon (his real name) called me for a drink. Ok, he did not call, turned up at my office at 12.30 pm and said he was coming back at 5.30pm to take me for a drink. Simo, he always pays for all the drinks all the time. This is because he always and only has drinks in his cousin’s pub in Hurlingham and feels that he is hosting, so should pay. Also, he is older, and is from the old school, won’t get a drink from a younger person. And also, he usually comes with this lady friend of his. If you bring company, you’re paying.

As I said, I don’t do drinks. But this chap, as described above, has good drinking manners. And also yours truly respects his elders (at least in pub matters). I think the main reason I agreed was that as he left, he wagged his finger at me jokingly, said, ‘sawa mzee? Don’t bounce’ then smiled, but his eyes, they were dark-ish, hollow-ish. Some quality I cannot describe, some quality that is lent to our eyes by shit. Shit of sufficient depth. Deep shit. I could see he was troubled.

I will not pretend to be motivated by pure altruism. I think 80% of my drive is curiosity. I am curious to understand how we get into problems, how we handle them, how we overcome problems. I think it’s a more useful life skill than how to handle happiness. Happiness just flows. So I am more likely to come over when you’re stressed than when you celebrating another degree earned. Another year lived. Another baby born. I know a chap who threw a party when he bought a car. gai fafa! Dast isht stoopit.

I turned up late. My car, nothing works anymore. Anyway, yours lately got there late, his royal lateness. His Earliness was there on time, with his usual female companion and another one. Another female companion. This was unusual. And they spoke without looking at each other. They were speaking in their language, which I understand very clearly. But I couldn’t make out anything.

You know, we do things, then put other people on the spot. It is so unfair. Peripheral people like me. Collateral damage.

I have been drinking with Simo at this pub in Hurlingham since forever. And he always came with this lady, this lady who never said a word. I never knew her name. She was the type of woman whose age you can never guess, they don’t look young, they don’t look old. It's like maids. Or aunts. Like super maid Rebecca, she could be 23 years, she could be 53 years old. They’re usually of strong build, stout-ish, pretty face, big nice body, strong legs. Jonah Lomu biceps. They can work up a good appetite in a very short time.

And this one, she never said a word. She only looked at Simo lovingly as we had our beers. Always. And he would not talk to her, nor touch her, not even look at her, but at the same time, you can feel that he is paying attention to her. He was not ignoring her. You could always sense that they were one. I don’t know how he did it. How they did it. I drank any beer, anything alcoholic really. He drank a flagship brand, she liked dark, strong stout lagers. Very befitting.

I was never told her name, or how they related, but she was not his wife. Simo did not have a wife. He lived alone in his house in Lavington. This I had had to pick out from conversations. Simo is those people who speak alot but say little. He had lived in this house since the time he came back from Germany with a master’s degree in computer science, 1988. Simo had a cyber café in Nairobi when you were in diapers. He still drives this massive BMW that he bought brand new in Germany 26 years ago, steering wheel on the wrong side. It has a car phone ti hi hi hi. And leather seats, and he always wears a leather jacket. I think he has two, a brown one and a black one, but he once said, passingly, that he has more than 20 leather jackets. It is probable and possible.

Simo consults for several African governments on high security IT systems. He is also retained by top media, mobile phone companies, multinational banks to sort out IT issues. When am in strange corners of dark Africa, he would link me with police chiefs and rebel generals who are his best friends for life. Giving me access to restricted areas. (nothing useful, usually just illegal dance clubs patronised by rich old men, overworked, underpaid dancers smuggled from Asia. OK, when I put it that way, it sounds bad. Anyway, let’s not digress). And since I go out a lot in dark Africa, and am fluent in IT, there is no shortage of stories between us. I prefer to listen than talk. That’s the only way to learn. If you’re the type that talks throughout, you only learn the different tones of your own voice. Useless info.

Despite my self proclaimed Über listening skills. That is all I know about this chap. As for his pretty lady friend, well, she wears an ugly weave (unnecessary repetition here, all weaves are ugly), dresses in expensive clothes poorly chosen, loves gold jewelery, never says a word and loves Simo to death. I always find them there and leave them there at the pub. Simo sends my family Christmas cards every year, written:

‘To Charlie and family, from Simon and family, Happy New Year’

When I think about it now, they are not Christmas cards. They are all plain cards with only those words and abstract colourful shapes at the front. They are New Year cards.

So a few days after New Year’s Day, he has called me here. With these two ladies. One is a stranger. Actually, both are strangers really. One is younger. Approximately 8 possibilities run through my head, in quick succession, each worse than the previous, about what is going to happen. But I remain as cool as a fan and sit. Return greetings from the enthusiastic waiters and order a dark cold stout lager. It comes in a fancy bottle. We begin polite small talk. He does not speak any slang, it’s either the Queen’s proper, or German, or his mother tongue. Or surprisingly good Kiswahili. I opt for the Queen’s always. My German is uber weak.

‘I have not seen you for some time Simon. I trust you have been well’ I offer.

‘Yes, quite. I must say it has been good. Can’t complain really’ He confirms.

We talk about Zo. He is very fond of Zo and has bought him numerous gifts. However, he has never remembered to come to a meeting with them. Or drop them home. Or use a courier service to have them dropped.

So that is how it goes for a while. Small talk.

Then, she spoke.

Out of nowhere, she spoke.

I went silent. Simo stared away. And she said it all.

In 100 years, I would never ever have guessed what she had to say. And why they decided to tell me.

This is the burden I am having to carry.

Everyone's Cheating, In Nairobi, Everywhere

Seriously! I just realised that everywhere I go (and I go to very many places per month, PPM) everyone’s cheating on their relationships (except me). There is a sub-culture within every generation where everyone’s cheating on everyone else. And we feel nothing about it. You’re cute, do me. In fact, it’s a tag of honour. A sign that we understand the times and are with it.

I am not religious, so I don’t have religious arguments against cheating. And to be honest, I sort of enjoy the current state of affairs. I like it the same way I like the fact that some supermarkets are open 24 hours, though I have never bought bread at 2 am in the morning. I also like the exciting stories you tell me. But deep down, it just feels wrong, lies, deceit, hurt, heart aches.

There is a total decay. Men and women alike, we pursue what we want and when we get it, we’re a success. I don’t know, I think it is our uber competitive world. By any means necessary. Or the sadness that fills our emptiness. We clutch at anything hoping it is the thing.

It’s a vicious cycle. I have been asking around and looking around. A good number of us are cheating because we think or know we’re being cheated on. We’re bitter and want to hit back. Restoring our self confidence. But only filling ourselves with guilt that makes us repeat the acts that made us guilty in the first place. After a while, we think we’re that way and everyone is that way, so let’s keep dancing. There is safety in numbers.

Blind pursuit of short lived pleasure. Then we crowd the churches on New Year’s day. We encourage others to do as we do, and they encourage us back. Only god can judge me you tell yourself. And we get strength from the knowledge that everyone is else is doing it.

Maybe it is not wrong, but for real, it doesn’t sound right.

Or perhaps it is how hard we work. We feel we deserve fun. Work hard, play hard I hear often. And we define fun in our own terms. So come the weekend, we’re down for whatever. And we can afford it. I was in this simple provincial town for 5 days; day 2, I knew all of you, day 3, I realised how ‘interestingly complicated’, (so to speak), your society was. I longed for my big complicated city. I got back on Friday evening, went straight to a story that is straight from a movie no one has the courage to make. Not even Quentin.

Religious types are the most interesting. We suspend the teachings from prophets. Or simply alter them, interpret them differently to suit our new habits of the day, with amazingly superior logic, and using pirated software.

The cumulative results on society are out. And now it’s official. Stealing is not a crime. You can steal money, steal her husband, steal his father, steal his wife, steal their time. The only crime I hear us talking about is murder and anything non-consensual, the latter only sometimes. Or dissing parents or best friends. The new gods. The commandments were updated, reduced, shortened, harmonised, customised, pimped. Any good god should love us, and it follows that they want us to be happy. Sort of.

On the 3rd day, man created god in his own image. And gave this god (these gods) the rules we want to live by. A very democratic, participatory process. Democracy, participation, rights, the new commandments.

I have no baseline, (so to speak), to compare with. The olden days seem to have been similar, if not worse. But again, by some vague accounts, we enjoyed living honest lives. Deep down we all long for and stick to these dreams. Now dishonesty runs across everything we do.

Sometimes I blame AIDS. AIDS prevention messages have been very loud, and successful. A thin strip of rubber between you and anyone is all that matters. That’s the trick. Do anything but catch nothing. Use protection. Sleep with anyone anytime, with protection.

‘How could you do it? You slept with her???? Oh no! oh no! How could you? How? We were the perfect couple!! Darling, how could you? You might have caught something!!! She goes around’

His face brightens. ‘No darl, it was only 5 times, and I used a condom all the time. Am not a fool!’ said with self righteousness. And a big smile.

‘Oh! Okay. I guess that’s different’ She concedes, smiling too, unhappy but more relieved than unhappy.

The pain is the same. Hidden. The pain drives you to do the same. With a condom. If you remember.

Or the problem is image. Self image promoted by a free media chasing profits and profits. If you’re not doing it, you’re not cool. Last night I slept with twins. I slept with Sean Paul. Shaggy did me. DJ Slick was my girl. Headllines the next day: ‘The chief priest was caught with his daughter’s best friend’. Role models play different roles in these liberal times. Don’t judge. Chief golfer does it. Endorse the best products and set the worst standards. It is hard for the rest of us to follow.

Or equality misunderstood. Women can do any job any man can do. This extends to the bad behaviour men are historically credited for. The age old polygamous hunters now have very welcome company. Co-conspirators. He can fly a plane so can I. I can also do all the social things associated, good and not so good. So we all work hard, smoke, drink, dance, steal. In equal measure. We’re equals. Men are dogs, we are only playing our part.

Or just self-inflicted standards. I cannot be seen to be alone. I must have children no matter what. I must be seen to be married, no matter how painful it is. I cannot take any pain just to be seen to be married, I must leave him. I must stay with him. I am too good to be lonely. I am too good to be sad with her. We often confuse being alone with being lonely. I have attended big parties where I have been so lonely. Don’t be afraid of your own company. Embrace aloneness.

Or rights. We promote the rights of everyone, at the expense of everyone. Prostitutes have rights. Cheaters have rights. Child abusers have rights. And everyone in between. Child abusers have formed advocacy groups championing their rights to abuse children. Abusers say they are god’s children too. Cheap logic, ‘If they (children) are too young to say yes, how can they be old enough to say no? Your honour, you must acquit’ And we are acquitted. We go back and cheat.

Sometimes I blame women. They became like us at some point. In some examples above, they gave in. They had a chance to stick to age old standards of being women, domestic, non-aggressive, assertive, home makers, but they wanted a piece of the pie. To steal, to drink, to cheat, to bald, to have pot bellies.

Sometimes I blame men. They are (were) heads of families, leaders, heads of societies. They should have set better standards. They should have changed from the polygamous, philandering hunters to a role more suited for this democratic participatory society.

It doesn’t matter who I blame. The pain is the same. Everyone is doing it, everyone is hurting for it. We’re so sad.

We can change.

Promises and Lies

Interviews! If there is an experience we hope for and dread at the same time.

My worst interview experience was with Dr. Mitzuko, a Japanese PhD running this outfit in Africa. She was a very nice person, spoke fluent Japanese (I think) and not a word of English. Or Kiswahili. Or any other language. Her firm had 12 other Japanese who suffered from the same monolingual misfortune, misfate. I wanted to work with these people because I do not speak any Japanese and so we would have very few arguments. So the interview was me and her, at their conference room. She was speaking Jap, I was speaking English, sometimes Kiswahili. Both of us were smiling as expected of interviewers and interviewees during an interview. Upto today, no one, not myself, not Dr. Mitzuko knows whether I got the job. She did not have sufficient grounds to give me or deny me that position. Actually, I think that was my best interview yet.

I have attended a good number of interviews, and had the bad fortune of interviewing quite a number of people, for various positions; legal officers, medical officers, drivers, radio presenters, finance officers, dancers. My main qualification for attending interviews seems to be my ability to breathe in and out. My main qualification of being in panels is spatial disorientation, that I am often lost and end up at the wrong place, wrong time.

For instance, I once went to see a friend about a thing. Then it happens he is interviewing for a bouncer. ‘Hey, Charlie, could you help me....’ They would come in, remove their shirts, flex, a few questions, go. We had no idea what we were looking for. Muscle size? Mean face? We had a small incident. We had not factored for female bouncers. This lady walked in and we asked her to remove her shirt. We did not know how else to ‘interview’

Anyway, we gave the job to this guy called Wes because he did not listen to anything and did not answer any question, just like any bouncer.

‘Tell us your name please?’

“Zii, hakuna kitu. Get out!”

“Why do you want this job?”

“Ok, we’re not discussing any further!” he growled, banged his fist on the table and pushed us to get out. We got out, then realised the confusion, went back in. Or tried. He refused to let us back into our offices, we tried to explain that it was our office, and he had just come for an interview, but he would have none of it. So we went home, came back at 5.10pm, when he was going home.

But most interviews are the same annoying questions and the same lying answers. And no one is listening. Most of us are boring and average, making life very hard for a panellist. But some are outstanding, and make it easy for one to strike your name off the shortlist.

“What are your weaknesses?” Why do we ask this?

Whoever inserted this slip of the tongue into interviews? What do you expect to hear? My weaknesses is hunger. I was once hungry, I ate all my workmates. I forgot and ate the boss too, that is why am jobless.

No seriously, why we ask this I don’t know. I notice everyone lies here, and everyone knows we’re lying, and they don’t care. The most common is to take your strongest point and double it. Say you have too much of it. I am too good. I am too detailed. I learn too fast. I dress too well. I am too kind. I am too sweet.

There was this African who I was interviewing for a friend who wanted an accountant for his Law firm. After a fairly boring 30 or so minutes, we’re getting to the end, “what are your weaknesses”. He told us his weakness is that he has no time for short-tempered people. “I have this boss who is always losing his temper and threatening other staff. This makes me very very angry” he said. “Why should someone lose his temper at work and threaten others? Eh?” He is now shouting, fuming, banging the table. This story is really making him angry. “Why why waaaaaaaaiiii!!!!” he cried.

There was once this young chap, he kept exclaiming, Jesus! At everything. There is that part where we give you a hypothetical situation and ask you how you would handle it. We’re testing some skill. Not very unlike those ones of KCPE, ati

Q. 12. You find 100 bob on the floor of the classroom, do you:
a. Go buy cigarettes,
b. Buy beer,
c. Buy a sweet or
d. Give your teacher?

He would say, ‘Jesus! No! I would give it to the teacher! Jesus!’

He did not get the job. We had advertised for a peer educator, a Muslim peer educator. When we called to say he did not get the job, he asked why, we told him that we wanted a Muslim, and he is not. He said, “Jesus! You guys are sharp! How did you tell?”

Its usually small things like that that matter in an interview. They never listen to what you’re saying; they are just looking at you, looking for something to tell them you’re a racist or a tribalist, any-ist. If you have a small head, you’re not in. You’ll make mine look too big.

When they call you for an interview, the job is yours. An interview letter (these days it could be an SMS) might as well say. ‘Hi we’re giving you this job, but want to give you a chance to give us a reason not to give you this job’

Remember, the panel is just as nervous as you are, if not more. So if you relax and smile, you help them relax and they smile. If they are relaxed, they are more likely to see your good qualities. And we like people who make us relax; we detest people who make us nervous. I was interviewing for a driver for an MP (I was at the wrong place, wrong time). His previous driver had died in a road accident. The MP believed that the dead driver was paid by his foes to try to kill him. And that the chap who got him that driver was in the deadly plot. So I had to make sure that I got the right driver. A driver who has not been known to kill himself trying to kill an MP. I wasn’t sure how to phrase my questions. “Eh, have you ever killed yourself in a road accident?”

As with most things in life, don’t take interviews or interviewing too seriously. I remember this time we were looking for a clown for a Christmas event for a Nairobi Mall. This guy came and had many jokes; he made us laugh till we were crying like little babies. When he left, my boss said, ‘Is that guy serious? He is such a joker!’ Duh, he wants to be a clown.

You don’t have to be like the Nuremberg Trials Judges as an interviewer.

The Year Two Thousand and Mine (2, 000 and Mine)

Locust on Tissue Paper

I sit on the very cool toilet seat looking at the locust and worrying I might spend the holidays here alone. Here is a total of 3 days flight and road to home. I just sit on the cool toilet seat and reflect. It is the 16^th day of the last month of a very eventful year of a young African man. Very Young, very African.I have been to 11 countries for business and pleasure, and am now in the 12^th country. I have been to every single town in my own country, and meet an average of 7 new people daily. I have known and keep in touch with 197 new people since January. I have been in a plane that carries 700 people and in a motorbike that has no business carrying even one person.

So now am here in deep Africa. It takes a combination of 2 small aircrafts, Russian pilots, several 4WDs, illegal border crossings, corrupt soldiers, 3 days and 5 currencies to get me here. But now my eyes are on the locust. I finished my biological business a few minutes ago but I still sit. The locust is resting on the toilet paper, so I can’t use the toilet paper. I can of course use the toilet paper, by chasing away locust but that will excite the huge transluscent gecko that’s waiting by the door handle, something I don’t want to do. So I can’t leave even if I decided to not use the tissue paper and go to my room for wet wipes I stole from Zo’s room.

This is a big toilet by any standards. It’s the size of an SQ in Nairobi's Kileleshwa neighbourhood. The toilet seat sits in the middle, lonely, like a small child belted in the front wheel of a Toyota Surf. When sitted, one can’t reach the walls on either side. The door is ten metres away. The ceiling, well, you can’t reach it even with a ladder. It’s a black ceiling with many small lights. The ceiling is the dark night sky of black Africa. It’s a big roofless toilet with a locust on the tissue paper and a big albino-ish gecko on the door handle.

My room is equally big but it has a roof. 3 kittens are under the bed, they refused to leave, so I have to leave the door open. They got in when I left the door open, trying to plead with an annoying bull frog to please leave. The reason I was chasing the bull frog wasn’t because he wouldn’t shut up (he was croaking at full volume and I don’t have the remote control), the reason is because I once watched a documentary that some snakes dine on some frogs. I don’t want to keep a snake’s dinner in my room. So the litter of kittens got in, 3 of them, and their loving mum won’t come in, she is so busy ignoring this man and her 3 kids and staring at the darkness. The mother car is just staring at the darkness. So I leave the door open, some comfort in the knowledge that cats dine on snakes and so am safe from reptiles. I am usually happy with pussies in my room anyway, 3 young ones is a first though. Their mother outside staring at darkness.

And darkness indeed it is. Dark blackness. My room is in a very big compound. A giant diesel generator gives us internet, noise and light. It also gives us a cold beer and international news channels from giant flat screens and contributes to global warming in its own way. 3 feet outside the big compound is the deepest blackest darkness I have ever seen and heard of in deep dark Africa. It is so dark, you can pin stuff on it. You can stick posters on it. Its dark like the end of something. Dark and still. And warm.

I don’t know why am here. I met 8 new people today, I’ll be with them and only them for most of this holiday season. They talk about English football like everyone else in this dark continent. They also ask me about Obama. This will be a familiar bunch of strangers. I feel I know them by the 3^rd minute. And was glad I had made a good first impression when someone forced me to buy him a cold beer.

So I am seated here, topless and ugly, wondering what to do next. Giant brown locust with big severe legs that remind me of an accident scene. Big compound eyes like Beenie man in his new video. It sits on the tissue paper. Locust on door handle. 3 kittens under the bed. Mammals, reptiles, insects. Biodiversity. Am missing my rented house in Nairobi. It has some animals too, Zeph found a snake skin 5 feet long this morning. And the kite that lives on that tree behind the house. And the tortoise Marcel found sometime ago. And the dogs Tommy tommy and his pals. And the goose I have been given by the friendly people of this country. But I still prefer my house.

Outside it’s the bright lights from the noisy generator and the silence from the darkness 3 feet away from the camp. Suddenly, tkt tkt tkt tkt tkt. The gecko moved, the locust flew, landed on my naked ugliness. And the dancing started. Ladies and gentlemen, chubby naked ugliness dancing while chanting ancient incantantions in one of the languages of the tower of babel is not something you want to see. It is on my hairy nipple, I shout ‘bujujumburarara’ ‘Jesus Christ have Nancy!’ ‘Get off me you child of Lucifer!’ It jumps from my nipple to my hand to my back to my head. I am waving my hands wildly and shouting for help, at the same time, hoping no one comes to help. Shaking my waist like Awilo Longomba. Gecko is scared now, or confused, and so is racing round the walls like a formula one car driven by Schumaker. Making me dizzy. But I dance on like a drunk jungu dancing to Eric Wainaina’s 'Nchi Ya Kitu Kidogo' during that Oliver ‘tuku’ Mtukudzi concert at Carnivore.

A bat flew by and silently took the insect. Mother cat, from the top wall, silently grabbed gecko. Mammals to my rescue. Or perhaps it was something more sinister. The Manager from the depths of the darkness of black Africa, The Ancient One who speaks the language of the undead. I shiver. I wipe the thought away, wipe my bum and go to bed. I am not paid enough for what I go through. Yet, I am paid too much for what I would willingly do for free.

That was the year 2000 and mine. How was yours?

June 09

strange chap. He is fat. Actually, when I think of it, he is not ati thaaaat fat. He is just big. Light skinned, dark around the eyes and lips. When I join the table, there is a matchbox in his hand. It quickly disappears. No idea why some people are ashamed of the fact that they smoke. He is wearing a navy blue very very very big LA Lakers sweat shirt. And it looks very very cozy and warm. It’s a quality that he has given it. And has his hands crossed against each other in front of him. You know how you sometimes cross your hands together, fingers of one hand into the fingers of the other. Then your thumbs rest on each other. Well, for this guy, his hands are floating on the navy blue LA Lakers sweat shirt. How? He has a strangely big stomach. Very strange, very big. It protrudes outwards and sideways, and looks hard, stiff. His fat fingers rest gingerly on this thing. Floating.

There are 4 other people on the table when I join. I have been in this country for only 6 hours, but can tell these are 1^st generation highly skilled workers, in the late 20s, mainly from Africa and Asia. He is older. From the story, I calculate that he must be 36. He wears the face of an 18 year old overweight girl, on the body of a 60 year old diabetic. Very confusing this image. The others seem to regard him with some awe. He is the centre of attention in this 20 table bar. All the tables are full, 7 inside, about a dozen outside, a very cold wind is blowing. He talks without moving any part of his body. His lips, his hands, his whole body is still. But I notice a very rapid high frequency movement below the table. He is shaking his left leg at a very high speed. Only his left leg.

He is telling us about an earthquake. He was on the 14^th floor when it happened. That it had happened for 3 days consecutively and he had not noticed. Apparently because he always has a lady in his bed, with whom they would be too busy doing something else. Just looking at him, its hard to picture. Anyway, I listen on. I sit and order a drink, no one pays attention to my intrusion. His eyes are fixated on some imaginary thing in the middle of the table as his stiff lips narrate this story. I get the image of a corpse telling a story. A shiver, I sip my milky beer. Actually, my lager is not milky at all. I realise that my healthy table mate sort of gives everything a healthy milky quality. Even saliva tastes like a milk shake when you sit next to him.

So anyway, an earthquake. My mind drifts off. Then I hear my name. “so Charrrlllle, how is Kenya” he asks without looking at me. He is still staring at the middle of the table. “How is Uhuru, Mboya and Kipchoge?” totally unrelated random Kenyans! Or perhaps he knows something. Maybe Kipchoge was running so fast because he knew the no doubt disturbing fact that Tom Mboya was Uhuru’s dad…and alas, another motive for the murder? Now I feel like running too.

He slowly shifts his gaze to me. Only the eyes move. I look back. All the other 4 immigrants look at me. Am silent. Its one of those questions that are said in a manner that tells you, shut up and listen to me. I feel like taking a milky sip, but I resist. I feel the attention of 12 eyes. He takes a sip. Am silent. Watching him. Actually, am thinking of Westlands. That I should visit Haandi restaurant at the Mall soon as I get back. I also think about the earthquake sex story and smile, inwardly, at its fakeness. My silence makes him uneasy, and he sips. That makes me happy. Actually, he clears his one pint glass in a gulp. Waitress appears like magic. She is the only person in this tropical city that is bigger than him. He makes a joke to her, about how hard sex between them would be, and suggests that the Kenyan (yours truly) would be a better sex mate. Now I can’t resist taking a sip. In fact, I gulp the milky stuff down. Its becoming very hot in the 11 centigrade clear night.

So my 4 year old asks how come the fridge light is always on. (and yet I preach that all unused lights should be switched off blah blah…) I tell him, it goes off when you close the fridge door. He asks how I know. I say, I just know. He asks how? Have I ever been inside the fidge with the door closed? Now, as a man, if you have a son, you know that’s a challenge, and cannot rest.

I look at him. He looks at me. Am thinking. He’s waiting. I hear Tink! I think he also hears tink. We’re alone, so this should be easy. In brief, we seem to agree that, as men of science, we must find out. We also agree that I am too big to fit in the fridge (am a poor man, it’s a small Nakumatt (local supermarket chain) fridge, they even packed it in a paper bag).

So chap chap operation before his mother comes, kijana ndani, we pack midget into fridge. Then silence. I plan to ask him if the light is on.

Then one of those universe moments strikes. I am standing alone in the kitchen, and for a split second, cannot recall why I am alone in the kitchen, and what am waiting for...

As fate would have it, Bald Pal (who always appears without calling, always invites you for a beer – not at the Kileleshwa police canteen where its sijui 70 bob. Always a fancy westie pub, and always the bill is mine) hoots at the gate, and off we go...

Anyway, let’s summarise the learnings here, before we incriminate ourselves:

1. 4 year olds are smarter than us (can manipulate you into killing them)
2. The midget, I don’t know how, came out, unhurt, but with a very clear memory
3. Because he has told everyone who cares to listen, in detail, how his Baba (yours truly) (I think) (I hope, I suspect) (Incidentally, now that we are on the subject, how much is a DNA test? A pal was asking…) put him in a fridge and he survived. (am waiting for the T-shirts)
4. Please don’t do this to anyone? (I mean, the Bald Pal thing. If you invite me for a Tusker, or Guinness, pay for it, them)