otieno...my new found hero

it has a been a hot minute since i got to put these words down on paper...life has a been a little too good, another story for another time.

right now i just wanted to say thank you to otieno. andrew otieno. i just can't get him out of my head. there i was stuck in traffic on a hot saturday afternoon along uhuru highway. it was that uganda match day thingie-majig. soccer (oops i used the 's' word) madness in nairobi with vuvuzelas all over. felt like the kenyans trying to compensate their absence in the world cup.

while i was literally parked on the road since traffic was not moving, a tall sun-kissed boy walked up to the car window selling some peanuts. no older than thirteen he was. the usual reaction was me saying 'pole si leo' as i opened the little change-box signalling the emptiness.

he smiled.

he reached into his plastic basin and pulled the cone-shaped paper that tighly held the nuts within and passed it through window opening.

"thank you". he said, "this is for you today and next time you will hopefully have some change to promote my work." otieno gave me the paper-wrapped nuts, smiled and walked away leaving me frozen with an inspirational warmth that i can not put into words...

with that feeling and at that very instant, i felt like i had just met an angel.

The Ignorance over My Bleeding Vagina

“Let’s sit on that corner today.” He signed for us to move to the end of the alley-cum-madrasa right by the aluminum wall that separated our class from the fish lady-stand on the other side of the neighborhood. 

“Today we are going to talk about haydh.” He was the pseudo-expert on menstruation. “No being embarrassed,” Maalim continued. “Let us start off by turning to page seventeen of our books. I picked up a couple of Arabic words here and there as they rolled out of my mouth. I recognized the words women, wash, blood, prayer and a couple others.

“No praying during your periods,” our religion teacher went on as he listed the do’s and the don’ts of menstruation. “No fasting. But remember that these days that you miss fasting will have to be paid back before the next fasting month in the following year.”

 “You can wear nail polish during your periods since you will not be praying.” Maalim continued, “But I suggest that you do not since everyone will know that you are on your period then.”  And my next favorite rule, no divorcing when she is bleeding. After all, that would very suicidal for the man.  One major reason why a Muslim husband should always know his wife’s menstrual cycles. Just in case.

“Another thing that is completely haram,” he adjusted his kanzu, the white robe, as he switched sitting positions from one leg to the other, “there should be no sexual intercourse during menstruation.” Apparently God severely punishes those that do so.  “Have you ever come across the really white people?” He continued, “Not the wazungu (Caucasians). The other white ones, they are called albinos.” We all stared at him a little confused, we knew want albinism is but how did this find its way into the menstruation class.

“That is what happens when you have sex during your menstruation, you get an albino baby.”

A letter to my homophobic friend

Dear Erick Agade…Please go and screw yourself; as in literally tighten up those nuts and bolts in between your ears to hopefully enable more thoughtful thinking. Yours truly. 

I am reading the Daily Nation right now and I had to take a moment and pen this down. Erick just wrote to the editor to tell us that he ‘supports Mugabe’s reference to gays, homosexuals and lesbians as being worse than pigs because of going against morals to engage in filthy acts’. Mugabe, a century old dictator with a century old mind, enough said.

My first request is to keep god out of this issue since you are all very partial to his teachings and the myriad realities of life. When you say that he ‘knew when He created mankind’ - we can list a number of genetic alternations and catastrophes in this world that could explain that life is not as black and white as we would like it to be in our limited minds. Yes the mastermind plan is to have a penis go into a vagina but just as you can be born with eyes that do not see and limbs that are differently able (diffabled as I call it), the same applies with hormonal development that dictates a spectrum of sexual attraction.

Thank you Minister Esther Murugi for taking the stand on acceptance of diversity in sexual orientation, I am sure that the pressing issues like hunger in Turkana ‘where people eat dogs’ that Erick so adamantly wants you to attend to is already being addressed by folks like my sister who are up there as we speak. And of course the American bags of food have been sent which funny enough are never rejected as a western value when homophobic sisters and brothers are quick to dismiss gay rights as an outsider’s agenda.

My question to Erick is why should a homosexual person be ‘ashamed’ of demanding their rights? What is there to be ashamed of in wanting to access the same resources that we get as  Kenyans, access to healthcare, to seek employment and earn a living? What is so shameful about not wanting to be harassed by pretentious individuals like Erick?

Who exactly are we to pass such discriminatory moral judgement? I would love to see your moral CV Erick, so when you get a minute, please drop me a line or pass it on to the editor for all of us to read. In the meantime, pick up a book or two for enlightenment beyond the Bible and Mugabe mentality. I strongly recommend the Male Brain by Louann Brizzendine and Caveman Logic: the Persistence of Primitive Thinking in a Modern World by Hank Davis.

...Tantric Engineer...

"the tantric engineer is the mistress of transmitting pleasure that transcends social taboos and awkwardness, the giver of the cosmic backrub, the hug that feels like you’d like to stay there forever"

I went in for a meeting today, efforts to get the media to address the sex trade question through a human rights framework and it got my thinking into high gear. Why are so many of us Kenyans riding the high horse and patrolling morality issues. Last time I checked, no man was hand-cuffed and sent to jail for sticking it in his secretary Ruth instead of his wife Njeri. Nor was he sodomised by the cop upon arrest because he/she felt he deserved it. So the question is...why do we allow such moral judgements to continue raping the sisters, mothers and daughters of our nation?

On any given night in the sleepless city of Nairobi over 7,000 tantric engineers are working in the oldest profession in history, possibly the riskiest job in the market. Interesting enough is that what makes it so risky is YOU and ME!!! Through our judgement and the stigma, we passively allow systemized harassment. A system where a sister in the sex-trade is treated as a lesser person. One where she can not access healthcare services because she is deemed to be a waste of resources. She can not file for rape because you say she asked for it.  She can not report abusive clients because apparently she deserves it. She is a free-sex pass for police officers because...just because!

For offering the highly demanded service she is harassed, she is raped, she is locked up. And him...with his invisible cloak he goes to the next block and seeks another vendor with minimal understanding of the system that it takes two to tango!

Get off your god-damned high horse and get your feet on the ground...as you will soon see, the reality is quite difference down here. As women, regardless of our professions, we still have the fundamental right to be recognized and treated as human beings, is that really too much to ask for?

breasts without matter...

i think i just found out what it is i detest in a breast bearing human. what makes me irk and itch all the way to the last nerve. it's you lady. it's you and the inability to engage your mind in an opinion. don't you want to be a part of long overdue change...a part of the movement. but instead she sat there with her 'ums' and 'well...i don't-know-i-thought-that-if-maybe-but'.

so i am back in the the motherland now, working in nairobi. they did warn me that finding a parsee would be no walk in the park. i am still hunting for at least one buddy that we could share a safe space where we can gossip about god, demasculinize a few men and maybe even get peer pressurred into going for a bikini wax.  instead i find myself going for a cup of malindi machiatto and a side order of horrible service from java house with me, myself and i.

for now...here is a toast to rediscovering self in search of my fellow african sisters that are married to their powerfully beautiful minds...cheers!!!!
                                                                                         

About being deflowered

...about being Deflowered 

by Umra Omar

Permission to Travel

Wangechi Mutu ©

After 4 months of studies it was time to leave Buenos Aires. It was not easy, as I had grown fond of my host family— but with all due respect, it was the laundromat across the street that I would miss most. For less then $2, I could send in a dirty pile of clothes and return to collect a flower-scented package of ironed cleanliness. So where to now? Our plan was to have no plan. My primary concern was whether or not I could get a visa at the point of entrance.

Chile...no problem. One does not require a visa if traveling in by ground. After 2 weeks of visiting a mutual friend there, we headed to Bolivia. Thirty dollars later, I was stamped in. We drove in, witnessing the public vans kissing one behind the other, with vendors pouring from the doors on the side of the Nissan minibuses cajoling customers—it was borderline harassment. I smiled so hard out of familiarity that I started drooling. One week there, and we were off again.

Another day, another border; another visa, another dollar! This time it was at the bootleg immigration office on the Peruvian side of the Bolivia-Peru border. Not only did I require a visa for Peru, but I would have to catch a bus back to La Paz since the Peruvian immigration did not offer the visas at the border! I batted my eyelids. No success. He took my passport and walked out of the room. I followed him to the closet of an office across the hall. All of a sudden, I felt like a criminal. As he was outside consulting with a group of colleagues, I went into his office and circumspectly took my passport from the table. I left, and without looking back, on the bus we sped off into the flat dusty plains of Peru. Now I was truly a criminal!

I did not think it would be an issue leaving Peru since I had planned to take the bus into Ecuador and just skip the Peruvian exit office. With a change in plans, I was to catch a flight out instead and head to Brazil. This time, they would not let me board the plane! Thanks to a sincere award-winning puppy face, as well as a little candy-coated truth about why I had not been stamped into the country, the official signaled me to cross through as soon as his supervisor disappeared from the corridor. And just like that I was onboard. With Brazil, I did not take any chances—I got my visa in advance while still in Argentina. And besides, any country that is bold enough to charge Americans $130 for a visa (in reciprocity for an identical fee that America charges), but lowers the rate to $20 for most of us foreign nationals, is well

worth advance planning!

Looking back at both the good and not so pleasant experiences, the lesson learned was how to journey light: in luggage, budget, and most importantly, in spirit. Only then do you realize that YOU are your permission to travel.

Kenya Indepence Day in Washington DC

“According to African traditions women must respect their men. I ask you women, can’t you discipline one of your own who has crossed the line!” – Former President Daniel Arap Moi in response to the activism of Nobel Peace Laureate Wangari Maathai

On Thursday the evening of December 11th we went to the Kenya Jamhuri Day celebrations at L’Enfant Hotel , Washington DC, to mark 45 years of independence, courtesy of the Kenyan tax payers’ money (thank you all because the plantains were super delicious).

Wangechi Mutu ©

I realized that it had been a while since I sang our Kenyan National Anthem. Before I could feel guilty of this fact it came to my attention that my inability to keep up with the tune was not for the reason that I had neglected these verses during my morning showers but because I was trying to keep up with a choir of fifteen lovely pasty children who were butchering the living daylight out of this national poetry. The challenges that they faced are not to be underscored; the poor kids were not only singing a foreign tune but they had to do it in Swahili, all the three verses and try to rhythmically move to the sounds of a beating drum at the same time!

Then we went into singing Christmas carols.

I looked over at my good friend Wangechi, we cringed, we frowned, and we sneered, all in an effort to express an emotion that was beyond words. On a serious note, this was the perfect annual occasion to show case Kenya’s cultural heritage, to mark a history of struggle and promote potential local success. But no, other than the Ketepa tea packs on our way in and the Tusker beer bottles on the bar, there was not much else that stood out as being conspicuously Kenyan.

Curious to find out what the logic was behind the arrangement of this event we approached our dear Ambassador after he gave his talk where he of course praised the man Kenyans love, Obama. We introduced ourselves with our concerns. His quick response was for us to go by the office and address the matter there. Fair enough, this was a social gathering and no place to file a complaint about what we thought was a compromise to the symbolism of Jamhuri day.

Just when we thought the discussion was over and turned to express our frustration towards one another, his so-called Excellency came up to us and held us by our hands insisting that we have to meet his wife. He introduced my friend and I as the warembos (beauties) who did not realize that he had a beautiful wife of his own, and then he went on to uncomfortably stare at and compliment how I looked. The Mrs. stood right in front of us, still and complacent. Totally puzzled and disgusted as to where these remarks came from, and her reaction, I corrected him and reiterated that we are two young ladies that were seriously disappointed at the poor performance that had just been displayed in the name of acknowledging the efforts of heroes like Dedan Kimathi.

Now it was no longer an issue of having foreign-looking and vocally-challenged kids who did not live up to my image of Kenyan Independence.

Millions of dollars are poured into ‘developing’ Kenya; millennium goals set by the elite, a 2030 vision by our beloved President, celebrities coming to self-inflate their egos in the name of saving us, and the list goes on. Of what use is all this, especially for women and the youth of our nation, when what really needs to be urbanized is the self-destructive mentality of stale leadership that is beyond what money can salvage; a headship that intrinsically trivializes the contributions and concerns of the young, their sisters, daughters and mothers.

How do we crush a mind frame of self entitlement and chauvinism that reduces a somber concern into a sexist slur?

One thing for sure is that complacency to such representation is not an option, it should be an allergy!

Before any other Kenyan leader steps up to the podium to stand for our beloved country, to take prerogative in the accomplishments of an icon like Barack Hussein Obama, take a moment of silence and reflect on your ethics and veracity towards promoting the interests of the youth and the women of Kenya. If your values are even slightly askew, please step back down.

Welcome to our world...

 

Wangechi Mutu ©

It is with thanks and love that I welcome you to my corner of solitude hoping to offer the same satisfaction. Join me in the birth of Breasts Over Matter, a tool to help with maintaining sanity and put into writing the illusion of the world through my breasted lenses! This is to all the phenomenal women and girls out there...plus of course the men that contribute to the process :)

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.