Call Waiting

I know I've been mistaken,

But just give me a break and see the changes that I've made;

I've got some imperfections,

But how can you collect them all and throw them in my face..."

Groggily, I rub my eyes as I look at the irritatingly bright light flashing from my Nokia 6300 next to me on the bedside stool (Yes, I did upgrade again.) 03:22, reads the figure at the top right corner of the screen. Who could be calling at such an ungodly hour? I ask myself.

Actually, I lie. I don’t ask myself that question, because even without looking at the picture that I have as this particular caller's ID, (i.e. Steven Gerrard after one of Liverpool's numerous losses,) I already know who is calling. Even people I owe money know how seriously I value my sleep and wouldn't call me at such an hour, so it could only be one person.

Goodness, I think. Doesn't this girl ever sleep? And even if she can't sleep, why doesn't she channel her insomnia towards something more conventional, e.g. watching four seasons of Gossip Girl, instead of interfering with my own hard-earned sleep?

Again, I lie. I don't think that, because my sleep is hardly ever earned. Also, I know this girl actually does sleep, but only during the day. She uses the hours of night to call people trying to get some sleep and also, I suspect, engage in a little bit of night running.

(OK. She doesn't do that. I'm just being mean.)

"But you always find a way,

To keep me right here waiting;

You always find the words to say,

To keep me right here waiting..."

OK. Ungodly hour or not, fact is my phone is ringing and I have to decide whether I am going to pick it up or not. I think for a few seconds, and then decide I am not going to take the call.

"I hope you're not intending,

To be so condescending, it's as much as I can take;

And you're so independent,

You just refuse to bend, so I keep bending till I break.

But you always find a way, to keep me right here waiting..."

I mean, who the hell does she think she is anyway, calling me at an hour when only chicken thieves are supposed to be awake? Doesn't she know I have better things to do, such as indulge in my long-running dream about a lifetime of marital bliss with Amy Lee of Evanescence? Besides, she is a both a freakin’ Liverpool and a freakin’ Coldplay fan, and I think anyone who actually likes either Liverpool or Coldplay is respectively either disturbed or just plain insane, characters you obviously wouldn't want calling you at 3:22 in the morning.

 

[Chris Martin is an egg-head.]

“I've made a commitment,

I'm willing to bleed for you;

I need this fulfillment,

I've found what I need in you

Why can't you just forgive me,

I don't want to relive all the mistakes I've made

along the way.

But I always find a way, to keep you right here waiting...”

The next thing I do, of course, is reach over and pick up the phone.

SO, WHAT EXACTLY AM I TRYING TO SAY WITH ALL THIS?

Nothing, really. I just felt like dissing Val. Oh, and to let you all know that my ring-tone is 'Right Here' by Staind.

In defence of Polygamy

Contrary to popular feminist discourse, polygamy isn't a reactionary custom of conservative, uncivilized societies dominated by chauvinistic men hell-bent on keeping women in shackles. As a matter of fact, I hereby advance that polygamy is the most innovative and effective solution to a perfectly natural and obvious phenomenon: There are simply too many women in this world and not enough men to marry them all!

According to the latest statistics gathered by highly competent international organizations mandated to carry out such and related research, at last count women constituted 59% of the total earth population, while men made up a paltry 39%. [And we still rule the world? C'mon ladies!] The other 2% comprised hermaphrodites and other humans whose sex could not be comprehensively ascertained. Transform this to real life and throw in the biological reality of puberty which hits women earlier than men, and you begin to understand the gravity of the situation our ladies face.

This of course is no one's fault but God's or, for those among us that subscribe to atheism, nature. But as a firm believer in the philosophy that nothing happens by chance and everything happens for a reason; and buoyed by the basic conclusions of this research which have further indicated that polygamy now has grounds for renewed relevance, I further advance that whoever it is that is responsible for this demographic imbalance had a really good reason for it. .

The reason for this is simple: A woman's genetic make-up is inferior to that of Man, and this makes her only capable of successfully executing a limited amount of tasks at any given time compared to Man whose make-up accords him higher levels of versatility and added ability to multi-task. The calculations involved in the computations that arrived at this conclusion are extensive and boring, but the long and short of it is that you need more women per unit function than the number of men you would require to execute an equal and similar function. You get my physics?

This is the reason why for example that girl who can out-argue you on the finer points of Shakespeare looks just a little better than the great author himself, or why that cutie who has you happily visiting the ATM every day for five-figure withdrawals reminds you of Jim Carey in 'Dumb and Dumber' whenever she opens her mouth. It is simply impossible for a woman to play more than one admirable role in one lifetime!

Women are however too stubborn to submit to this plain reality and always vainly attempt to fit into multiple roles way beyond their scope. Admittedly, some [Like my mother, for example] do manage a limited measure of success, but most end up malfunctioning with excruciating results. There is this girl I once dated who was all that and more, but her attempt at 'Complete womanhood' as she called it was a disaster. You see, an ideal woman's bearing should be that of a queen in public and that of someone who works at establishments of dubious moral standing in the privacy of the bedchambers, but this girl somehow always managed to get the two mixed up. I won't delve into details, but like I said, it was a really excruciating period of my life.

Have you ever tried to count the number of women who can handle both absolute financial independence and marriage to a husband of less financial clout? Apart from Queen Elizabeth, you can count the rest on the fingers of a quadruple amputee's left hand. Yet men have been doing this since creation. How many times have you heard women complaining about the pressure of holding a job and raising a family at the same time? I stopped counting when I hit the million mark. Yet for men that is so natural, the sun rising from the East would elicit more surprise!

This highlights the very inherent wisdom behind polygamy.1. Women are uni-functional, men are multi-functional. 2. Like poles may repel, but humans always tend to seek out companions with similarities they can relate with. 3. For most men, similarities mean a combination of characteristics in them which unfortunately, as we have already established, can't fit in one woman only.

So the only solution, as you should have gathered by now unless you never spent the KIE-recommended number of hours in front of a blackboard, is to marry different women for different values. Like in my case, my ideal woman should be beautiful, clever an incredible cook, and a vixen in bed. But since I can't have Sade [The most beautiful woman I have ever seen] Rah Digga [I bet you all didn't know she actually has a degree in electrical engineering!] Keisha [A friend of mine, name changed whose stews give my taste-buds daydreams] and Sharon Stone [If you have ever watched Basic Instinct, you catch my drift] all rolled in one, then honestly, what is wrong with me having all four of them, especially considering there is more where the said four came from, and thus I will actually be doing a service?

Of women and cars: A competition in elegance.

Recently, I managed to acquire a rusty 1978 Mini Morris Minor.

 For those of you that have as much clue about vintage automobiles as I do about the effect of algorithmic disambiguation on octanomial algebraic equations truncated at the third significant figure, a 1978 Mini Morris Minor is the type of car you don't just acquire anyhow unless you've got some serious cash, electric power connections and a time machine.

Obviously, my purchase of the car wasn't inspired by a pertinent need to address my transportation problems. Introducing such a gem into the atrocious Nairobi traffic scene is irrefutable evidence of a glaring lack of common sense, and besides, I have a perfectly serviced Suzuki motorbike for that purpose. The reason I bought the Morris, actually, was in anticipation of the Concours d' Elegance.

The Concours d' Elegance, again for those as uninformed about it as I am on all things mathematics, is Kenya's premier jamboree for glamour, class and, as its name modestly suggests, Elegance. Basically a vintage car and motorbike pageant and auto fair for new and used vehicles, the show has over its chequered history grown from strength to strength since the Alfa Romeo Owners' Club started this event in 1969, and last year's event at the Ngong Racecourse saw a record 70 cars and over 35 motorbikes competing in the various categories on offer. I bought the Morris, which I have affectionately named Maureen, because I plan to refurbish her and display her in this year's Concours d' Elegance event.

Cue trouble.

But first, a prologue to the events leading to my insistence on participating in this year's Concours d' Elegance, and the very dark clouds that now hang over my decision and my chances of winning the Ksh. 1.5million on offer.

Before last year, my take on "that KenCell junkyard show" as I used to term the Concours d' Elegance, was that it was nothing more than a forum for white expats and loaded Asians to show off vehicles their parents used to drive around in during the colonial times. Naturally, I considered such an event about as exciting as the breeding habits of pre-historic crustaceans, and I would gladly have endured a 3-hour VoK documentary on soil erosion at my ex girlfriend's house rather than attend one.

But that was before my friend, Ogolla Jangsta, convinced me that there was more to the Concours than vehicles which belong in a Museum.

The girls who attend the Concours, Jangsta reliably informed me, would make Jesus, Elton John and Ricky Martin re-consider their sexual orientation. According to him, the most money attracts the best females, and since wheels equals owners who can afford wheels and anyone who can afford a vintage car must have deep pockets, even the thickest blonde can tell that such a high concentration of wheels in one place means an equally high concentration of moneyed males. In short, the girls would be there in droves, and they would be there to impress the moneyed guys, which meant that they would look good.

 I listened to Jangsta's logic, and it was was impeccable. So on 27th October last year, I attended the Concours, not to see the cars, but to see the ladies who had come to see the loaded expats and rich Asians who had come to see the cars.

And I wasn't disappointed, because those ladies were something and then some. Oozing style and grace, It was as if God chose the moments he was feeling most creative to work on each female that was there, and then the ladies themselves emphatically complemented the almighty work by accentuating their curvaceous anatomies. A dizzying array of elegantly stitched designs, arresting accessories and the most pleasant scents to match their bewitching smiles permeated the grounds, numbed the senses and induced a feeling of perfect bliss. I was in heaven.

And what they couldn't accentuate, these girls exposed. From cleavage-exposing blouses to ass-lifting pencil jeans to outrageously low-cut minis from which a thong would discreetly but suggestively peep from time to time, they were clearly out to get me. If I were ever to be a suicide bomber with dreams of the standard seventy virgins of my choice, I thought at some point, I wouldn't mind choosing my virgins from these [assuming, of course, that seventy bona-fide virgins could be obtained from this crowd. But I digress.]

As the day wore on, however, I got bored with chasing after the pencil jeans, and started to nonchalantly look at the cars. To my surprise, I found the exercise quite captivating and before long, I started to actually enjoy watching the cars. Their big, round, perfectly symmetrical headlights, their sleek, streamlined bodies, their dark wheels with shiny reams, their cosy interiors and upholstery, and the way rows upon rows of them were parked along the ground as the judges and revellers walked around viewing them. suddenly, I realised I was in the presence of glamour, class and...Elegance.

 Elegance. Class. Sophistication. The very things I would want from a woman, these cars had and then some.

I looked at a passing female donning a pair of dark stunners to ward of the bright sunlight, and what registered in my mind was a the perfectly symmetrical headlights of a Rolls Royce.

 I saw lovely young lady whose cleavage left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and all I remembered was an open bonnet displaying the perfectly maintained engine of a 1934 Napier-Railton.

Another lady walked by in high-heels that accentuated her very shapely calves, and my mind immediately raced to the raised wheels of a 1928 Ford Model A.

And as she walked away, her behind rhythmically undulating, I couldn't help but think of the streamlined rear bumper of a 1978 Morris Mini.

I looked at the glossy shine of all the vehicles on display and marvelled at the dedication of the owners, had obviously put in a lot of time and energy to make them shine like that. As the engines were being analysed, I further marvelled at the financial strain it must have taken to lovingly restore these vehicles to mint condition. Surely, they hadn't put all that in for the sake of it. what I was witnessing here was rows and rows of individual labors of love.

Labor of love. Love.

Suddenly, it struck me. This men loved their cars. Any given day, I realised, any of these cars could be the perfect and much better substitution for women. Even when well maintained, women nag. women whine. Women are stubborn. Women are never on time. Women sulk for no apparent reason. Women don't understand when you just need your space. But most importantly, women are impossible to understand. And none of these endearing qualities could be said of a well-serviced, well-maintained car.

Right there and then, I decided that I was going to get me a vintage car and work on her so that I would enter her in the next edition of Concours d' Elegance. I would give her all the love and affection I could give a woman [except the obvious ones that can only be done with a fellow human, of course] in the hope that I would win the next edition of the Concours d' Elegance.

And after a long search, now I have Maureen. Problem is, the woman currently in my life is jealous of all the attention I give to Maureen. She claims that I am neglecting her, and this has been the cause of many an argument between us. Yet Maureen never complains when I leave her out in the cold, fail to attend to her or call her bad names when I'm in a foul mood. See what I mean?