So goes an old fable, One day an old dog came across a younger dog running in circles. "Hello, young one." He asked. "What are you doing?"
"Yo! W'zzup old dog" The younger dog replied. "I just discovered some bangin lil' secret that you ol timers probably didn't know. You see, I've just discovered that the secret of my happiness lies inside my tail, and I'm tynna catch it so that I can be happy forever!" and he went on running after his tail for all the world like he was a turbo-charged windmill.
The old dog regarded the younger dog for some time, and then he tapped him. "Excuse me, kiddo, but I got news for you. " He said, sagely. "You see, that happiness lies inside my tail is, to use your words, a 'bangin lil' secret' I discovered way back before your momma was a pup. But with time, I realised that running after it wasn't going to get me anywhere near it because the harder I chased it, the more it kept running away from me. But I also saw that when I stopped running after it and instead walked away and went about my business, it followed me!
I'm sure an overwhelming proportion of our esteemed readers must be conversant with the concept of reciprocity, that basis of social relations whereby everything we do for others is with the expectation that the person will give back, or 'reciprocate' in kind. For example when you go to the supermarket and you give the teller your cash, you expect that teller to clear you the goods you just picked from the supermarket shelves, or when you throw a dog your leftovers, you expect it to wag its tail and bark at shady-looking personalities that may venture near your premises from dusk till dawn.
This reciprocity exists in each and every aspect of human relationship. When your parents take care of you, they expect you to take care of them in their twilight years when the more muscular parts of their anatomy don't respond to instructions from the brain as readily as they used to. When your friend borrows your blouse, you'd hardly expect her to throw a tantrum when you inexplicably try to squeeze your substantial behind into that mini of hers you've always had your eyes on.
With relationships, reciprocity is even more pronounced. How many times have you ever heard the statement "After all I've done for him..." spoken by some damsel in distress after a breakup? Or the guy who believes that his Porsche, six figure paycheck and above average looks should get him the best female-world has to offer? It's all about reciprocity, and it is all natural thanks to the historical process of socialization to its values that humanity has been subjected to since the day Esau made a deal with Jacob over a bowl of bean soup.
However, the essence of reciprocity that most women are only too eager to miss by a solar system that includes Pluto is that this reciprocity ought to be balanced. Balanced reciprocity means, to use an economic perspective, expectation an equitable return for input in a venture. [Note: I said Equitable. NOT Equal.] So when I show the lady in my life some serious TLC, it is because I appreciate something that she has actually done for me, and I do it because I actually want to.
In the good old days of chivalry when moving mountains and crossing seas for love was not the product of soppy RnB howls and gutter Mills& Boon paperbacks but real honest-to-God actual stuff, men were ready to kill for a lady's handkerchief because they believed it was a worthy cause. This was because the ladies reciprocated by acting their station and never trying to usurp the natural order of things. They never demanded, but expected men to be chivalrous because they in turn didn't wait to be reminded to acted like ladies as men expected them to. Balanced reciprocity and everyone's happy.
But now ladies claim that we are all equal, [equal. Not equitable,] demanding for a place on top of the heirearchy, and yet still expect us to behave like we did when they had their rightful place a few notches down! Honestly, what else have they been smoking apart from good old Marijuana?
If you want me to be chivalrous and romantic, make me want to be chivalrous and romantic. And the best way of accomplishing this is by acting all vulnerable and in-need-of-protection. You see, nothing tugs at a guy's heartstrings more than the feeling of being in charge. The women of old knew this, and that's why men were willing to pander to their every whim.
So women, stop being aggressive and running after what you want like the little dog. Stop demanding equality. Likw the big dog, walk away and act nonchalant. The result, I promise you, will be beyond your wildest dreams.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Of women and touts.
You know she likes them lights at night on the neon Broadway signs.
She don't really mind; it's only love she hoped to find...
That above line should be familiar to all Generation X dudes who grew up with me during the Reagan era and the first Bush error of global politics. It is from one of my favorite hits by Bon Jovi, 'Runaway', and the reason I have used it here is because it aptly captures a malady peculiar to females: The Bad Boy syndrome.No, I am not talking about an incomprehensible addiction to noise produced, directed, sung or otherwise concocted from a record label owned by Puffy or Piddy or Duddley or whatever it is that idiot calls himself nowadays. Rather, I am referring to that affliction in females whose symptoms include, among other disorders, adeptness at dismissing issues that matter in favor of mediocrity, propensity to frivolity and, most of all, attraction to form rather than substance.
As proof of this, for example, lot of women, it has been established, just can't get enough of reprobates that make a living from stuffing living human beings into contraptions whose sole purpose of existence seems to be cramming as much noise as possible into the smallest space imaginable and then going on to cram even more people into whatever little space the noise has left. Women really think that a guy who earns his daily bread [or in this case, his daily Mbachu, Bale, Ngale and other unhealthy substances] from telling people who know where they are going where they are going is actually cool, and they believe that the degenerate act of swinging precariously from the door of a Matatu is the most macho thing since Schwarzenegger's role in 'Commando.'
Some things you look at and wish you could grab the silly girl who believes this nonsense and thoroughly thrash some sense into her head, especially if this female happens to be your daughter, sister or equally close relation. But feminism seems to be the official ideology in the halls of justice nowadays and such a physical explanation might get you sued faster than one Arunga's psychological meltdown, so you are left to simply shake your head in frustration and watch the madness.
And this syndrome, believe it or not, has a biological explanation.
If my memory serves me right, I remember Mr. Samson Silenje once talking about something to do with Binomial Nomenclature in one of the very few Biology classes I managed to attend back in high school. This, according to him, is the system of naming that gives every living thing a botanical name, for example Feminista degenerata [for feminists] or Idiota cabineta [for Grand coalition governments] and it is based on seven categories.
You will have to forgive me, it's been quite some time since I last opened a Biology textbook, so my memory is a bit rusty and I can't remember all the seven categories. [Plus I really wasn't that good in Biology...actually, I was quite bad...OK. I sucked in biology. Happy?] I however remember the first category in this taxonomy [There! I did remember a biological term!] was Kingdom, and that human beings belong to Kingdom Animalia. For those of you with extra inches of skull, that means we are actually animals.
Now, animals depend mainly on instinct for survival, and man is no exception. Most of our very basic behavioural norms are purely instinctive, as are the most fundamental decisions we make, and we normally refer to it as 'gut feeling' or 'sixth sense.' But What separates man from the rest of the creatures in Kingdom Animalia, however, is support for this instinct by the ability to reason. Our reaction to stimuli is at first instinctive, but the actual action we take more often than not is guided by reason. So we see the pouty, kissable lips or the smooth, loooong legs and are filled with lust,[instinct] but we don't commit our hearts until we are sure about what we are getting ourselves into.[reason.]
My reference to man in the preceding two paragraphs was in the masculine sense of the world, since this quality unfortunately seems to be lacking in most women. For them, it is almost as if they are all instinct and zero reason, which results in an incredibly poor sense of judgement and the natural affinity to bad decisions that comes with it. They always go for the outer trappings rather than the inner substance which really matters. If it is posh and exciting, let's go for it and worry about whether or not it is sustainable in the long run later. Classic signs of the bad boy syndrome.
An attraction to touts is simply the tip of the ice-berg. Fizzle Dogg, Sugar Daddies, fake Rastafarians, shady preachers, wannabe gangsters and anyone with a fake American accent are among a myraid of other suitors who also stand a good chance of scoring with these impressionable, less mentally developed members of our society.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Promises
When this lady I'm acquainted with declared that men have a problem with keeping promises, my first reaction was "And what the hell is the problem with that?" If I give you a promise, it is yours, as in for you. What business then do I have keeping something I have made for you? But that didn't wash with her, so I set off for the KNLS library at Community to come up with something that would hopefully be more in line with her perspective but still convince her of the fallacy of her assertion.
I was unable to get hold of an Oxford dictionary that I would have preffered for my purposes, and so I had to make do with a very huge publication of a dictionary I found in there to look up the word 'Promise.' [By the way on a somewhat unrelated issue, I noticed that 80% of the readers in the library at that time were men. Still wondering how it was that the first girl in this year's KCSE rankings was at position 11?]
Anyway, the publication defined a promise as "A declaration or assurance, expressed of one's free will, that one will guarantee or refrain from guaranteeing the happening of a specified act." It also went on to add that "This gives the person to whom it is given an implied right to expect or claim the performance or forbearance of that act."
So there we have it. A most comprehensive definition, if there ever was one, to help us mount an effective defense against the charge this lady, and later Eve, have leveled against us about our presumed incapability to keep promises.
First of all, a promise is a declaration or an assurance. But in many cases, the promises ladies accuse us of failing to keep aren't even declarations or assurances in the first place! Women are experts at taking miles whenever you mention a centimeter, so a smile in her direction and she is all a-yakking with 'the girls' about how you promised to call her for a date, or a passing comment about how warm Mombasa is in August and she takes it that you have promised her a holiday at Whitesands. My dear ladies, the defining feature of a declaration is actual expression, not vague implication!
And speaking of expression, the definition asserts that it should be of one's free will. So if I finally agree to get you that atrociously expensive microwave we saw last year at KitchenPoint in order to put a stop to your constant nagging, that is not free will, and therefore it is not a promise. If you know about my almost religious adoration for Wayne Rooney but somehow manage to have me agreeing to spending 'Quality Time' with you on weekend afternoons even when Manchester United is playing, free will doesn't feature anywhere there and it is therefore definitely not a promise!
The definition also allows for the implied right by the recipient to expect or claim the performance or forbearance of that act, which is where the ladies have us by the neckties. But Great expectations, like the great Ethiopian philosopher and writer Hama Tuma once said, make frustrated men. [or, in this case, women.] My dear ladies, once again I stress, this right is implied. Constitutions the world over grasped something you always seem to have a problem understanding: That the space between the making of a promise and it's actual execution is subject to factors that lie outside the control of the promise-maker, and this is the very reason why legal obligation is seldom placed on the execution of promises!
However, the main reason men are reluctant to keep promises is because women have this despicable, horrible habit of using their promises against them. The major example of this is where women use pregnancy to trap men they have their hooks trained on into unwanted marriages or child support for children who may not even be theirs!
And it is not as if the ladies themselves are altogether prudent about the promises they make. As a matter of fact, ladies on average fail to keep promises more than men, and the only reason we never notice is because of how vocal they are about the promises we break, which deflects our attention from their own inadequacies in the department of promise-keeping.
But all in all, promises do not have to precisely fit within the confines of our definition. What matters is the spirit of the promise, i.e what the maker of the promise intended when he made it. But that said, it is very few men that would deliberately break a promise. For a man, pride is everything, and the mark of a man's pride is how consistent he is in keeping his word.
I was unable to get hold of an Oxford dictionary that I would have preffered for my purposes, and so I had to make do with a very huge publication of a dictionary I found in there to look up the word 'Promise.' [By the way on a somewhat unrelated issue, I noticed that 80% of the readers in the library at that time were men. Still wondering how it was that the first girl in this year's KCSE rankings was at position 11?]
Anyway, the publication defined a promise as "A declaration or assurance, expressed of one's free will, that one will guarantee or refrain from guaranteeing the happening of a specified act." It also went on to add that "This gives the person to whom it is given an implied right to expect or claim the performance or forbearance of that act."
So there we have it. A most comprehensive definition, if there ever was one, to help us mount an effective defense against the charge this lady, and later Eve, have leveled against us about our presumed incapability to keep promises.
First of all, a promise is a declaration or an assurance. But in many cases, the promises ladies accuse us of failing to keep aren't even declarations or assurances in the first place! Women are experts at taking miles whenever you mention a centimeter, so a smile in her direction and she is all a-yakking with 'the girls' about how you promised to call her for a date, or a passing comment about how warm Mombasa is in August and she takes it that you have promised her a holiday at Whitesands. My dear ladies, the defining feature of a declaration is actual expression, not vague implication!
And speaking of expression, the definition asserts that it should be of one's free will. So if I finally agree to get you that atrociously expensive microwave we saw last year at KitchenPoint in order to put a stop to your constant nagging, that is not free will, and therefore it is not a promise. If you know about my almost religious adoration for Wayne Rooney but somehow manage to have me agreeing to spending 'Quality Time' with you on weekend afternoons even when Manchester United is playing, free will doesn't feature anywhere there and it is therefore definitely not a promise!
The definition also allows for the implied right by the recipient to expect or claim the performance or forbearance of that act, which is where the ladies have us by the neckties. But Great expectations, like the great Ethiopian philosopher and writer Hama Tuma once said, make frustrated men. [or, in this case, women.] My dear ladies, once again I stress, this right is implied. Constitutions the world over grasped something you always seem to have a problem understanding: That the space between the making of a promise and it's actual execution is subject to factors that lie outside the control of the promise-maker, and this is the very reason why legal obligation is seldom placed on the execution of promises!
However, the main reason men are reluctant to keep promises is because women have this despicable, horrible habit of using their promises against them. The major example of this is where women use pregnancy to trap men they have their hooks trained on into unwanted marriages or child support for children who may not even be theirs!
And it is not as if the ladies themselves are altogether prudent about the promises they make. As a matter of fact, ladies on average fail to keep promises more than men, and the only reason we never notice is because of how vocal they are about the promises we break, which deflects our attention from their own inadequacies in the department of promise-keeping.
But all in all, promises do not have to precisely fit within the confines of our definition. What matters is the spirit of the promise, i.e what the maker of the promise intended when he made it. But that said, it is very few men that would deliberately break a promise. For a man, pride is everything, and the mark of a man's pride is how consistent he is in keeping his word.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Miss Mboch
First of all, I'd like to make one thing clear. Cheating is bad, and if you feel you need to have sex with more than one person, then you should either not have a romantic attachment to both of them, or you should be married to both of them.
That said, let me now begin by apologizing for one apology I'm never going to make: I'll never ever apologize for behaving like a man and holding the attitudes, values and perspectives of a man, for the simple reason that I am a man. But then again, I highly doubt I'd change my behavior, attitudes, values and perspectives even if I had the power to do so, and any female that has a problem with that can go take a running jump.
So being the man that I am and conforming to the dynamics of Society and Biology, I have a pretty clear idea about what I'd expect from a marital relationship. Society tuned me to demand respect, deference, commitment and responsibility from my spouse and in return, I was supposed to reciprocate by availing to her corresponding amounts of the same. Biology on its part put in me the desire and expectation for good, fulfilling and regular sex.
Should these two dynamics strike a balance in a marital union, harmony reigns and a stable relationship is virtually guaranteed. We succeed in building a solid, functional entity that gives both of us a sense of fulfillment and a desire to protect and maintain such a precious gem.
But thanks to W omen's Lib, Affirmative Action, Gender Balance and other equally disastrous concepts of the feminist catastrophe`, this balance is in society is facing a kind of threat it has never encountered before. Women are now demanding equality in the distribution of duties instead of stressing equitability where responsibility is appropriated basing on ability. They forget that all the responsibilities they had before, all the activities relations and interplays within the home that they have been involved in since time immemorial, are vital bonds that hold the basic unit if society, ie the family, together.
Instead, they develop this strange notion that a fat payslip at the end of the month would compensate their forbearance of these very necessary responsibilities and even grant them a few extra liberties, such as the re-arrangement of the power structure of society with them at the top. They choose to spend all their time strategizing on how to consolidate their new-found position and delegate more and more of their household duties to house-helps.
And this creates a problem. Two problems, as a matter of fact. One, instead of a marital union being a strong, vibrant arrangement that is mutually beneficial and an object of pride, it instead becomes an unstable, non-functioning entity that is more disgusting than alluring. And two, the needs that the marital union was supposed to fulfill in the first place don't simply disappear. They are still there, and they still need to be fulfilled.
I still need to experience the respect, commitment and deference from the person I love, even if only for my ego's sake, but now that I'm seeing less and less of my spouse, I begin to associate my well-cooked and timely-served food, well-kept house, neat, well-pressed clothes and good-mannered children more and more with my house-help than my wife, and along with it goes the gratitude for these small pleasures of life that really matter.
And I still need sex. Good, fulfilling and regular sex. But I can hardly count on my wife to be in the mood nowadays because her activities are taking a heavy to on her, and worse still, she starts to have sex only to indulge me. Now, let me tell you, no man except a very desperate one, appreciates sympathy sex. Sex should be both mutual and consensual, I will doubtless start feeling short-changed and cast my attentions elsewhere. One guess whom I'd likely go for!
Women make the mistake of viewing house-helps as lesser human beings, working machines who come in, work, get paid and leave. They forget that these are actually flesh-and-bone humans with feelings, desires and ambitions. So instead of CSWs who are dangerous, illegal and could go through my reputation like a tornado through a shack, or female workmates who carry more baggage than a Cucu at Karatina and are, if anything, more strung up than my wife, it's only natural that I'd be drawn to the timid, bashful and reserved house-help like a sailor to a siren.
In conclusion,I reiterate. My personal views towards cheats aren't exactly charitable. But just because something is bad doesn't mean its justifications should be dismissed offhand. And until women learn to take their marriages seriously, then they shouldn't keep asking why men stray.
That said, let me now begin by apologizing for one apology I'm never going to make: I'll never ever apologize for behaving like a man and holding the attitudes, values and perspectives of a man, for the simple reason that I am a man. But then again, I highly doubt I'd change my behavior, attitudes, values and perspectives even if I had the power to do so, and any female that has a problem with that can go take a running jump.
So being the man that I am and conforming to the dynamics of Society and Biology, I have a pretty clear idea about what I'd expect from a marital relationship. Society tuned me to demand respect, deference, commitment and responsibility from my spouse and in return, I was supposed to reciprocate by availing to her corresponding amounts of the same. Biology on its part put in me the desire and expectation for good, fulfilling and regular sex.
Should these two dynamics strike a balance in a marital union, harmony reigns and a stable relationship is virtually guaranteed. We succeed in building a solid, functional entity that gives both of us a sense of fulfillment and a desire to protect and maintain such a precious gem.
But thanks to W omen's Lib, Affirmative Action, Gender Balance and other equally disastrous concepts of the feminist catastrophe`, this balance is in society is facing a kind of threat it has never encountered before. Women are now demanding equality in the distribution of duties instead of stressing equitability where responsibility is appropriated basing on ability. They forget that all the responsibilities they had before, all the activities relations and interplays within the home that they have been involved in since time immemorial, are vital bonds that hold the basic unit if society, ie the family, together.
Instead, they develop this strange notion that a fat payslip at the end of the month would compensate their forbearance of these very necessary responsibilities and even grant them a few extra liberties, such as the re-arrangement of the power structure of society with them at the top. They choose to spend all their time strategizing on how to consolidate their new-found position and delegate more and more of their household duties to house-helps.
And this creates a problem. Two problems, as a matter of fact. One, instead of a marital union being a strong, vibrant arrangement that is mutually beneficial and an object of pride, it instead becomes an unstable, non-functioning entity that is more disgusting than alluring. And two, the needs that the marital union was supposed to fulfill in the first place don't simply disappear. They are still there, and they still need to be fulfilled.
I still need to experience the respect, commitment and deference from the person I love, even if only for my ego's sake, but now that I'm seeing less and less of my spouse, I begin to associate my well-cooked and timely-served food, well-kept house, neat, well-pressed clothes and good-mannered children more and more with my house-help than my wife, and along with it goes the gratitude for these small pleasures of life that really matter.
And I still need sex. Good, fulfilling and regular sex. But I can hardly count on my wife to be in the mood nowadays because her activities are taking a heavy to on her, and worse still, she starts to have sex only to indulge me. Now, let me tell you, no man except a very desperate one, appreciates sympathy sex. Sex should be both mutual and consensual, I will doubtless start feeling short-changed and cast my attentions elsewhere. One guess whom I'd likely go for!
Women make the mistake of viewing house-helps as lesser human beings, working machines who come in, work, get paid and leave. They forget that these are actually flesh-and-bone humans with feelings, desires and ambitions. So instead of CSWs who are dangerous, illegal and could go through my reputation like a tornado through a shack, or female workmates who carry more baggage than a Cucu at Karatina and are, if anything, more strung up than my wife, it's only natural that I'd be drawn to the timid, bashful and reserved house-help like a sailor to a siren.
In conclusion,I reiterate. My personal views towards cheats aren't exactly charitable. But just because something is bad doesn't mean its justifications should be dismissed offhand. And until women learn to take their marriages seriously, then they shouldn't keep asking why men stray.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Parenting
One morning, Mr. Holloway, a teacher at Brooksfield High, caught two boys, Scott Miller and Owusu Abezuka, smoking pot in the boys' restroom. He sent them to the principal, who immediately called the boys' parents and notified them of their sons' transgressions before sending the boys home.
***************
Scott's father, Herman Miller, was a wealthy Wall Street stockbroker. He was stunned when he received the principal's call, and he promptly called his wife, a counselor at a nearby hospital, to tell her the disappointing news. They agreed to speak to Scott about his behavior as soon as they got home that evening.
During dinner, they gently broached the subject with their son, asking him when, how and why he had started smoking Marijuana. They listened earnestly as Scott revealed he had been smoking for about a month, he had started doing so after he and his friend Owusu had been persuaded to by some cool-looking seniors, and that he actually liked the fix smoking the drug gave him.
Scott's revelations shocked his parents, and after a lengthy lecture on the ills of smoking Marijuana, they made him promise he would try to kick the habit before sending him to bed. Then when they themselves retired to bed, they had a long discussion on the matter before finally agreeing to pay more attention to their son.
***************
Owusu's father, Yunnus Abezuka, was an immigrant from Cameroon. He owned a small hotel which specialized in Cameroonian cuisine, and he was busy pounding yam for the lunch-time rush when the call from the principal informing him of his son's Marijuana use came through.
Immediately, he called his wife, who had just finished making the Egusi soup, and asked her to finish pounding the yams as he had some important business to take care of. Then taking off his apron, he quickly mounted his bike and pedaled furiously home, arriving just as Owusu timidly walked in.
"Young man, why aren't you at school?" He shouted.
"The principal asked me and another boy to go home and bring our parents." Owusu replied in a tiny voice.
"Why? Has the school introduced compulsory classes for parents?"
"No, father. Me and the other boy were smoking..."
One second he was having problems explaining himself to his father, the next second he was having problems clearing the several billion stars that his father's thunderclap of a slap had produced inside his head.
"I send you to school to fill your head with lessons your teachers and your books give you inside the classroom, not with queer substances your friends give you inside the toilet. Do you understand?" Mr. Abezuka thundered.
"Yes sir!" Owusu sobbed.
"Stop crying like a woman!" Mr. Abezuka roared and Owusu instantly stopped sniffling. "Now listen very carefully. You will never, ever from now onwards touch anything that even vaguely resembles Marijuana. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir!"
"Good. Now run along and help your mother with the lunch time crowd before I bash your pot-smoking mouth in!"
***************
The next day, Mrs.Miller, Mr.Abezuka, Scott and Owusu met with the principal at his officce. The boys apologized for their behavior and after assurances from the parents that they would be closely monitored, the principal doled out appropriate punishment rotas and everyone was dismissed.
Mr.and Mrs.Miller paid more attention to their son after the incident, and when he succumbed to pot smoking a few months later, they took him to rehab until he kicked the habit. He still smokes from time to time, but not in harmful quantities.
In the Abezuka household, the incident was never mentioned again. Nobody needed to, for Owusu never touched Marijuana again.
***************
Scott's father, Herman Miller, was a wealthy Wall Street stockbroker. He was stunned when he received the principal's call, and he promptly called his wife, a counselor at a nearby hospital, to tell her the disappointing news. They agreed to speak to Scott about his behavior as soon as they got home that evening.
During dinner, they gently broached the subject with their son, asking him when, how and why he had started smoking Marijuana. They listened earnestly as Scott revealed he had been smoking for about a month, he had started doing so after he and his friend Owusu had been persuaded to by some cool-looking seniors, and that he actually liked the fix smoking the drug gave him.
Scott's revelations shocked his parents, and after a lengthy lecture on the ills of smoking Marijuana, they made him promise he would try to kick the habit before sending him to bed. Then when they themselves retired to bed, they had a long discussion on the matter before finally agreeing to pay more attention to their son.
***************
Owusu's father, Yunnus Abezuka, was an immigrant from Cameroon. He owned a small hotel which specialized in Cameroonian cuisine, and he was busy pounding yam for the lunch-time rush when the call from the principal informing him of his son's Marijuana use came through.
Immediately, he called his wife, who had just finished making the Egusi soup, and asked her to finish pounding the yams as he had some important business to take care of. Then taking off his apron, he quickly mounted his bike and pedaled furiously home, arriving just as Owusu timidly walked in.
"Young man, why aren't you at school?" He shouted.
"The principal asked me and another boy to go home and bring our parents." Owusu replied in a tiny voice.
"Why? Has the school introduced compulsory classes for parents?"
"No, father. Me and the other boy were smoking..."
One second he was having problems explaining himself to his father, the next second he was having problems clearing the several billion stars that his father's thunderclap of a slap had produced inside his head.
"I send you to school to fill your head with lessons your teachers and your books give you inside the classroom, not with queer substances your friends give you inside the toilet. Do you understand?" Mr. Abezuka thundered.
"Yes sir!" Owusu sobbed.
"Stop crying like a woman!" Mr. Abezuka roared and Owusu instantly stopped sniffling. "Now listen very carefully. You will never, ever from now onwards touch anything that even vaguely resembles Marijuana. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir!"
"Good. Now run along and help your mother with the lunch time crowd before I bash your pot-smoking mouth in!"
***************
The next day, Mrs.Miller, Mr.Abezuka, Scott and Owusu met with the principal at his officce. The boys apologized for their behavior and after assurances from the parents that they would be closely monitored, the principal doled out appropriate punishment rotas and everyone was dismissed.
Mr.and Mrs.Miller paid more attention to their son after the incident, and when he succumbed to pot smoking a few months later, they took him to rehab until he kicked the habit. He still smokes from time to time, but not in harmful quantities.
In the Abezuka household, the incident was never mentioned again. Nobody needed to, for Owusu never touched Marijuana again.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Miss Independent.
Faults with women sometimes tends to jump out at me so readily, it would actually be boring if it weren't so frustrating. All I have to do at times is randomly pick out any woman and observe her, and in five seconds flat I'm guaranteed to have spotted a quirk or two that puts a slip of sandpaper on my nerve endings.
Recently, a nephew of mine was celebrating his Birthday, and I took him out for a treat at a nearby restaurant. There, we ran into a lady friend of mine I haven't seen in ages and naturally, we started to catch upon each other's lives, kids, spouses and all. I happen to share a couple of family features with my nephew and so she assumed that he was my son, an assumption I made no attempt to correct.
But when I asked her about herself and whether she had already started her family, Her response might have come straight from a basic feminist operational handbook. No, she told me, she did not have a hubby or kids because she was an 'Independent' career woman with her own car, fully mortgaged house and loads of cash in the bank. She didn't see the need to curtail her independence with some demanding hubby or a squealing toddler and besides, men according to her share several characteristics with that creature which has devout Moslems contemplating murder.
Instantly, whatever pleasantness that might have come from bumping into her evaporated and I wished I had resisted my nephew's heart warming pleas to take him out that morning. With the alacrity of a late intern, I hastily mumbled something about the lateness of the hour and said goodbye, hoping never to see her again in this lifetime.
Could somebody please tell me what exactly is the naturally occurring hallucinogen in women that makes them associate financial stability with a right to bash men, all in the name of being 'independent'? If you get around enough, you must have come across the type. Those who just because their presence anywhere is announced by the hoot of a Prado, expect society to always hold them in awe and deference; those ones who believe they are the most independent thing since December 12th just because the figures in their bank balances are followed by more zeroes than I ever accumulated in mathematics tests back in high school.
But then again, what else would you expect from minds at such an elementary stage of evolution?
Independence, as far as I know, is the ability and appreciation of the ability to do things for oneself, borne out of freedom from control by another entity. Now, basing on this definition, do we really have anything like a truly 'Independent' woman?
Indeed, there are very many women who wouldn't mind doing things for themselves. But nevertheless, I am extremely confident in my assertion that more often than not, women would much rather we did things for them. Have you ever noticed that despite their bleats about being subjugated, it is always the authoritative, assertive alpha males that women are always falling over for? Shout all you like, but deep inside every woman revels in being dominated by a figure of authority, financial stability notwithstanding.
This independence is borne out of freedom of control by another entity. On this count, how well do our ladies fare? For a man, financial stability is indeed a source of a considerable amount of pride, but a man mostly seeks wealth so that he can be comfortable. Power, respect and authority may be the more manifest goals, but ultimately, a man wants his money to work for him. But for women, wealth is a means to prove that they too can be like men. It is their way of getting back to a male-dominated society that they feel is to pay for their bitterness from life's frustrations.
In this case, the 'independence' they so much brag about is not independence in the truest sense of the word since it is controlled by another entity: a drive to prove themselves. They can get what they want, yes, but mostly what they crave for is acknowledgment of their capabilities, and they would be prepared to give up anything if such acknowledgment were to be obtained. To this end, it means this 'independence' is simply a figment of their imagination; they are still shackled by a need to be acknowledged by, ironically, men.
So a piece of advice, my dear ladies, from a quote by the great Lebanese poet and philosopher, Kahlil Gibran. "Doing what you like is freedom. Liking what you do is happiness. If you want true independence, remove male bashing from the equation and do something because you actually like doing it. That way, your independence is pure, and anything else such as financial stability is simply a bonus.
Recently, a nephew of mine was celebrating his Birthday, and I took him out for a treat at a nearby restaurant. There, we ran into a lady friend of mine I haven't seen in ages and naturally, we started to catch upon each other's lives, kids, spouses and all. I happen to share a couple of family features with my nephew and so she assumed that he was my son, an assumption I made no attempt to correct.
But when I asked her about herself and whether she had already started her family, Her response might have come straight from a basic feminist operational handbook. No, she told me, she did not have a hubby or kids because she was an 'Independent' career woman with her own car, fully mortgaged house and loads of cash in the bank. She didn't see the need to curtail her independence with some demanding hubby or a squealing toddler and besides, men according to her share several characteristics with that creature which has devout Moslems contemplating murder.
Instantly, whatever pleasantness that might have come from bumping into her evaporated and I wished I had resisted my nephew's heart warming pleas to take him out that morning. With the alacrity of a late intern, I hastily mumbled something about the lateness of the hour and said goodbye, hoping never to see her again in this lifetime.
Could somebody please tell me what exactly is the naturally occurring hallucinogen in women that makes them associate financial stability with a right to bash men, all in the name of being 'independent'? If you get around enough, you must have come across the type. Those who just because their presence anywhere is announced by the hoot of a Prado, expect society to always hold them in awe and deference; those ones who believe they are the most independent thing since December 12th just because the figures in their bank balances are followed by more zeroes than I ever accumulated in mathematics tests back in high school.
But then again, what else would you expect from minds at such an elementary stage of evolution?
Independence, as far as I know, is the ability and appreciation of the ability to do things for oneself, borne out of freedom from control by another entity. Now, basing on this definition, do we really have anything like a truly 'Independent' woman?
Indeed, there are very many women who wouldn't mind doing things for themselves. But nevertheless, I am extremely confident in my assertion that more often than not, women would much rather we did things for them. Have you ever noticed that despite their bleats about being subjugated, it is always the authoritative, assertive alpha males that women are always falling over for? Shout all you like, but deep inside every woman revels in being dominated by a figure of authority, financial stability notwithstanding.
This independence is borne out of freedom of control by another entity. On this count, how well do our ladies fare? For a man, financial stability is indeed a source of a considerable amount of pride, but a man mostly seeks wealth so that he can be comfortable. Power, respect and authority may be the more manifest goals, but ultimately, a man wants his money to work for him. But for women, wealth is a means to prove that they too can be like men. It is their way of getting back to a male-dominated society that they feel is to pay for their bitterness from life's frustrations.
In this case, the 'independence' they so much brag about is not independence in the truest sense of the word since it is controlled by another entity: a drive to prove themselves. They can get what they want, yes, but mostly what they crave for is acknowledgment of their capabilities, and they would be prepared to give up anything if such acknowledgment were to be obtained. To this end, it means this 'independence' is simply a figment of their imagination; they are still shackled by a need to be acknowledged by, ironically, men.
So a piece of advice, my dear ladies, from a quote by the great Lebanese poet and philosopher, Kahlil Gibran. "Doing what you like is freedom. Liking what you do is happiness. If you want true independence, remove male bashing from the equation and do something because you actually like doing it. That way, your independence is pure, and anything else such as financial stability is simply a bonus.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Lunchtime
It's a few minutes past One, and I'm seated on a plank of wood suspended between two other wooden stumps embedded to the ground inside a long tin-walled shack. The location is along Lunga Lunga road in Industrial area, and judging by the frantic pace at which the waiters are rushing, these people are hungry
"Teargas!" The waiter who has just taken my order suddenly shouts, and I have to physically restrain myself from racing for the door and clearing the place as fast as I can. This is, after all, one of the seedier parts of town where riots are not altogether uncommon.
But I need not worry for my safety. The purpose of the waiter's blood-curdling yell, it turns out, is not to warn the assembly of eaters in the food kiosk of the presence of riot-busting fumes. Rather, he simply wishes to inform the harried-looking waitress behind the small kitchen window to include some pepper in the Karanga I have just ordered.
Welcome to the world of low-end dining.
"Teargas!" The waiter who has just taken my order suddenly shouts, and I have to physically restrain myself from racing for the door and clearing the place as fast as I can. This is, after all, one of the seedier parts of town where riots are not altogether uncommon.
But I need not worry for my safety. The purpose of the waiter's blood-curdling yell, it turns out, is not to warn the assembly of eaters in the food kiosk of the presence of riot-busting fumes. Rather, he simply wishes to inform the harried-looking waitress behind the small kitchen window to include some pepper in the Karanga I have just ordered.
Welcome to the world of low-end dining.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Beware: Tenacious Bitches.
We men have always prided ourselves as the hunters in the dating and relationship wilderness, with the women as our prey. But very quietly, the tables are being turned, and the women are now the hunters. And this is happening so subtly, most men don't even notice it and probably never will.
So you feel like bragging to your pals about how you had that lass at the party eating out of your hand only hours after you two met? Hold up, man! Chances are she actually saw you first, decided she liked you, found a way of getting your attention, [which probably wasn't too hard,] and then sat back and pretended submission to your charms.
Simply put, the man does the courting, but it is the woman that chooses the man who will do the courting. Sorry guys, but that is the new reality in the dating field.
However, now that we have ourselves a fundamental circumstance of life where women are for once actually on the driving seat, something just has to go wrong somewhere. That is as inevitable as another trophy-less season at Ainfield. And the problem in this circumstance is tenacity.
There are women out there, (and their numbers are quite disturbing,) who quite simply won't get the hint that a guy is not that into them. Even when you make it plain as day that instead of dating them you would rather find more interesting things to do with your time such as root canal surgery or supporting Liverpool F.C , they simply refuse to get it.
And the saddest bit is, there isn't anything men can do about it. It is said that men can't live with women and at the same time can't live without them, but on the other hand, women simply can't live without us, period. So since we are a basic female need, the female hunter aggression is something we as men need to learn how to live with because there is no alternative.
But women also need to understand that some prey just can't be had. If a man is not into you, I swear it will be much easier to compute the microphysical dynamics of thermal disambiguation in a cubic decimeter of condensed compounds from Neptune's ionosphere (without a calculator) than to get him interested in you.
To help you know when this is the case, dear sisters, I will now give you three main ways of knowing that pictures of romantic bliss don't pop into a guy's head when he thinks of you.
One, a guy that's not into you will spend as little time with you as possible, despite there being plenty of time and close enough proximity between the two of you. So if you live in plot 917 Umoja 2 and he lives in plot 918 Umoja 2, yet he spends as much time with you as a trophy in the general location of Liverpool, then it is time, like Jesus would say, to cast your nets elsewhere.
A man who is not into you will also not exhibit any signs of jealousy when there is evidence of another man in the picture. Men are naturally very competitive, and more so when striving for a woman's affections. He will get very jealous if he even suspects someone else might be on your speed dial, so if you detect no such apprehension from your prey when he sees you in the company of Biko Adema's cute twin, then sorry sis. Wrong number.
And then there is the fallacy that men always forget important dates, and the truth behind it carries the potential for any woman to know whether or not a man really likes her as much as she hopes he does. Indeed, we do pay scant attention to birthdays and anniversaries, but that is because we don't think they are as important as the things we prioritize.
However, if a girl means that much to me, I will do my best to remember the most minute details about her. The reverse, as you can imagine, is also very true. So if your birthday is on Christmas day but he still forgets despite the fact that your name is Christmastine, then allow me and all of us at ITHSU? this opportunity to offer you and your chances with him our sincerest apologies.
But all these hints and signs are nothing compared to straight up honesty. Thus if you really want to know whether or not a guy is into you, the best thing to do is to go straight up to him and express yourself. Trust me, no guy that is into a girl will even dare to think about not giving you a straight answer, so forget your fear and go for it. After all, In this age of Women's Lib, such things no longer shock us and you will not be considered a brazen lass.
So you feel like bragging to your pals about how you had that lass at the party eating out of your hand only hours after you two met? Hold up, man! Chances are she actually saw you first, decided she liked you, found a way of getting your attention, [which probably wasn't too hard,] and then sat back and pretended submission to your charms.
Simply put, the man does the courting, but it is the woman that chooses the man who will do the courting. Sorry guys, but that is the new reality in the dating field.
However, now that we have ourselves a fundamental circumstance of life where women are for once actually on the driving seat, something just has to go wrong somewhere. That is as inevitable as another trophy-less season at Ainfield. And the problem in this circumstance is tenacity.
There are women out there, (and their numbers are quite disturbing,) who quite simply won't get the hint that a guy is not that into them. Even when you make it plain as day that instead of dating them you would rather find more interesting things to do with your time such as root canal surgery or supporting Liverpool F.C , they simply refuse to get it.
And the saddest bit is, there isn't anything men can do about it. It is said that men can't live with women and at the same time can't live without them, but on the other hand, women simply can't live without us, period. So since we are a basic female need, the female hunter aggression is something we as men need to learn how to live with because there is no alternative.
But women also need to understand that some prey just can't be had. If a man is not into you, I swear it will be much easier to compute the microphysical dynamics of thermal disambiguation in a cubic decimeter of condensed compounds from Neptune's ionosphere (without a calculator) than to get him interested in you.
To help you know when this is the case, dear sisters, I will now give you three main ways of knowing that pictures of romantic bliss don't pop into a guy's head when he thinks of you.
One, a guy that's not into you will spend as little time with you as possible, despite there being plenty of time and close enough proximity between the two of you. So if you live in plot 917 Umoja 2 and he lives in plot 918 Umoja 2, yet he spends as much time with you as a trophy in the general location of Liverpool, then it is time, like Jesus would say, to cast your nets elsewhere.
A man who is not into you will also not exhibit any signs of jealousy when there is evidence of another man in the picture. Men are naturally very competitive, and more so when striving for a woman's affections. He will get very jealous if he even suspects someone else might be on your speed dial, so if you detect no such apprehension from your prey when he sees you in the company of Biko Adema's cute twin, then sorry sis. Wrong number.
And then there is the fallacy that men always forget important dates, and the truth behind it carries the potential for any woman to know whether or not a man really likes her as much as she hopes he does. Indeed, we do pay scant attention to birthdays and anniversaries, but that is because we don't think they are as important as the things we prioritize.
However, if a girl means that much to me, I will do my best to remember the most minute details about her. The reverse, as you can imagine, is also very true. So if your birthday is on Christmas day but he still forgets despite the fact that your name is Christmastine, then allow me and all of us at ITHSU? this opportunity to offer you and your chances with him our sincerest apologies.
But all these hints and signs are nothing compared to straight up honesty. Thus if you really want to know whether or not a guy is into you, the best thing to do is to go straight up to him and express yourself. Trust me, no guy that is into a girl will even dare to think about not giving you a straight answer, so forget your fear and go for it. After all, In this age of Women's Lib, such things no longer shock us and you will not be considered a brazen lass.
Friday, February 26, 2010
For me, it's personal.
In the 2008 movie 'Taken', Liam Neeson plays Bryan Mills, a retired CIA operative whose daughter gets kidnapped by a gang of Albanian human traffickers while holidaying in Europe. That of course turns out to be a seriously misguided move by the kidnappers, for a crazed Mills is soon on their trail and by the time he is done with them, they have to learn how to operate a human trafficking ring from the confines of hell.
The 93-minute thriller is as action-packed as they come, and I'd heartily recommend it to any thriller-movie buff. However, this post isn't intended to be a movie review. I simply mentioned 'Taken' because one line from the movie forms the gist of what I'd like to talk about.
When Mills finally has Patrice St.Clair, the leader of the trafficking ring, at gunpoint and in his mercy, St.Clair pleads for his life, asking Mills to reconsider because there was nothing personal in what he did, only business. Mills is however not in a very considerate move, and tells St.Clair "For me, it is entirely personal." before fatally shooting him in the chest. At this point, President Mwai Kibaki drowsily totters into the picture.
No, the Head of State does not have a cameo role in the movie. In fact, I'm certain that together with getting on the wrong side of Mama Lucy's temper, the last thing Emilio would ever consider in this lifetime would be a Hollywood career. It's just that he picture I'm talking about is my subject today, that is the personalization of the war against corruption, and President Kibaki happens to be an integral part of it.
On Monday, the president officially opened the fourth session of independent Kenya's tenth parliament. This came hot in the heels of a week of high political drama, in which Prime Minister Raila Odinga had succeeded in casting the president's commitment to fighting corruption into serious doubt. Evidently irked by this, the president used his parliament opening speech to warn the public in general and Raila in particular against 'politicizing and personalizing' the war against corruption.
We will discuss politicization later. For now, let us dwell on personalization.
One day last year, i made my way to the local supermarket to buy a packet of maize flour for my family's dinner. But to my surprise, the maize flour counter was emptier than a combination of Liverpool, Arsenal and Manchester City's trophy cabinets, and this forced me to revert to the neighborhood kiosks where the price of the commodity is significantly higher.
However, the neighbourhood kiosks were also out of maize flour, and it was not until I crossed to the next neighbourhood that I found a shop with flour in stock, retailing a 2kg packet at a whooping Ksh.150. I did not have the extra Ksh. 50 and the kiosk had a big sign which said 'If you want credit, come tomorrow with your great-grandmother' over the counter. Thus that night, my family went to bed hungry.
For almost two months, my family went through hell as the country grappled with acute maize shortage. Later, I learnt that this was because high-placed personalities in the Ministry of Agriculture had colluded to fraudulently export maize from the country's strategic reserves, in what later came to be known as the Maize scandal.
So in a nutshell, I personally paid my taxes, which I'd like to think was used to pay farmers for their maize. But thanks to corruption, this maize was illegally sold abroad, and I was therefore forced to personally walk long distances and pay exorbitant fees for flour, and that was when I was lucky enough to get it. When I was unlucky, which was often, I personally had to go to bed hungry, and even more galling, witness my own family, including very young children, go to bed hungry. And someone then has the audacity to suggest that I don't personalize the war against the graft which forced me to personally go through all that?
Sorry, Mr. President. But for me, to quote Liam Neeson, it is entirely personal.
The 93-minute thriller is as action-packed as they come, and I'd heartily recommend it to any thriller-movie buff. However, this post isn't intended to be a movie review. I simply mentioned 'Taken' because one line from the movie forms the gist of what I'd like to talk about.
When Mills finally has Patrice St.Clair, the leader of the trafficking ring, at gunpoint and in his mercy, St.Clair pleads for his life, asking Mills to reconsider because there was nothing personal in what he did, only business. Mills is however not in a very considerate move, and tells St.Clair "For me, it is entirely personal." before fatally shooting him in the chest. At this point, President Mwai Kibaki drowsily totters into the picture.
No, the Head of State does not have a cameo role in the movie. In fact, I'm certain that together with getting on the wrong side of Mama Lucy's temper, the last thing Emilio would ever consider in this lifetime would be a Hollywood career. It's just that he picture I'm talking about is my subject today, that is the personalization of the war against corruption, and President Kibaki happens to be an integral part of it.
On Monday, the president officially opened the fourth session of independent Kenya's tenth parliament. This came hot in the heels of a week of high political drama, in which Prime Minister Raila Odinga had succeeded in casting the president's commitment to fighting corruption into serious doubt. Evidently irked by this, the president used his parliament opening speech to warn the public in general and Raila in particular against 'politicizing and personalizing' the war against corruption.
We will discuss politicization later. For now, let us dwell on personalization.
One day last year, i made my way to the local supermarket to buy a packet of maize flour for my family's dinner. But to my surprise, the maize flour counter was emptier than a combination of Liverpool, Arsenal and Manchester City's trophy cabinets, and this forced me to revert to the neighborhood kiosks where the price of the commodity is significantly higher.
However, the neighbourhood kiosks were also out of maize flour, and it was not until I crossed to the next neighbourhood that I found a shop with flour in stock, retailing a 2kg packet at a whooping Ksh.150. I did not have the extra Ksh. 50 and the kiosk had a big sign which said 'If you want credit, come tomorrow with your great-grandmother' over the counter. Thus that night, my family went to bed hungry.
For almost two months, my family went through hell as the country grappled with acute maize shortage. Later, I learnt that this was because high-placed personalities in the Ministry of Agriculture had colluded to fraudulently export maize from the country's strategic reserves, in what later came to be known as the Maize scandal.
So in a nutshell, I personally paid my taxes, which I'd like to think was used to pay farmers for their maize. But thanks to corruption, this maize was illegally sold abroad, and I was therefore forced to personally walk long distances and pay exorbitant fees for flour, and that was when I was lucky enough to get it. When I was unlucky, which was often, I personally had to go to bed hungry, and even more galling, witness my own family, including very young children, go to bed hungry. And someone then has the audacity to suggest that I don't personalize the war against the graft which forced me to personally go through all that?
Sorry, Mr. President. But for me, to quote Liam Neeson, it is entirely personal.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Esther, F.O.G, Hell On Raila
Prime Minister Raila Amolo Odinga must be seething with rage. The skin around the scar on his left temple must be stretched almost to breaking point. Because on a week that he in all fairness should have hogged all the headlines, a Jazz saxophonist and a former TV personality somehow connived to rob him of the spotlight.
Kenyans are an extremely sadistic lot. It is almost in our psychological make-up revel in scandal, and when the Prime Minister chose Valentines' day to announce that his romantic relationship with the President was headed for the rocks, he was giving us exactly what we wanted and surely must have counted on nothing less than our complete and undivided attention.
But unfortunately for him, it was round about this time that whispers of a very shady relationship between human-thesaurus-cum-jazz-
Which was quite ironic, considering that while the PM was evidently playing for the headlines, the last thing Hellon and [especially] Esther would have wanted was to be a topic of nationwide discussion. So while the PM's lieutenants kept giving interview after interview to the press in a bid to keep him in the limelight, Esther and Hellon called a press conference and told all and sundry to keep the hell out of their private lives.
And this begs the question; should we stay the hell out of these two good people's private lives?
In my opinion, I think we shouldn't stay the hell out of their private lives. In fact, I believe we should hound them to the very gates of hell if that will keep them on the straight and narrow.
From my perspective, Esther gave up her right to enjoy the privacy of any nondescript citizen the moment she picked up a news script and allowed her lascivious figure to be beamed into our living rooms. The same goes for Hellon, who ceased to be a private citizen and became a public figure from the very first time he sat down in front of a paying public and played his saxophone.
As public figures, a lot is expected of our celebrities. These are the people our children would like to emulate when they grow up, and not scrutinizing what they get up to when the cameras are not on them is tantamount to criminal negligence. We let Tiger Woods have his privacy, and seventeen marital infidelities later, we now know what a horribly bad idea that was.
Esther won a CHAT [Chaguo la Teeniez] award a couple of years ago, which means a large number of young people think she is cool. Hellon's classy demeanor and mastery of the English language during his stint as a teacher of TPF3 left a lot of young people mesmerized and won him a host of fans . Therefore, it isn't beyond the scope of anyone's imagination to assume that these two people's theatrics, be it the distance between their respective beds when they sleep at night or the bizarre aspects of their spirituality, is likely to influence a lot of young people who look up to them and may want to copy them.
The Finger Of God church, which Hellon apparently heads, may or may not be a cult. However, we have the right to ask questions, and not only for the sake of our impressionable younger generation. We also have the right to ask questions because you don't just pluck a TV anchor that half of the male TV-watching population of Kenya would like to sleep with from our TV screens and expect us not to ask questions. And when you convince the said TV anchor to dump her fiancee and distances herself from her family in the process, we will not hesitate to ask even more questions, such as what kind of psychological hold you really have on her.
Kenyans are an extremely sadistic lot. It is almost in our psychological make-up revel in scandal, and when the Prime Minister chose Valentines' day to announce that his romantic relationship with the President was headed for the rocks, he was giving us exactly what we wanted and surely must have counted on nothing less than our complete and undivided attention.
But unfortunately for him, it was round about this time that whispers of a very shady relationship between human-thesaurus-cum-jazz-
Which was quite ironic, considering that while the PM was evidently playing for the headlines, the last thing Hellon and [especially] Esther would have wanted was to be a topic of nationwide discussion. So while the PM's lieutenants kept giving interview after interview to the press in a bid to keep him in the limelight, Esther and Hellon called a press conference and told all and sundry to keep the hell out of their private lives.
And this begs the question; should we stay the hell out of these two good people's private lives?
In my opinion, I think we shouldn't stay the hell out of their private lives. In fact, I believe we should hound them to the very gates of hell if that will keep them on the straight and narrow.
From my perspective, Esther gave up her right to enjoy the privacy of any nondescript citizen the moment she picked up a news script and allowed her lascivious figure to be beamed into our living rooms. The same goes for Hellon, who ceased to be a private citizen and became a public figure from the very first time he sat down in front of a paying public and played his saxophone.
As public figures, a lot is expected of our celebrities. These are the people our children would like to emulate when they grow up, and not scrutinizing what they get up to when the cameras are not on them is tantamount to criminal negligence. We let Tiger Woods have his privacy, and seventeen marital infidelities later, we now know what a horribly bad idea that was.
Esther won a CHAT [Chaguo la Teeniez] award a couple of years ago, which means a large number of young people think she is cool. Hellon's classy demeanor and mastery of the English language during his stint as a teacher of TPF3 left a lot of young people mesmerized and won him a host of fans . Therefore, it isn't beyond the scope of anyone's imagination to assume that these two people's theatrics, be it the distance between their respective beds when they sleep at night or the bizarre aspects of their spirituality, is likely to influence a lot of young people who look up to them and may want to copy them.
The Finger Of God church, which Hellon apparently heads, may or may not be a cult. However, we have the right to ask questions, and not only for the sake of our impressionable younger generation. We also have the right to ask questions because you don't just pluck a TV anchor that half of the male TV-watching population of Kenya would like to sleep with from our TV screens and expect us not to ask questions. And when you convince the said TV anchor to dump her fiancee and distances herself from her family in the process, we will not hesitate to ask even more questions, such as what kind of psychological hold you really have on her.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
You gotta love them, our politicians!
A few months ago, some very enterprising Mheshimiwa sold our entire maize stock to his relatives in Southern Sudan, forgetting that in its milled form, Maize is Kenya's national staple. Due to this, the supply of maize in the country was quickly outstripped by demand, and as is wont to happen in such circumstances, the price of maizemeal was soon scaling heights that even Yelena Isinbanyeva would have needed steroids to clear.
A hungry nation is an angry nation, and having just recently come out of butchering each other simply because we were angry we did not have a Prime Minister, it was clear that playing with our food was the quickest way to a violent revolution since Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake." Governments hate revolutions, and ours quickly moved to remedy the situation by importing maize from outside.
For a while, everything was OK, until PriceWaterhouseCoopers did an audit of the excercise and discovered that true Kenyan style, a few billion shillings had somehow managed to affix itself to the real price of the maize that had been imported. Quite a few prominent names were mentioned and suddenly, Kenyans were very interested. Corrupt government officials were about to be exposed!
Our euphoria, however, was to be short-lived because in a master-stroke to end all master-strokes, the implicated Waheshimiwa pulled a fast one of us.
You see, just like Maize is Kenya's de-facto national staple, politics happens to be Kenya's de-facto national pastime. We can never get enough of politics, and being aware of this, the implicated Waheshimiwa knew that the surest way to deflect our attention from matters pertaining to the shady importation of maize was to give us something political to talk about instead. So out of absolutely nowhere, they manufactured a political crisis.
First, the Prime Minister called a press conference and fired ministers he had no authority to fire. Stunned, we were still taking it all in when a statement from the President's office clarified the obvious. We still hadn't understood what the hell all that was about when the Prime Minister screamed blue murder and declared a dispute between him and the President. While we were still getting our heads around the realization that kumbe disputes have to be declared before they are actually disputes when the Prime Minister went two better and called Annan while pulling his troops out of Cabinet, or rather, Cabinet meetings. [The two are mutually exclusive, apparently.]
Then having turned us completely on our heads, the Prime Minister packed his bags and left for the Far East to tell the Japanese what a politically stable and corruption-free investment destination Kenya is.
Behind him, he left a thoroughly punch-drunk and confused nation wondering what the hell had just happened. All the talk was now on the provisions of the National Accord, whether the PM has the right to suspend ministers and what exactly a 50-50 power-sharing deal was all about.
Any talk of maize, of course, was now completely forgotten.
A hungry nation is an angry nation, and having just recently come out of butchering each other simply because we were angry we did not have a Prime Minister, it was clear that playing with our food was the quickest way to a violent revolution since Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake." Governments hate revolutions, and ours quickly moved to remedy the situation by importing maize from outside.
For a while, everything was OK, until PriceWaterhouseCoopers did an audit of the excercise and discovered that true Kenyan style, a few billion shillings had somehow managed to affix itself to the real price of the maize that had been imported. Quite a few prominent names were mentioned and suddenly, Kenyans were very interested. Corrupt government officials were about to be exposed!
Our euphoria, however, was to be short-lived because in a master-stroke to end all master-strokes, the implicated Waheshimiwa pulled a fast one of us.
You see, just like Maize is Kenya's de-facto national staple, politics happens to be Kenya's de-facto national pastime. We can never get enough of politics, and being aware of this, the implicated Waheshimiwa knew that the surest way to deflect our attention from matters pertaining to the shady importation of maize was to give us something political to talk about instead. So out of absolutely nowhere, they manufactured a political crisis.
First, the Prime Minister called a press conference and fired ministers he had no authority to fire. Stunned, we were still taking it all in when a statement from the President's office clarified the obvious. We still hadn't understood what the hell all that was about when the Prime Minister screamed blue murder and declared a dispute between him and the President. While we were still getting our heads around the realization that kumbe disputes have to be declared before they are actually disputes when the Prime Minister went two better and called Annan while pulling his troops out of Cabinet, or rather, Cabinet meetings. [The two are mutually exclusive, apparently.]
Then having turned us completely on our heads, the Prime Minister packed his bags and left for the Far East to tell the Japanese what a politically stable and corruption-free investment destination Kenya is.
Behind him, he left a thoroughly punch-drunk and confused nation wondering what the hell had just happened. All the talk was now on the provisions of the National Accord, whether the PM has the right to suspend ministers and what exactly a 50-50 power-sharing deal was all about.
Any talk of maize, of course, was now completely forgotten.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Three little words.
In 1996, Prince Charles famously gave up his royal reputation, public affection and the most stunning female since Marilyn Monroe- all for the love of a woman.
But that, cataclysmic as it was, doesn't even hold a candle to his great uncle. sixty years earlier, King Edward VIII went on air to tell the British people that if a mere throne stood between him and the woman he loved, then they could take this exalted piece of furniture and shove it up their prudish behinds.
Hard as it may be to believe, these two royal idiots aren't exactly in isolated company. Men have been known throughout history to do some pretty absurd and even desperate things to prove their amorous inclination to the objects of their affection.
But in a paradox of sorts, you will find it much easier to coax some semblance of scruple out of a Kenyan politician than you will trying to get a man to utter those three little words that are the true spirit of Valentine. A man will readily show you that he has feelings for you in about a thousand ways, but if you are waiting for him to say it out loud, then stock on the food and the blankets. You have a long wait ahead of you.
There are two main reasons behind this strange mix of circumstances. The first one is chauvnism, plain and simple. No man deserving of the male title will ever give up his authority and accept to be subordinated in a relationship. In a manner of speaking, we prefer to hold all our cards in a relationship game, and an audible expression of affection to the female is tantamount to ceding part of you to her authority and therefore out of the question.
Basically, what this means is that the heart in a man can completely surrender to a woman, but the man in the heart will never allow him to say it out loud.
The second reason is psychological.Each one of us is unique. We all have an inner being which defines the way we think and the way we behave, which builds our characters and subsequently determines our destiny. Now this part which which defines us, is something we take very seriously. Things which profoundly affect it are the kind we don't go about voicing to every tom Dick and Harry.
And they don't come more profound than love, so we will find it very hard to voice it out loud. A man will find it really easy to say those words when he doesn't mean it,or when he is voicing it in the platonic sense, because then he won't be giving up a part of himself.
But when it comes to the real thing, I'm afraid these two situations make it, forgive the pun, a little easier done than said
But that, cataclysmic as it was, doesn't even hold a candle to his great uncle. sixty years earlier, King Edward VIII went on air to tell the British people that if a mere throne stood between him and the woman he loved, then they could take this exalted piece of furniture and shove it up their prudish behinds.
Hard as it may be to believe, these two royal idiots aren't exactly in isolated company. Men have been known throughout history to do some pretty absurd and even desperate things to prove their amorous inclination to the objects of their affection.
But in a paradox of sorts, you will find it much easier to coax some semblance of scruple out of a Kenyan politician than you will trying to get a man to utter those three little words that are the true spirit of Valentine. A man will readily show you that he has feelings for you in about a thousand ways, but if you are waiting for him to say it out loud, then stock on the food and the blankets. You have a long wait ahead of you.
There are two main reasons behind this strange mix of circumstances. The first one is chauvnism, plain and simple. No man deserving of the male title will ever give up his authority and accept to be subordinated in a relationship. In a manner of speaking, we prefer to hold all our cards in a relationship game, and an audible expression of affection to the female is tantamount to ceding part of you to her authority and therefore out of the question.
Basically, what this means is that the heart in a man can completely surrender to a woman, but the man in the heart will never allow him to say it out loud.
The second reason is psychological.Each one of us is unique. We all have an inner being which defines the way we think and the way we behave, which builds our characters and subsequently determines our destiny. Now this part which which defines us, is something we take very seriously. Things which profoundly affect it are the kind we don't go about voicing to every tom Dick and Harry.
And they don't come more profound than love, so we will find it very hard to voice it out loud. A man will find it really easy to say those words when he doesn't mean it,or when he is voicing it in the platonic sense, because then he won't be giving up a part of himself.
But when it comes to the real thing, I'm afraid these two situations make it, forgive the pun, a little easier done than said
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tennis and gender rights.
I find tennis a really fascinating sport. But I'm also acquainted with the logical import behind that saying about one person's culinary delight causing another person numerous painful trips to the restroom, so for the benefit of that section of the public which finds tennis as interesting as your local councilor’s life history, I won't talk about match sets, double faults, deuces and hawk eye technology.
However, there is something about the Masters that leaves me heartily displeased, and I would like to voice this displeasure. And my point of origin shall be the just concluded Australian Open, which had two obviosities;
[OK. According to MS spell-check, the word 'obviosities' doesn't exist. But since I was never under any obligation whatsoever to use words that actually exist to express myself, you can go ahead and sue me if you so wish. Otherwise, let's proceed.]
As I was saying, the just concluded Australian Open had two obviosities. One, Roger Federer was always going to win the men singles title. Nadal is the only competition King Fed has had in a while, but Nadal is not yet back to 100% fitness after returning from a long injury layoff, and to beat Federer, even 100% is often not enough. And two, the younger of Oracene Williams' daughters was always going to pulverize whatever opposition she would face in the ladies final.
Both Federer and Oracene's last born took home an equal US$1.5 million prize money. And obviously, I am of the opinion that this is the most disgracefully unfair thing since Prince Edward was forced to choose between his throne and his love.
In the Gospels, there is a parable about a wealthy farmer who needed labor for a huge task that needed to be done on his field. So one morning, he made his way to the market square where young jobless men always idled from dawn to dusk. "Kazi kwa vijana." He said in the local dialect, and within a few minutes, he had hired himself some laborers.
But the labor he had hired wasn't sufficient for the task he wanted done, so at noon, he walked back to the market square where more idle young men had replaced the ones he had hired. "Kazi kwa vijana." He bellowed again, and in no time flat, he had himself an extra labor force.
However, even this doubled labor effort wasn't enough to finish the job. So in the late afternoon, the farmer made a third trip to the market square and for the third time that day, unemployment figures in that locality recorded a decrease.
This time the workforce was at par with the labor demand, and by the end of the day, the work in the fields was done, after which all the young men lined up outside the farmer's house to receive their pay.
While paying them, the farmer started with the group he had hired last, and they each received an equivalent of Ksh.250/- in the local currency, which was the set daily rate for the Kazi Kwa Vijana labor initiative. Upon seeing this, the ones who had started work earlier thought they would receive more money because they had worked longer, but to their utter horror, they also got the base Ksh. 250/- equivalent.
Naturally, these men who had been hired in the morning and at noon complained, but the farmer stood his ground. They knew the KKV terms when he hired them, and regardless of how much labor they had put in, he was under no obligation whatsoever to pay them more or the others less.
There is a spiritual lesson to be gathered somewhere in this parable, and I'm sure finding this lesson and applying it in life would earn any of my readers a point or two with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. But to be honest, spiritual considerations are quite frankly unnecessary in our present discussion, which is about fairness in the remuneration dealings at the Grand Slam tennis championships.
For starters, a vast majority of the revenue that pours into these championships is thanks more to the Nadals and the Federers than the Sharapovas and the Mauresmos. The Williams siblings are an exception, but considering the number of black players of either sex to have ever won a grand slam can be counted against two fingers of one hand, I dare anyone to challenge my assertion that their novelty is not due to their sex, but their race.
From a purely tennis perspective, it is even more grossly unfair. In all tournaments, men play more matches than women, their matches last longer because they play more sets, (Five in the Australian Open to women's three,) and generally, men's matches tend to be less lopsided because the incidence of matched talent in their pairings is always higher than in female pairings.
So with all this, does it really make sense to pay both these evidently unequal levels of effort equally? Of course it seems perfectly all right for the feminists and gender rights campaigners, but since when have such people ever offered any logical explanation to their actions and rhetoric?
However, there is something about the Masters that leaves me heartily displeased, and I would like to voice this displeasure. And my point of origin shall be the just concluded Australian Open, which had two obviosities;
[OK. According to MS spell-check, the word 'obviosities' doesn't exist. But since I was never under any obligation whatsoever to use words that actually exist to express myself, you can go ahead and sue me if you so wish. Otherwise, let's proceed.]
As I was saying, the just concluded Australian Open had two obviosities. One, Roger Federer was always going to win the men singles title. Nadal is the only competition King Fed has had in a while, but Nadal is not yet back to 100% fitness after returning from a long injury layoff, and to beat Federer, even 100% is often not enough. And two, the younger of Oracene Williams' daughters was always going to pulverize whatever opposition she would face in the ladies final.
Both Federer and Oracene's last born took home an equal US$1.5 million prize money. And obviously, I am of the opinion that this is the most disgracefully unfair thing since Prince Edward was forced to choose between his throne and his love.
In the Gospels, there is a parable about a wealthy farmer who needed labor for a huge task that needed to be done on his field. So one morning, he made his way to the market square where young jobless men always idled from dawn to dusk. "Kazi kwa vijana." He said in the local dialect, and within a few minutes, he had hired himself some laborers.
But the labor he had hired wasn't sufficient for the task he wanted done, so at noon, he walked back to the market square where more idle young men had replaced the ones he had hired. "Kazi kwa vijana." He bellowed again, and in no time flat, he had himself an extra labor force.
However, even this doubled labor effort wasn't enough to finish the job. So in the late afternoon, the farmer made a third trip to the market square and for the third time that day, unemployment figures in that locality recorded a decrease.
This time the workforce was at par with the labor demand, and by the end of the day, the work in the fields was done, after which all the young men lined up outside the farmer's house to receive their pay.
While paying them, the farmer started with the group he had hired last, and they each received an equivalent of Ksh.250/- in the local currency, which was the set daily rate for the Kazi Kwa Vijana labor initiative. Upon seeing this, the ones who had started work earlier thought they would receive more money because they had worked longer, but to their utter horror, they also got the base Ksh. 250/- equivalent.
Naturally, these men who had been hired in the morning and at noon complained, but the farmer stood his ground. They knew the KKV terms when he hired them, and regardless of how much labor they had put in, he was under no obligation whatsoever to pay them more or the others less.
There is a spiritual lesson to be gathered somewhere in this parable, and I'm sure finding this lesson and applying it in life would earn any of my readers a point or two with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. But to be honest, spiritual considerations are quite frankly unnecessary in our present discussion, which is about fairness in the remuneration dealings at the Grand Slam tennis championships.
For starters, a vast majority of the revenue that pours into these championships is thanks more to the Nadals and the Federers than the Sharapovas and the Mauresmos. The Williams siblings are an exception, but considering the number of black players of either sex to have ever won a grand slam can be counted against two fingers of one hand, I dare anyone to challenge my assertion that their novelty is not due to their sex, but their race.
From a purely tennis perspective, it is even more grossly unfair. In all tournaments, men play more matches than women, their matches last longer because they play more sets, (Five in the Australian Open to women's three,) and generally, men's matches tend to be less lopsided because the incidence of matched talent in their pairings is always higher than in female pairings.
So with all this, does it really make sense to pay both these evidently unequal levels of effort equally? Of course it seems perfectly all right for the feminists and gender rights campaigners, but since when have such people ever offered any logical explanation to their actions and rhetoric?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Just zip it already!
The memory part of the female brain is an amazing thing. It stores
birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, what Junior was wearing when he
took his first step, the correct dosage the vet prescribed for the
dog's flea bath and such type of clutter that men would rather clear
their minds of to concentrate on matters of more relevant import.
But while this isn't neccessarily a bad thing, (Memory is after all a
very integral part of any technical set-up,) trust something in the
female make-up to find ways of making it a bad thing.
And in this case, it is the nagging.
This arises from the fact that while women are indeed are good at
keeping memories, they prefer negative memories to positive ones.
Due to this, we have a situation whereby her head has more than its
reasonable share of negative vibes. Negative vibes are unhealthy, and
letting them out is the reason why psychiatry is by far the most
profitable field in the medical industry.
Unfortunately, shrinks don't come cheap, and even then, she is highly
unlikely to think she requires their services. But these negative
vibes are there and have to come out, so you end up taking the
shrink's place on the receiving end of the negative vibes.
When a man is slighted, forgiveness will come with the relative speed
of the Middle East peace process. But you can be sure that unless it
is something collossal, like say an insult on his mother's honor, he
will forget about the slight in no time flat.
Women on the other hand are wired a little differently. So were you
immensely relieved whenshe bought the tale that your lip-lock with her
best friend on her bed the other day was nothing but a case of
mouth-to-mouth resucitation? Well, don't act surprised when she brings
up the incident at your 20th college re-union party.
And that, I'm afraid, is guaranteed to be an incredibly uncomfortable
experience.
A women will remember that you broke your promise to take her to
Amboseli the previous month, but conveniently forget that you renewed
her subscription for the gym on that very day you were suppossed to
take the trip. She will belittle and berate you about the limited size
of your living quarters, but unless you bring up the fact that half
your salary has been meeting her tuition fees at the university for
the past four years, then it will pass unmentioned.
Throw in the fact that science has proved women speak about 75000
words a day to man's 15000 words, and you begin to appreciate the
quagmire that nagging is for us.
It is better to live alone on the roof, King Solomon once said, than
to share a house with a nagging woman.
This was a King whose experience with women was both prolific and
legendary, and considering that he was like only the wisest person
that ever lived, I'm guessing it isn't too much strain on the the
imagination to assume he knew what he was talking about.
And it is an opinion most men whole-heartedly agree with.
birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, what Junior was wearing when he
took his first step, the correct dosage the vet prescribed for the
dog's flea bath and such type of clutter that men would rather clear
their minds of to concentrate on matters of more relevant import.
But while this isn't neccessarily a bad thing, (Memory is after all a
very integral part of any technical set-up,) trust something in the
female make-up to find ways of making it a bad thing.
And in this case, it is the nagging.
This arises from the fact that while women are indeed are good at
keeping memories, they prefer negative memories to positive ones.
Due to this, we have a situation whereby her head has more than its
reasonable share of negative vibes. Negative vibes are unhealthy, and
letting them out is the reason why psychiatry is by far the most
profitable field in the medical industry.
Unfortunately, shrinks don't come cheap, and even then, she is highly
unlikely to think she requires their services. But these negative
vibes are there and have to come out, so you end up taking the
shrink's place on the receiving end of the negative vibes.
When a man is slighted, forgiveness will come with the relative speed
of the Middle East peace process. But you can be sure that unless it
is something collossal, like say an insult on his mother's honor, he
will forget about the slight in no time flat.
Women on the other hand are wired a little differently. So were you
immensely relieved whenshe bought the tale that your lip-lock with her
best friend on her bed the other day was nothing but a case of
mouth-to-mouth resucitation? Well, don't act surprised when she brings
up the incident at your 20th college re-union party.
And that, I'm afraid, is guaranteed to be an incredibly uncomfortable
experience.
A women will remember that you broke your promise to take her to
Amboseli the previous month, but conveniently forget that you renewed
her subscription for the gym on that very day you were suppossed to
take the trip. She will belittle and berate you about the limited size
of your living quarters, but unless you bring up the fact that half
your salary has been meeting her tuition fees at the university for
the past four years, then it will pass unmentioned.
Throw in the fact that science has proved women speak about 75000
words a day to man's 15000 words, and you begin to appreciate the
quagmire that nagging is for us.
It is better to live alone on the roof, King Solomon once said, than
to share a house with a nagging woman.
This was a King whose experience with women was both prolific and
legendary, and considering that he was like only the wisest person
that ever lived, I'm guessing it isn't too much strain on the the
imagination to assume he knew what he was talking about.
And it is an opinion most men whole-heartedly agree with.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Dating your Exe's friend.
For its smooth running, any organized human activity must have rules and norms which its participants are expected to conform to. And since romantic relationships between two (or more) humans fall under the definition of 'Organized Human Activity,' then they too need to have their own rules and norms.
In romantic interaction, these rules are always unwritten and often are subject to modification depending on the prevailing circumstances. But although of the most part logical consideration inspires the creation and adoption of a majority of these rules, sometimes certain norms occur which make about as much sense as Arsene Wenger's transfer policy.
And a good example of such a norm is the incredibly absurd 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend.'
When Stephan met Julia, he was convinced that his debauched bachelor existence had just entered its home stretch. She was stunning, cultured and fun to be around, qualities which although independently common in most of the women he had dated, had never manifested themselves to him together in the same woman.
The situation however wasn't exactly straightforward. For a girl of her caliber, Julia unfortunately had other suitors apart from Stephané, and like any female between the ages of 18 and 28, she was as yet unversed in the intricacies of making up her mind.
Obviously, she needed time to learn this vital art and apply it, so in the meantime, she engaged the help of her childhood friend and roommate Sally to keep Stephan deceived whenever she was checking out another suitor. Sally's brief when such discretions took place was to engage Stephani in conversation and defer his attention until Julia got back from her escapades, or whenever it became apparent that Julia wouldn't be able to make it back, lie her behind off until Stephan was convinced.
But although he couldn't precisely boast headache-inducing IQ, Stephan had nevertheless been somewhere near the front row when brains were being handed out, and thus it didn't take him long to figure out that his chances of walking Julia up the aisle in this lifetime were just a few notches below non-existent. So being a pragmatic man, he decided to cut his losses and cast his eyes further afield in his quest for the bone of his rib.
Only he didn't have to cast them that much farther afield. During the course of his interaction with Sally while Julia was out playing him, Stephan had come to like Sally very, very much, while Sally, who wasn't seeing anyone at the time, had all along disliked the way her friend was dogging this earnest, sincere man whom any girl in her right mind would fall hopelessly head over heels for...like she herself had.
Thus it came to pass that almost two years later; Stephan crossed the finishing line of bachelorhood with Sally in his arms. And as would be expected because of the 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend' rule, Julia never attended her erstwhile bosom friend's wedding because she felt Sally had committed the unforgivable sin of snatching her man.
Emotions are instinctive, and everybody knows that instinct cannot be controlled. So although it wouldn't be right for a person like Julia to feel aggrieved when her friend claims what she considers rightfully hers, it is perfectly understandable that she would feel aggrieved when it happens. However, going on to deliberately make that into an unwritten rule that criminalizes what was in fact a natural, logical progression of events under the circumstances would in my opinion be stretching the limits of reason to frankly unacceptable extremes.
Why should real love and genuine foundation for a lifelong relationship be stillborn because a person's soul mate was once in a relationship with the said soul mate's friend? That is of course both unfair and unreasonable, but among women, a former flame is permanently sealed and off limits to any of her friends for life, and breaching that seal is considered the ultimate betrayal.
It must be said, men aren't immune to such ravages of jealousy when such instances arise, but at least we make allowances for exceptional circumstances. With men, exes are basically off limits to friends, but when a friend is truly into your ex, he is expected to ask your permission to date her. You, in turn, must grant him this permission.
An unconventional rule, yes, and even a little unreasonable. But let's face it. It is much better than the blanket ban on opportunity that women have with their 'Thou shalt not date thy friend's ex' rule, and one they would do well to adopt.
In romantic interaction, these rules are always unwritten and often are subject to modification depending on the prevailing circumstances. But although of the most part logical consideration inspires the creation and adoption of a majority of these rules, sometimes certain norms occur which make about as much sense as Arsene Wenger's transfer policy.
And a good example of such a norm is the incredibly absurd 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend.'
When Stephan met Julia, he was convinced that his debauched bachelor existence had just entered its home stretch. She was stunning, cultured and fun to be around, qualities which although independently common in most of the women he had dated, had never manifested themselves to him together in the same woman.
The situation however wasn't exactly straightforward. For a girl of her caliber, Julia unfortunately had other suitors apart from Stephané, and like any female between the ages of 18 and 28, she was as yet unversed in the intricacies of making up her mind.
Obviously, she needed time to learn this vital art and apply it, so in the meantime, she engaged the help of her childhood friend and roommate Sally to keep Stephan deceived whenever she was checking out another suitor. Sally's brief when such discretions took place was to engage Stephani in conversation and defer his attention until Julia got back from her escapades, or whenever it became apparent that Julia wouldn't be able to make it back, lie her behind off until Stephan was convinced.
But although he couldn't precisely boast headache-inducing IQ, Stephan had nevertheless been somewhere near the front row when brains were being handed out, and thus it didn't take him long to figure out that his chances of walking Julia up the aisle in this lifetime were just a few notches below non-existent. So being a pragmatic man, he decided to cut his losses and cast his eyes further afield in his quest for the bone of his rib.
Only he didn't have to cast them that much farther afield. During the course of his interaction with Sally while Julia was out playing him, Stephan had come to like Sally very, very much, while Sally, who wasn't seeing anyone at the time, had all along disliked the way her friend was dogging this earnest, sincere man whom any girl in her right mind would fall hopelessly head over heels for...like she herself had.
Thus it came to pass that almost two years later; Stephan crossed the finishing line of bachelorhood with Sally in his arms. And as would be expected because of the 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend' rule, Julia never attended her erstwhile bosom friend's wedding because she felt Sally had committed the unforgivable sin of snatching her man.
Emotions are instinctive, and everybody knows that instinct cannot be controlled. So although it wouldn't be right for a person like Julia to feel aggrieved when her friend claims what she considers rightfully hers, it is perfectly understandable that she would feel aggrieved when it happens. However, going on to deliberately make that into an unwritten rule that criminalizes what was in fact a natural, logical progression of events under the circumstances would in my opinion be stretching the limits of reason to frankly unacceptable extremes.
Why should real love and genuine foundation for a lifelong relationship be stillborn because a person's soul mate was once in a relationship with the said soul mate's friend? That is of course both unfair and unreasonable, but among women, a former flame is permanently sealed and off limits to any of her friends for life, and breaching that seal is considered the ultimate betrayal.
It must be said, men aren't immune to such ravages of jealousy when such instances arise, but at least we make allowances for exceptional circumstances. With men, exes are basically off limits to friends, but when a friend is truly into your ex, he is expected to ask your permission to date her. You, in turn, must grant him this permission.
An unconventional rule, yes, and even a little unreasonable. But let's face it. It is much better than the blanket ban on opportunity that women have with their 'Thou shalt not date thy friend's ex' rule, and one they would do well to adopt.
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