Posts Tagged 'self-porn'

Asian Party

Last week I received a hand-written note from one of our suppliers. The note was on a card of good quality, but written in the tiniest, most satanic hand-writing possible, that I could just about discern the words: “…come to party on ______ March 2008″.

And so I went, and found myself in what can be called a “Asian” party.
entre nous soit dit**, I shall attempt to describe it now.

In a Asian party, the sexes are segregated. The men aggregate around a bottle of whisky. The women congregate in a puritanical fashion in the kitchen area (though they didn’t necessarily cook).

In the spirit of comme il faut**, I had carried with me a bottle of France’s finest (though this was a profound mistake: I could only watch in horror, as one of the party people smelt the wine, then proceeded to dilute his whisky with it. No wonder these men don’t get laid. My father, mon… papa… may his soul rest in peace, must be spinning in his grave).

I indulged in meaningless chit-chat with some of the dainty ladies, one of whom was introduced by a lurking, misshapen man in a manner of great formality using the possessive: “my fiancee and wife to-be” (Aren’t they the same?). The matronly rule among the women I spoke to seemed to be – ne montrez pas vos jambes (“don’t show your legs!”). Had to put on my best Dostoevskian grin for most of the evening.

The food was an hour late, but as good as the best meal I have had.

During my early days in Kenya, I briefly consorted with an asian woman – pretty, well-read, and a bit hairy (the French in me quite liked that part). Actually , “consorted” would be excessif, there were a couple of dinner dates and the faint glimmer of a kiss. Then I started receiving threatening phone calls from her brother, and her father – the fervency and foresight of these messages was to protect the purity, and prevent impairment of the morals of their adult sister / child.
Such tyranny is the nature of honor.

[** :-
entre nous soit dit - between you and me
comme il faut - good manners; decorum]

Becoming White

Mugithi’s aunt wants to become white.
I have come to this conclusion after an incident of pure accident.
I was vacuum cleaning the house, and was finishing up with the aunt’s room (she was out to church, praying for my instant and miraculous rapture), when I accidentally bumped onto her dressing table, spilling the various pots of beauty embellishers onto the floor.

(I must confess here under extreme duress that, perhaps once or twice, I had cast an appraiser’s cold eye at the aunt: her dangerously low neck-line, the chemically straightened hair, the voluminous girth of every limb, and those swollen lips writhing in some inaudible, but angry speech — and had vaguely tried to fit her into mine or any man’s plausible day-dream. An event which I describe now, in the comforting presence of a glass of whisky, as one of acute trauma. The point being, beauty can be skin deep, but sometimes it just doesn’t exist)

So I gathered the items lying on the floor :

  • framed photo of Mugithi’s sister (recently departed, struck by lightning while speaking on a mobile phone in muranga; mobile phone survived, and is in use by another member of the family)
  • a snake-like rubber coil of unknown origin or usage
  • a wig
  • assorted chemicals for straightening hair
  • 3 tubes of “fair and lovely” cream
  • 2 plastic boxes of “movate” cream

I secretively scribbled the names on whatever scraps of paper I could find, and rushed to the nearest computer.

So “fair and lovely” is a fairness cream being sold by a multinational, with an international rap-sheet longer than my arm :Its also sold in various countries including India where its marketing strategy has caused controversy.

“Movate” on the other hand – is a disease inducing, steroids based cream, officially banned in Kenya. The previous link reveals a whole raft of fairness creams and oils officially banned in Kenya.

I suspect a trained dermatologist / skin specialist would make tons of money in Kenya, with current skin-lightened users already in the assembly line of future patients.
Which still doesn’t answer the question – why do so many people want to become white?

(I myself have been looking for a way to become a Luo, you see Mugithi has this smashing younger sister – my driver informs me that among the Luo if you marry a woman, you marry all her sisters. Any ideas?)

The aftermath of tea

In view of this post and some of the associated commentary, I have had to do some deep introspection.

There is a fire burning inside of me, where it ought not to burn. I am talking about the hell-fires of lust. And when I look at my visage in the mirror, all I see is le yeux perdus.

I have realized I am in love with the first lady. I find it most difficult express with adequate force the impact of this passionate recognition. To profess my passion in a honorable manner, I have decided to ask for the first lady’s hand in holy matrimony.

I contacted the presidential secretary (the same ange noir who had provided her formal vestments to me during my earlier visit for tea with the president) , but my hopes were dashed as I was told that all such requests (clearly, I was not the first making such an appeal) would have to be routed formally via the “office of the spokesman for the president”.

So I called up the office of the spokesman, and the gentleman notified me that my wishes must be expressed in writing (in triplicate, duly attested). I have done so now. I await on tenterhooks, as I have no more words to play with.

Peace and Reconciliation at Renalos

In the ongoing spirit of peace and reconciliation, Mugithi suggested I take the aunty out for shopping.  And so began a woeful day, which knew no end. After buying her a pair of exceedingly vulgar shoes, we were crossing the street, when the woman deigned to feign a faint “Hoo…its so hot…. kaali saana…” she croaked, and collapsed into my arms!

To beat her up, there and then in the street, was not feasible, though it may have revived her immediately. (A tall white man attempting to beat up an older black woman in public, clearly, none would have come to my aid)

My fury and the weight of the woman suffocated me, but a kindly taxi driver and his stooge assisted me to carry the twitching body back to the car.  I prayed that she had passed away. Idle and idiotic fantasies! It was not to be.

The pangs of hunger must have aroused her, for she woke up and demanded that we find lunch.  Round the corner I found what looked like a reasonably interesting place – a restaurant called “Renalos”. At the entrance, a feebly waving invalid, swept aside by my rotund relative-to-be. Up the stairs, smell of fried fat, and faded smiles.

Inside: big screen tvs on the walls, men wearing sports-coats and jackets eating with their mouths open, a few scattered old men and ladies.   And there she stopped. Just ahead of her a young man feasted on a bowl full of a soup of fish-heads(a marvelous delicacy which I first encountered in Rome) –  a pot au feu of sorts.

“This is a jaruo place.. ” the aunty hissed. But I insisted, and so we seated ourselves next to a roaring refrigerator unit which gratefully rendered all conversation impossible.  But she began repeating her torpid autobiography shouting over the rumbling of the motor.  As a personal history it was as devoid of interest as her autopsy would have been. I took the first opportunity to excuse myself, and headed for the toilet, where I spent the rest of the lunch hour listening to the whine of the faucet.

Such is the price paid for peace and reconciliation.

Metamorphosis

One of Mugithi’s aunts has materialized at our home. Big kikuyu woman, typically strong, the husband kept beating her until he thankfully shuffled of this mortal coil with a serious bout of gout. She still sheds a few tears, in relief, rather than grief.

The husband was one of the few privileged ones who prospered in the shining light of government benevolence. In the 70s there was something called the Kenyatta Resettlement Scheme – the government handed out title deeds to large parcels of land in different parts of the country to various beneficiaries. Mugithi’s uncle received a large swathe of land near Diani on the coast, and sometime last year the Aunt received another title deed to a fertile tract of land further north, near Malindi. She rents it out to a local tenant farmer.

“Who else got these parcels of land?” I ask her innocently, and the facts tumble out. There were about 300 title deeds handed out last year about 15 went to people from the local inhabitant community, the rest went to kikuyus and their kin. Why not to the local communities ?

“They don’t know how to farm…” says the Aunt disparagingly, crinkling her nose.

This is the voice I hear in my family – from my girl-friend, from her family, from her sisters, and from her uncles. Yet, people keep telling me this battle isn’t about tribe and ethnicity, but about land. In a country with communal nepotism, everything begins and ends with petty arguments and prejudices. Inferior and superior is decided on the basis of not having a foreskin, a servant maid is hired on the basis of her being from a “servile tribe”, the list is endless.

To understand this better, I think I should start by beating Mugithi everyday, and eating red meat and ugali three times a day. Luckily, I am already circumcised, my mother was Jewish.

Mini Crisis

We had another crisis meeting in the office. Some experts flown down from the mother ship.

So expert#1 (a suit, with itchy balls? kept scratching himself) and expert#2 (a worn woman, with droopy breasts and a glassy smile – *exactly* the type who would sleep with expert#1) opened their laptops and projected a “contingency plan” on the wall.

Nothing exciting, just something to cover all our asses in case the country melts down. Then we had a round of introductions – of us to the experts#1 and #2. Here is where I committed a serious gaffe, one of those that will ultimately bring me down:

First, the boss introduced himself : “I am so & so, I have had 25 years of experience in so & so, I speak 8 languages, and I am a Linguist”.

Next, it was me, the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, startled from my reveries, doodling on paper – abstract positions that I could make with Mugithi, but I managed to speak up:

“I am so & so, I have had <a few> years of experience in so & so, I speak 3 languages, and I am a *Cunnilinguist*.”

The boss staring at me, his face breaking into a painful grin, like the dawn of a distant and terrible sun. And expert#2 – eyeing me now, with some curiosity and amorous darkness.

I fled the office early; on Kiss FM they were announcing clashes in Kibera and the City Center. Still soaking in acute embarrassment, I contemplated joining the protesters, maybe I could set my car on fire ? or hurl it like a projectile at the helmeted policemen (the car isn’t mine really, one of the perks of being the jerk on the job).

(NOTE: Mugithi tells me Kenyan aren’t adventurous enough in bed. Cunnilinguists are apparently hard to come by, something to do with Kikuyu men not liking fish.)

Me

This is me, Midnight. I am dyslexic, which means I spell badly. I am an “expatriate”, a homeless man.
Mugithi is the pseudonym of my Kenyan girlfriend fiancée.

(EDIT: Yeah, I got engaged to Mugithi. Had to hand over a wad of money wrapped in gift-wrapping paper to her family, in the name of “tradition”.)

-midnight



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