Whats the offence ?

Some prostitutes from across East Africa were prevented from attending a workshop in Uganda.

What is more interesting in the above post is the apparent disconnect between the poster and commentators.

The intention of the poster was to highlight the criminalization of prostitution. A crime usually needs a victim, in the above example the only apparent “victim” appears to be a minister who took offense. (Apparently, a way of life is such a fragile thing that it needs protection under law)

The comments on the other hand, turn this issue into something else:

Maybe what the government needs to do is to find ways and means for women to support themselves so that they dont have to be prostitutes.

That when the women have really already found a way to support themselves. How about just legalizing prostitution ?

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?)

Grocery, Leaflets and a Panga

A regular run to the grocery to buy provisions. The nearest grocery, famed for slow service, is lovingly run by an elderly Indian man with a broken nose, and gray hair growing out of his ears and other holes.

He looks troubled.  It isn’t the oily hair, but the sudden appearance of a mysterious warning leaflet placed casually like a parking ticket under his windscreen wiper.

What leaflet ? I ask.  A scrap of paper, he whispers, with crudely printed words, the crazy toppling letters threaten unnamed consequences, unless he…..
But, Who? Why? I ask in an undertone. There is a fruit bowl on the counter,  containing nothing but still glistening apple pips.

Mungiki…, he says, and in afterthought — but, it could be anyone.
(Mungiki – a shadowy vigilante and extortion group composed of predominantly militantly-manly kikuyu men, with a signature style of decapitation)
So, what are you going to do, I ask him – Are you planning to leave?

It sounds absurd, in the quietness of the small solid shop, built of pre-historic granite. ‘They might kill us all’, he mouse-whispers, his eyes popping out :
‘We have to run.. but we have no tribe, no ancestral land.  So where? will? we? go?’
But cher monsieur, Can’t you go back to India?
‘Me I am born here, I have never been to India, so where can I go?’, he says now raising his voice, in utter panic.

Abruptly swivels away, embarrassed by his tremendous outburst, passes the grocery list to the store help, a plumpish-young black woman, with a shiny forehead and penciled eyebrows.
I suggest with some crudeness and apathy:
Couldn’t you take on a second wife….I mean a local woman from a tribe…and then ?
(the Indian’s wife is a large pear-shaped woman who makes an appearance on Saturdays, always eating something out of a lunch-box, never speaking directly, but only via the medium of the store-clerk)
He looks at me, his eyes gaping in horror, glancing for a moment at the store-help pottering among the stacked shelves.
He sighs and hands me the change,  mops his brow and stares bleakly at the counter, signaling the end of the conversation.
(for a moment I have a terrifying vision of the shopkeeper conjoining with Mugithi’s aunt)

The great and insane monster inside me doesn’t give up, and requests, nay, a deranged suggestion :
One more thing, could I have a panga? the biggest size, please.

The Indian mumbles instructions, and the store-help, tom-peeping through the gap in the shelves behind, vanishes inside.
Soon the panga is brought.  Its long and wrapped in grease paper, like a bar of soap.
‘Here is panga’, the old man tells me, slamming it on the counter.

It is indeed a bar of soap, brand-named : Panga.
What do I do with this ? Bathe someone to death?

Announcing the National “he-Goat” Fund

In bona fide support of this venture: Announcing the formal launch of the National he-Goat fund.
The creators of this fund encourage all women to immediately slap any male/he-man MP on sight.

The National he-Goat fund will provide free of charge – a he-Goat as compensation to such women.

Should a woman instead, inadvertently kick an MP in the balls, 8 he-Goats shall be provided as compensation, based on the formula, graphically illustrated below :

1 Slap ==landing on==> 1 fleshy male cheek == compensation of == 1 he-Goat

1 Kick ==acting on==> 2 male oranges + 1 male banana == compensation of == 8 he-Goats

The formula has been scientifically arrived at based on measurements done using our capable in-house staff of women and men with appropriately calibrated instruments.
(Note: we are in urgent need of replenishing our Male staff. Applications invited. Big balls, and high tolerance for pain mandatory.)

further notes from the author:

• Imagine the deafening clatter from some of those rough and over-sized ball bearings upon colliding with a well planted high heel.
• Mugithi AND her Aunty (who wears only tight trousers nowadays) demand that even the council of male-elders be brought within the purview of this scheme.

furthermore notes from the author:

• Why does it have to be a he-Goat? Have asked everyone in sight, but alas, none has been able to clarify.