HERE'S TO NEW BEGINNINGS!

It's just a few days till we usher 2016 out of our lives and I hope you are enjoying every bit of the festive season.I am binge playing the Pentatonix special carols edition dubbed 'Christmas Special'. If you haven't gotten your hands on it yet, you have no idea of what you are missing.Watch it here and thank me later.

I don't know about you but 2016 has been kind to me.Other than having my share of the bad, I have experienced more and more growth.It has been my year of reflection, a year of self-discovery, a year of abundant blessings, a year of love, and I thank God for every second of it.

It might have been a difficult year for you, but I want to encourage you to walk into the new year with confidence and the hope that 2017 will bring with it better experiences, more laughter, more joy, more blessings, more successes for it sure will.Think of the new year as another God -given opportunity to make new memories!

Today I am wearing a navy blue cold shoulder dress with intricate details at the edges of the overlay frills and at the hem. I paired it with a black and white pair of shoes that I wore with this outfit.This versatile cold shoulder can be worn both over and under the arm.What do you think?Please share your sentiments in the comments box.

Outfit Details.
Dress: Thrifted
Shoes: Same ones worn here
Photography by JDIMMS FILMS AND PHOTOGRAPHY
From me and mine, it's nothing but wishes of a happy new year full of God's blessings.

X.O.

DEAR "MODERN MAN"

Five pieces of KFC chicken and a pack of regular French fries cost 550 shillings or approximately $6, but in Njaanuary you can get yourself a piece for just 200 shillings. Now, somebody tell me what is happening to this generation of men? Or is it the women? Several weeks ago, I met a guy; good looking, well-built with a silky-smooth melanin laden skin. Let’s call him Joe. So, Joe is a property investment advisor and he lives in another town- a relatively small one. As expected, we had a few “how are you?” texts thereafter and then it’s been a month since we talked.

Last week Joe texted asking why I had been so quiet and I told him I had been busy with work. He then went ahead to mention that he had been in the capital the previous week, apparently on leave. How typical!! The conversation was going on pretty well until he mentioned that I had missed an opportunity to savor KFC chicken. OK! OK! OK! OK!!!  For a moment, I was speechless. It sounded like missing a flight or worse still a ticket to heaven, and I spent the next few hours wondering which world this dude was living in. So, I just texted back asking him to halla the next time he visits the capital.

IT'S A PINK AFFAIR

Hey there!

December comes with so much fun; so much goodness; so much warmth; so much love; so many events- Reunion parties,end year parties,weddings and of course Christmas. Talking of weddings, I was lucky to spend my weekend and part of the week down Coast courtesy of my sister's nuptials. Several days later I am still wishing that the coastline is moved further into the mainland so that we all have a fair share of the ocean and the breath-taking view of the sandy beaches,and speak better Swahili. LOL. The experience was fantastic. I met new people, made new friends, and of course you never miss to meet someone with a great fashion taste. I was inspired! Check my Instagram @beinglynn for pics from my getaway.

Away from that, a hot-pink midi dress with gold button-detail, paired with gold shoes and a gold bracelet can also do the magic and flush out satin sheets. 

Outfit details.

Dress-Nairobi Stalls

Shoes-Same worn here

Bracelet -Accessorize With Elle

Have fun!

XO

  

HELLO DECEMBER

Hey there,

Welcome to the month of more play and less work.I hope that December is off to a good start for you,well I can't complain.

If you are a follower of my blog then this pair of pants looks familiar.Yeah right. So I decided to style it differently from how I did it in my other post.If you missed it, I got you!You can catch up here .

Outfit details

Tank top :Same one worn here

Pants : Tailored

Shoes : Nairobi stalls

Jewellery : Accessorize with Elle 

Enjoy this and the rest of your week!

BOLD IN RED

Hey there!

I can't believe just how fast this year has flown by.December is here! Well,almost.I don't know about you but I totally need a looooong fun packed break and I am not accepting less.
When I first laid my eyes on this red skirt, I fell. I was thinking a lot of prints, Ankara, polka dots or another bold color like yellow to pair it with.Well clearly prints carried the day. I have never owned or even bought anything red...shoes, handbag, lipstick...which is why I am so over the moon about this skirt that was gifted to me by a very special friend of mine.I intended to achieve a smart casual look and I hope it worked!

Outfit Details

Top : Thrifted

Skirt: Gifted

Shoes: Nairobi Stalls

Bracelet :Accessorize with Elle

Enjoy and have a fun-filled weekend.

XO

ORANGE PERFECTION

Think colors; The weather has been so dull lately, think casual,think office wear, think business meeting, think meet up with the girls after work.OR just think of a day when you need your spirits lifted.
I have always been attracted to bright colors and I am yet to meet someone who hates blue!

Outfit details

Pants :Tailored

Top: Gifted by mama

Shoes: Nairobi Stalls

Neck piece: Accessorize with Elle

Enjoy; this, and the rest of your week

XO

THE COMPLIMENTS PRISON

 I wish I could tell ladies (if possible in a compliment) that being complimented is not a right. Not because they are cry babies with don't-I-look-pretty faces, no, in fact some of them deny. Do your thing, take all the hours you can to make your skin tone lighter than a throwback, pick the your outfit well; but when you walk out of the doors do not expect everyone to turn their neck and master some chivalrous ego to compliment you.

Courtesy: Telegraph

Men, have you ever seen chics that, not to sound rude, are just (in our eyes) dressed like that annoying aunt who likes interrupting “adults”- read vijanaa- past recollection borne-fire circle during family get togethers? She has a faded maroon turtle neck, an old wig on her head you sweat when she is standing the broth of the just slaughtered goat, and a flowing dress that looks like a mourning sack cloth. Now, this lady walks into you space grinning, blushing to ensure her horribly conspicuous mascara is blipping on your face. She says hi, you say hi. She gives you a that's-it-? Look. You are wondering; “Do I tell her?”

Of course a fisi would know what to do. Gathering all the superlatives he's learnt since pre-school he will 'clobber' her with compliments. The lady, even reading the exaggeration in the anxious bloke's tone, is overwhelmed after many “aww thank yous”. Of course for him, in his mind, he is not really complimenting the obvious, his eyes momentarily roam on her chest. He is zoned out at some gaps, “photo shopping” her fit into the mold of the infatuations in his mind. As she rolls her eyes, he proposes something titillating- an offer she would be too smitten to refuse.

But, not so recent studies, have revealed that ladies actually dress for other ladies. Their sense of fashion has nothing, mostly, to do with getting compliments from men. But then again one compliment from a man is worth ten from fellow ladies. Ladies notice the colors, the ear rings, the arc of the eye pencil, the design of the cloth vis-a-vis (been waiting to use this word since economics classes hehe) the shape, the shoes and most importantly the hair. It starts from the time they meet. They will do a quick scan and pick something out: “I like your shoes”. They will then delve into where they bought it and distorted figure on how much it was worth. There are items that should be worth more than they look and others less than they look.

When a man compliments another man it actually comes as a by-the-way. It comes out in form of a question- “Boss, naona ni mingaro tu siku hizi eh?” The recipient just laughs or shrugs or, in rare occasions, says “nikujaribu tu”. If this conversation is to go beyond this point, it will be about his girlfriend or  'girl friend' or the prospective chic he has been eying. Period. We then relapse to politics, sports, business and gossip (yeah we do gossip). To a man a compliment is just bluffing, it is good but unnecessary and/or embarrassing. But coming from a lady that is a whole different level. It goes deeper.  “That shirt looks good on you” is interpreted “your chest is broad” or in short “I think I like you”.

Compliments, I think, is a western idea of chivalry and courtesy in a culture that treasured status. The monarch distinguished nobles from peasants by such pleasantries (no pun intended). In the progressive years sex symbols, narcissism and positivism have shaped our relationships. Although reciprocity is not always counted on, it is actually a functional way of assertion and validation. It is what we use to express, distinguish, categorize and sustain our affections. A man should always find something good to say to his lady (untruth will be vetted later). A woman as they often do, should extend their generosity of good words (especially those that boost the morale) to their men. Tell a man he is strong and he will kill something in the bush and put meat on your table.

NB: On this note, I appreciated all the readers of this website. Thanks for taking your time to scroll through our posts and commenting.

You mean a lot to us.
Adieus.

A SKIN TONE LIGHTER THAN YOUR THROWBACK?

If you went to a high school that sits at the heart of a typical village then you will agree with me that the chances of sharing a class with a white kid are NIL. It’s a windy Friday evening; you are rushing to the bus stage as fast as your thin legs “could” carry you.Primary school was lit.You cannot actually describe this act as walking because your feet are literally floating and wading.

Photo Credits:nuts.com

You are floating so fast such that you don't even have the time to stop and purchase minji or tomatoes from the twilight hawkers. By the way, those twilight tomatoes are tomatoes that have hit menopause. If you haven't wasted your mullah on them, don't try.

Other than being exhausted from the day's activities, your body is experiencing an earthquake that would rate 5.2 on the Richter. (Read cramps).You feel like you want to strip naked and enjoy the evening breeze but then these kinds of thoughts could secure you a safe night at the Central Police Station.

You get to the bus stage, and as usual, there's a crowd. Let me tell you something about my Ma3 route. We don't line up whenever there is a shortage of matatus. We crowd, wait for the next matatu and when it arrives, it's you against the world. Woe unto you if you travelled from up country with three live chickens, a 50-kilogram gunia mzigo and an army of tired lito shudren who are threatening to four-wheel on you.

Fridays come with the warming thoughts of rest after a week of hustle and bustle. While most people would prefer "Friday noise”, I love my Fridays quiet and serene. Good thing matatus that ply my route don't play deafening music. It’s usually more of Country Road and less of Kamatia Chini. So the mat arrives, and you and your hand bag get yourselves a seat behind the driver. For the next five minutes, you feel so beaten that you don't even know whether the person seated beside you is a man or a woman because your head is scattered...whatever Nigerians mean by this phrase. You're profusely sweating from the pushing and pulling by your fellow commuters. I am pretty sure there are women who have lost their wigs in this battle.

A few minutes after settling in you get a musical 'hi' from your neighbor. You turn facing her direction and there’s nothing familiar about her, so you take it that she is just being a good neighbor. She has blonde hair, sorry, a blonde tired-looking weave that appears to have cost her an arm and a leg. She meets you with a smile and despite all the earth tremors and the fatigue, you smile back and say hello. You're being human. You then log into your WhatsApp to check how many blue ticks haven't been responded to and to show the ninjas who only remember you on Friday that hupendi ujinga. Then the good neighbor goes again;

"Kwani you don't remember me?"

You hesitate for 5 seconds pretending to try to remember while at the back of your mind you know pretty well that you've never seen this Gringo before.

She goes again… "I'm Shanelle from high school"

The name Shanelle rings a bell, but it looks like it changed owners. You're tempted to ask what happened but then again you know what happened. She used to look like the black keys on a keyboard but now she looks like the white ones. You go red with embarrassment for not being able to remember your former schoolmate and consequently you both spend the rest of your journey in awkward silence, afraid you’ll say something wrong.

Note to self; if you choose to leave us for another race, and you meet someone who used to know you in the other life, kindly introduce yourself before you subject them to such kind of  embarrassment. 

AM I A FISI?

Courtesy: Sde.co.ke

In Kenya, and by Kenya I mean Nairobi (no offense) we love our food, music (whatever cocktail of West-African, Ugandan or DRC music it might be) and of course our colloquial fads. We started with the prostitutes-cum-students who claimed were divas looking for loaded chums to facilitates their suddenly insatiable luxuries at the price of (though not necessarily), a fresh cookie, if you know what I mean. Then we moved to the era of fisi. This was a major reference to greedy? No. Starved? No. Macho? Maybe, dudes who unashamedly admire or ogle at women.

It is common understanding that a man worth his salt should master his ego and testosterone with dignity or direct them to their legal or consenting liaisons. But, oh my! It is Nairobi! Manyakes in their sizes strutter through the streets daring a brother to embrace his already-suspected inner animal instincts. Men know beauty when they see it. They also know cheap. So, who won't look when a well formed (or self-formed) beautiful creature walks into the office on high heels, suffocating fragrance, an intentional cleavage and an accentuating outfit?

Men are visual beings, psychologists told us. They see, they want, they try to get, they get, or not, they see another one, repeat. The eyes do not have curtains (macho hayana pazia) said a kaya elder. It is only in the etiquette of reacting to such encounters can we sift through the good men and disgusting ones, though not completely. A fisi is not identified by their dress code, age, color, tribe or even money. They do not have the characteristic limp, not always. They do not sit at strategic corners. They are casual men. They have needs and goals that keep them going.

They are like iron fillings on the ground, you never notice them until there is a magnet. Suddenly, the temperature rises. He stops speaking and his pupils at stuck on the distraction. The business of the time is wrapped in Aladdin's magic carpet and transported to the subconscious. Everything seems to go in slow motion. His jaw drops slowly as his head zings. This momentary loss of coordination of some of common faculties is for the chronic starved types.

How ought a guy, normal and aware of this vagary of Nairobi streets, deal with this? Like madness levels, fisi levels differ and often lead to different reactions. Some have given up normal interaction with sensual ladies who are not family. Some have embraced the nature and owned it like the recent Mohamed Alfayo menace. Some have found alternate distractions that diffuses the effect of the moment. While some have become serial players.

Fisi-ism is just a misplaced sense of satisfying a fantasy whose true and only significance can be found in meaningful exclusive sacred union with one woman. However, it is still not as simple. Even with miss universe at your side; side-glances, occasional temptation to sample outside the vineyard abound. Socialites will always find strange new ways to pervade the imagination with new dimensions of erotic adventure or vain pleasure. In the end there is no ultimate satisfaction in the look, or the deed; just a distorted vacuum that needs a different flavor.

The real question is not whether I am a fisi, but how I creatively and constractively relate, understand and correct, if possible, the circumstances that cave in to provoke a colossal urge that has its appropriate role and time in the family and society. It is in admitting the oft instantaneous contorted thoughts that barricade rational action and attitudes, and deliberately taking control of the situation by either fleeing or resisting. Anyway fisi is just a word, the real deal has been there from creation: Lust. Listen. Learn. Run.

YOU SMOKE? I DO TOO!

“I don’t think I have the strength to keep a relationship. I listen to stories of people being engaged for ten years and I feel dizzy. How do you even date someone for seven years without losing your sanity? What are you both doing dating each other for close to a decade? Research? Experimenting? What the hell do you talk about? I think relationships are a boring cycle of emotional turbulence…or violence. Just like this dope stud here, I prefer them short and casual.

You cannot remember the last time you woke up to someone else’s morning sweat or a wake me up husky voice on a Sunday morning. You’ve been single for God knows how long and you are investing all your time in your work, then one Saturday evening you invite yourself to your best friend’s birthday party and meet a man you feel you could stand for a few weeks, sorry ,months. You’ve invited yourself because every time you are invited to such gatherings you disinvite yourself and consequently everyone in your inner circle gave up on inviting you to their parties. Your ideal evening involves dressing in your oversized Tee, lying on the couch scrollaxing while watching for the umpteenth time, Legend of Zorro.

photo courtesy:lulupants

You’re both single and so ready to hit things off. OH…And all so perfect for each other. A new relationship is exciting. He is one hell of a human being, everything your single self has been fantasizing about, all wrapped into one with a ribbon on it. She has the perfect body, a killer smile and kindness constitutes seventy-five percent of her blood. You see, it’s just like having one favorite restaurant which you frequent because you know that you will get every single thing you want, the way you like it, any time you feel like it. It feels like being on an ass hash overdose for days. Now that’s us. At this point, you are still unaware that he has anger issues or that she can go for three days without taking a shower, what we call “passport beating”. Even if you do, you’re so over the moon about your new found love and so blinded by novelty that you do not think of it as a big deal.

“Passport beating” is the ungodly act of cleaning just a few parts of your body, either because you don’t have enough water to take a proper bath or you simply do not have a good working relationship with water, bad blood if you may. Just like it is when taking a passport size photo, you just cover the essential parts .Clean your face, legs, arms, whichever parts you choose, and leave the rest to God. Not so different from tax evasion.

Fast forward to the second month, it is holiday season, December. You and bae are both lying half naked on one of the sandy beaches of the South Coast and reminiscing. Five cute kids with the girls having his hair and the boys your confidence. Everything is working out great until you find out that he wears one boxer for a whole week, or he notices your one shower in three days trend. Both of you begin to see all the flaws that were sufficiently masked with the big fall. Suddenly, there are so many things wrong with both of you.You notice that if he is not watching Telemundo, he is keeping up with the Kardashians or playing Candy Crush. Your perceived Mr. Perfect also gets crazy mad if you fail to tag him on your Instagram pictures and his Snapchat gets more action in a day than yours could ever get in a decade. Lawd Hammercy.

Seven months down the relationship and you both wish you were single. At this point,even his ever so mighty dipstick is not long or big enough to check the depth of the engine oil. Your honey pot on the other side is not so well fitted for the job anymore. It probably emits a stench that could make him go blind. Back in my village, my people call this an “Awayo ojogore gi lak” situation. It simply means that you can’t stand each other anymore and you’d probably kill each other if you had to spend an entire day locked in a room.

You then spend the next three months breaking up but not really breaking up. The bonds become weaker by the day and you begin to feel like strangers. No one owns up to mistakes. It’s a sickening endless life threatening roller-coaster of blame games and tantrums. You keep telling yourselves that y’all going to be victorious in the end but somewhere deep inside your heart you know you have reached the end of the road and before you know it, he is on top of someone else and you’re under another!

And the cycle goes on.”

Meet Zara, a fine Swahili woman with a behind that can pass for a very comfortable chair, who can make a meal out of stones, a senga and my friend who swears by all the deceased people she knows, that she will never get into a long-term relationship.

MY ENGAGEMENT STORY

He asked me to marry him over tea.The proposal came as a surprise but he did not go down on one knee with a ring in one hand. A typical Maasai home is mostly quiet, life is slow and easy. “This is my youngest wife" .Ole Nkapapa said with utmost pride. He looks very old probably in his late seventies but has the strength of a Belgian draft horse. For three hours we were ascending and descending the mountains encompassing his home. I will not bore you with the details of what we were looking for. When we first arrived at his home, I extended my hand to greet the old Mzee but he didn't respond in the way one would expect. I learnt, you don't greet a Maasai elder with your hands, you bend and let him tap your upper back with his walking stick…in case you’re confused, it’s not a spank.

 “I have over seven hundred cattle, some of which are in Tanzania as we speak, on the other side of this mountain, as the grass on this side is almost drying out."He says while ushering us to what he fondly refers to as his favorite spot in the homestead, where there stood a group of children, some looking like twins, with running noses, no shorts, just undersized T-shirts and smiles that say “You only live once”. Not a care in the world .There is a reason the good book stipulates that we must be like children in order to inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. Suddenly there's a queue of nineteen children before me and I'm supposed to tap each one of them on the back. Culture shock…but I did my due diligence. I had been nibbling on some groundnuts and I handed some of it to one of the children. They all moved away like flies do from a dead rat, you could be forgiven for thinking that they all had been connected to one knob that activated everything they did, in sync.

photo courtesy :wikimedia

“Sasa?” I retorted .No response. The only language they comprehend and speak is their vernacular. His home is not fenced, and just a few meters from where we are standing, sits what looks like a dilapidated stand-alone building, it looks like a Manyatta and he tells us that this is a school...and the only kids who go to the school are his nineteen children bore by his five wives. "Why is that?” I vaguely ask. "Look around, how many homes can you see other than this? “There’s no other home in sight, just small hills graced by shrubs and stunted grass. Yea, the ones your geography teacher used to bore you with. Savannah grasslands. Something like that.

 I was halfway through asking him what happens when they are attacked, when I was interrupted by a soft tap on my left hand. I was met with a little man's innocent looking eyes and a wry smile. He wasn't talking but he extended his right hand. ‘Groundnuts?’ I asked myself as I extended him the small polythene paper that I was holding. He grabbed it and ran off to his other siblings. From where I was, I read excitement, the kind of excitement you feel when you watch a movie in 3D for the first time. I kept shifting my head, so that I am not hit by the bullets or stone fragments from explosions. There's some fear, but you get used to it. Turns out my little kids had never seen or even eaten groundnuts. After the first taste, they kept coming for more.

 Lemaiyan’s wives looked "tight" .They were seated together at the same place on three legged stools waiting on their husband who kept giving orders. I kept wondering what they were talking about, but I can imagine one or two things. The first wife is probably giving instructions to the rest on how to treat their husband in the following week. "I will be cooking for him" "I will be warming his bed" "I will be washing his feet" "I will be sterilizing his ears, " The good book says that he who finds a wife finds a good thing. I wonder how much goodness comes with finding five wives. In another life, I want to be a Maasai man. An elderly Maasai Moran. His wives look much younger than he is and it appears like they could protect him if their empire was attacked. They looked like cougars. Slim, slender, physically fit, fierce, yet so submissive cougars.

 It's 4pm, our business here is done and we're seated on a wooden bench that is stained with cow dung, bird poop and decorated with tree leaves. One of his wives arrives with a metallic "birika" full of hot tea...actually more of milk and less of everything else. She hands each of us a metallic cup and proceeds to fill each with tea then she places a plate of something that resembles a chapati and yet looks like a pancake on one of the wooden benches. "Poeshea mtoto chai" The old man tells Antaeta as I later learnt she was called, while pointing in my direction. They say that the one time you should not say anything is when you really feel like you have to say something .For crying out loud, I am a woman. My bosom is fully developed and I'm confident that I can push a 3.5 kg baby out of my baby bag. I swallowed my words and handed my cup to the lady.

We spent the next few minutes in silence; munching, chewing, sipping, "whistling ".If you went to a public secondary school then you definitely understand what it means to whistle while taking tea. Then out of nowhere the old man says he wants to marry a sixth wife. We all turn our heads in shock. You should have seen the look on my face. ‘He's 79’, I thought to myself, and then I remembered how he traversed those mountains. Silence. "Nitakuja kwenu nikuoe" Then I realize he didn't just say he owned 700 cows for nothing. More deafening silence. Then I look at him and I realize that he's not joking. after an awkward two minutes of no words, one of the guys we're with offers to be the one to give the girl away. He demands  300 goats and it's all fun and jokes until the old man asks me to honestly confirm if I'm not married, that he doesn't want his head dismembered from his body. Dude is serious. More silence. And then I said yes to this marriage proposal. No, actually the guy said yes on my behalf. We spent the next ten minutes chowing down our something in between pancakes and chapati in silence and washed it down with the tea. So I got engaged…just like that.

MY GO TO MAN

“He is called Josh and he is my go to man when things aren’t playing out well with Tee.” I am seated at a restaurant waiting for someone who is forty three minutes late, but there are two beautiful typical ‘Nairobi chics’ seated on the table adjacent to mine, wearing tight body hugging dresses and the typical Wema Sepetu weave which one of my friends says is worn by young women who date old Mzungu sponsors….None of my business. I call them chics because that is how they like to be referred to; perhaps the word lady is too long or too boring, or too masculine…I don’t know. So my attention is drawn to their conversation by the mention of this go to man called Josh.

Photo courtesy :pinterest

Well there’s a breed of intelligent, good looking, well groomed men in this city. Their hair is properly barbered, they only wear bespoke suits and you would be forgiven for thinking that these cool studs have hired someone to shine their shoes every five minutes. You would think that they live with their mothers because they do not have dirty socks roaming about the living room or utensils in their sinks that haven’t been washed for the past one week. I would say girlfriends or wives but these men do not commit to anything that qualifies to be called a relationship or anything that comes close. He shops for his mum every three weeks and spends most of his weekends with his siblings…PURRFECT.

Men like Josh do not wear anything cheaper than a Rolex for a wrist watch and everything about them says “I got this”. If not for the dwindling Kenyan economy, they would be speaking Louis Vuitton or Gucci. I am not talking about Chinese Gucci…And did I say that he keeps time? Josh has got his kitchen game on and there is no way you can doubt that his mother taught him well. I wonder if he cleans his dishes or he hires mama wa kufua to do it for him. From the way this particular chica talked, Josh sounds like a safe haven for when your world is on fire, a place to run to when the kitchen gets too hot. There is just no way that you can call him the average guy. He is slightly way past being just average. He matches his socks to his outfits the same way a wedding planner matches the cake to the décor. He knows the difference between the color teal and the color turquoise…PURRFECT.

“Why don’t you just drop Tee’s ass and take things up with Josh”. He effortlessly oozes charm and has his life in control. Well he fears commitment like a plague. He is probably more talented in juggling women than in balancing his work and his social life. He presumably finds it boring. They say nothing is perfect but I think Josh is near perfect. Perfect for occasional sex and feel good moments, perfect for showing off well sculptured abs, perfect for getaways, perfect for the days when you need the full boyfriend experience. He is totally okay with being the go to guy; Content and satisfied.I wish I had known about these men when I was writing this letter to my dad.

THE KITAMBI TALE

Be careful what you wish for! So, few months ago I was in social media airing out my concern on what I termed as “Kitamentality”. You see in our society socio-economic status is gauged by the ample protrusion of a conspicuous pot belly. It is what fislets use to sort the broke blokes from the sponsors. My main concern arose from my grandmother’s complaints, well intended as she was, that I was still as thin as a stick praying mantis. She blames the town life for it and of course unemployment, which is one of her prayer-points, thankfully. I had tried to get the kitambi, consciously, by occasionally indulging in junk. But the hustle is real; by the time I got back to my crib I was angry and tired. So I gave up.

Then it happened! Most of my day is spent writing online. Sitting down more than six hours every day, only standing to visit the toilet or kitchen which is a step away did it. Soon there was some weight on my laps. My “fitting trousers” now required breathing in for the buttons to get into their holes. My shirts began shrinking. Then I realized my stomach was starting to form some “Michellin tyres” which were accentuated on lose t-shirts. It is happening. At first I was glad. At least I could now buy adult trousers without asking for the vendor to get number 28, or visiting the tailor to trim the baggy ones. It was good. Some people even started calling me “mzee”…which is something for some people.

Then I decided to at least visit home. Just shortly to see what grandma will say. I am standing there, the next day looking yonder with hands akimbo after a heavy lunch. She is seated on the verandah. She starts laughing. She spoke in vernacular like: “You mean you have not even got real job or married and the kitambi is already overtaking you?” Okay, not in those word exactly but that is what she implied. I just laughed, bitterly. After the short trip I returned to the city. Things were not getting better. My appetite was at all high mode. I could eat even eight times a day. My belly button was now a belly-hole sunk by the belly fat. At this rate things may not be looking good somewhere along the way.

I am not used to being big, I mean wide. In fact I even do not know how it feels but one image flashed in my mind. A short (almost my height) guy with a big belly used to be my neighbor. The stomach was so big his fingertips could barely touch when he put his hands over it (kitambi). His legs were thin and could barely support the center of gravity which had by now shifted elsewhere. That was the future with this trend. I had to do something before this scenario plays out for me. I could hear my heart bit every time I went up a long staircase or a steep hill. All the initial excitement about my acquired asset was turning into gruesome prospection. I started googling things like “how to reduce belly fat home exercises” or “burn belly fat exerciser” or even better “Getting a six pack in 1 week!” As of the time of writing this post, I am staring at a roller. I am not yet there but that perfect shape is a push-up, pull-up, roller, plank away!