Have you met Mojo?

(To all my faithful and much loved readers, sorry if I am a bit out of commission for the next few weeks...minor issue of major exams to be passed...I will still tweet crap, so feel free to engage. Oh and before I disappear...

This is a story about Mojo. Or rather, how I met Mojo.

I was 19, and vanity had smacked me in the face, and then held my hand. I thought I was alright looking, and my hair was doing things unbeknown to my younger self, bouncing every which way and swishing in the wind. Gyms had sorted out legs, and a year of pretentious debates about ‘space and place in economic Geography’ while expounding on the nuances of protein function had left me itching for smart conversation constantly.

I was back in Kenya on holiday and the sun was out, as were the sandals and the abbreviated dresses, as my mother affectionately refers to my wardrobe. I was in a supermarket buying a phone that would see me through the break. Over my shoulder, a rather commanding voice tried to sell me something. I chose not to turn around, but because it/he was well spoken, I replied with a ‘no thanks, not today’. As I waited to be served, I noticed my two friends crouched in one of the aisles pointing at something behind me. My immediate thought was ‘bastards! They left with a snake about to kill me’. Then I realised they were giggling, and making eyes at something. You know those eyes a girl makes that say ‘come hither mister, spread whatever it is boys spread’. I screwed my eyes at them and that did not deter them, so I decided this must be serious. I turned around and behold, it was Hallelujah’s understudy, because that’s all you could say when you saw that man: Hallelujah. But because that is a rather Godly term, and this post is anything but, we’ll call him Mojo.

Mojo’s arms were muscle-y. In a ‘I am a man, but I dislike steroids’ way, and his smile was disarmingly skewed, not perfect, but also just right. I literally swooned and held onto the table in front of me (tossing my hair as I did so- never one to waste an opportunity). He looked like he smelt nice and his bottom and calves, though unseen, felt like they would also look good. He was one of those beautiful people that you didn’t have children with...you’d be the least hot person in the house. Now, BWTB doesn’t like to brag, but I actually possess a genuine smile, appreciated by many people, and I find it easy to make friends. So I smiled; one of those where my eyes screwed up a little, and my lazy dimple kicked into action. In the sweetest voice I could muster (which given I am a proper alto, is rather deep...), I accepted his business card, ‘to pass on to my mother’, obviously.

Two days’ later, I sent Mojo a message, you know, totally nonchalantly. ‘Hey, it’s B, girl from X. I thought you were cute, so hi’. He waited for a perilously long time, about 2 hours, before he replied. One has to assume that he was trying to work out who I was, then trying to decide if I was a serial killer or not. He decided not, and we began to chat and text message. It turns out he was intelligent, enough to feed my pretentious brain. Of course, as is B’s nature, my intentions were so much less honourable. And because he was fascinated by my white dress and gold shoes, we met for a drink after work. Well work for him, gallivanting for me. But that’s neither here nor there. Physical attraction was definitely there- I had mentally undressed him so many times that he was running out of virtual boxers.

We kept at the tea dates, lunch dates, phone flirting...and yet, B could not get her man. My vanity was taking a serious dent. I decided that perhaps his problem was ‘poor signal reading’ (ref to ‘Old man and the sea’), so I would help a brother out. We’d been out for an evening coffee and he walked me to the car, hands around my waist and all. It was perfect. I had parked in the basement, and had a car that required a step ladder (I am not very tall) to get into, so of course he would have to give this damsel a hand. I was also wearing a dress. I figured he liked dresses. Or rather, legs. Anyway, we descended the stairs to the basement, me lamenting at how cold it was, him getting the hint and pulling me closer. $$$$$...#winning. All of the above. I opened the door, and he helped me in. It was now or never, so I said, ‘thank you for a lovely evening’. ‘You’re welcome gorgeous’. *Hug*. As he pulled away, I went in for the kiss, just as he said ‘I have a bet with...’ < I stopped listening. It sounded like something that would disappoint me, but more importantly, I was now falling out of the car. It wasn’t a dramatic fall, not in the slightest. It was simply an I-am-throwing-myself-at-you kind of motion. I would like to say *to be continued*, but after that performance, I was sure he would decline. We said our goodbyes.

Life sentence at 13.

‘Unfortunately the news is as we had expected’.

‘What?’ Lip smack...

‘Remember, we discussed this before you went in? That we were trying to exclude various serious things.’

‘Yeah, sort of,’ X replied, furiously chewing the largest piece of gum I had seen. I sat there staring at her, incredulous that someone could be so dense. Interestingly, I wasn’t allowed to chew gum as a child (I know...my dad’s old school!)- Direct correlation to stupid (her, not me)?! I wouldn’t like to say...

‘Well, the tests confirmed what we suspected, that you can never have children’.

I was sitting in the room as the doctor told X, a 13 year old, that she can never get pregnant naturally. She should have been sad, but honestly, she simply appeared not to understand a single word that had been said. You could imagine her thinking ‘Kids?! WTF are those?’ I was frustrated for her, and I’m usually pretty chilled, I don’t get frustrated on account of other people. Not often anyway.

A recent #t about childhood memories reminded me of X, and how different our lives are/were. At 13, I was starting to like people as well as books, and stop thinking of boys as ‘disgusting’. I was trying to wear slightly more feminine shoes, and I wore dresses more regularly (of course, after my father rescinded his ban because I was no longer falling all over the place and ruining my legs with scars). I was a little bothered by being ‘older’ than I was, but I didn’t pursue it relentlessly. I was most definitely NOT having sex. So you can imagine my angst with X. She had pelvic inflammatory disease, something I didn’t know about until university. Basically, she’d had an STD for so long that it had clogged up her lady bits and so she would never be able to successfully deliver an egg to her uterus. Now, most people find this out when they’re older and try to have children but can’t. And it’s devastating for them. The problem was that she didn’t understand what an STD was, let alone the disease or its implications. Which begs the question: what the hell was she doing having sex in the first place?!

Here’s a bit of a generalisation: given she was alone in the clinic, didn’t seem to have parents to speak of, chewing gum (!) and smelt heavily of cigarette smoke, I was judging her background a little bit, and blaming what I thought was a failure of parenting and lack of education. But of course this is unfair, because I didn’t find out enough about her to know why she was in that particular position. It did make me think about all the things we do, for fun, as part of life, and whether or not we think about the responsibility and the consequences. So here are a few medical truths for you, while you’re horizontal today:

• HIV is the big bad scary wolf, but its little cousins have just as big an impact on your life. At 13 you don’t know you want kids. Hell, in my tweenies I don’t know that I want kids. But I bloody well want the power to make that decision.
• Get yourself PROPERLY checked out (not once in a life time- it’s gotta be regular people!). Great, you’re HIV negative. So?! There’s Chlamydia, gonorrhoea, LGV, syphilis, HPV (àcervical cancer). My rule is if I’m going to do something, I want to know the ways in which it gets fucked up. So I can avoid them. For example, did you know STIs in pregnancy could cause miscarriages?! Educate yourself! Google is your friend...No nookie till you do.
• Why the hell do you not have a condom?! Right now, at this moment in time, in your wallet/makeup bag/bedside drawer...Seriously?! *smack yourself twice*

Forgotten toothbrush

So at some point in the last 2 weeks, #4 and I sorted out our issues, and for the duration of my holiday, were doing the ‘fling thing’. It was pleasant, exciting, and it certainly distracted from the mountain of work I had to do. I spent an evening at his house in the second week, which was excellent, for many reasons, not least because I learnt that he is a bit of a freak. I walked into his impeccably clean house (what is it with men and keeping their houses clean as bachelors? Something to hide?! Hmmm?) and found my way to his room. I took of my sweater and nonchalantly flung it across a chair, in a ‘no biggy’ way. I turned around for 10 seconds to remove my sandals, and when I turned back, my sweater was on a hanger and in the wardrobe. I kid you not. He also folded away my clothes when I was not looking...cute.

I was very careful in the morning, ensuring that I retrieved all my wares, and folded them as I packed my overnight bag. He was watching after all, and is clearly a neat freak. I got home, and as I unpacked, realised I had forgotten my toothbrush. *cow* *fudge* *ship* (and all other faux-expletives). I decided to ignore it because after all, it was unintentional, and it was only a toothbrush; my favourite one, but still. He could throw it if he even noticed it. I totally forgot (not really) about it, until I received a humorous email from #4 saying ‘you left your toothbrush. I see you have territorial tendencies J’. I laughed, because it was typical of him, using as few words as possible to try and convey as much information as he could, while asking a subtle question i.e. am I territorial? I responded in kind, assuring him that if I was territorial, I would have parked a car with my name, two photographs of myself and all my shoes (which are VERY VERY many...Imelda Marcos is my hero) inside his house. If he wanted to get rid of signs of me, he’d have to get movers.

The incident made me think that girls are going about this all wrong. If you want to put your stamp on a man’s house, forgotten toiletries and cushions are not the way to go. Things that fit into bin bags will end up exactly there. What you need is something that is immovable, for example, engraving a sweet ‘him and me’ message on his bespoke bed post, or using a candle to burn a loving message on his wall. You need something that requires him moving away from the house, possibly after burning it down, and changing all his identifying features in order to be rid of it. That’s a sure fire way to brand a man as something you would like to own. Because after all, only a freak would think that is the way to a lasting relationship. If you feel that he needs little things to remember you by, I would suggest that you have a problem. I think branding of things should be left to cows in volatile cattle rustling environments. But that’s just me...missing my favourite toothbrush. *sad eyes*

The old man and the sea

There’s a book with that title isn’t there?! I haven’t read it, but the title stuck with me because all I think of is an old man, losing a battle with a big body of water. My friend and I were out for coffee yesterday, sitting at our local, with our feet and bags resting on adjacent stools, leaning in and gossiping in a clear ‘don’t approach’ manner. Apparently signals are very poorly read in this our lovely city, so of course a considerably older gentleman saw two girls, one wearing a dress that was far too short, and decided he had arrived! He said hello to my friend, probably seen her there before, and then casually asked ‘You don’t mind if I stand with you, do you?’ as he ordered his Tusker Malt. I looked at her and pulled out my phone, twitter time. She didn’t so much as smile as grimace, but he took it as an affirmative. He walked off, probably to call his boys to say he needed a wingman, he’d found young girls here.

His boys, clearly a tad more serious than he, of course ignored his many phone calls, so a lonely old man eventually came back to join 20-something year olds. Then the bad chat began. This is the point at which even I sat up. Surely, because you’re pushing 60/70 and you have the balls to interrupt two young girls (younger than your daughters) having a private chat, one would think you are the fucking bee’s knees of conversation. Well, here were a few gems from that deathly half hour...

‘Do you drink at X as well?’ No. No we don’t. You know why?! No? Well, I’ll tell you. We are not freaking alcoholics, that’s why. And anyway, when a bar no longer has a door, it’s time it ceased to exist.

‘I took some young girls to this place and we got there and they ditched me. They were straight on the floor...’ Eeeeem.... even the crickets will be silent for this one. Therefore? Does that prove your virility? You might have wanted to dye your hair black before you started with that conversation; I STILL don’t think you’re young, even at heart. Also, I don’t how to break it down for you, but the girls had your arse for your money, and found younger boys to dance with.

‘You should come back so you can be my doctor’ WTF?! I’m not even talking to you. I’m on my phone. See??? Ignoring you.

‘I hear it’s Ladies’ Night in Nairobi’. Yes, because that would be the only reason I would ever go out, to avoid paying entrance fees into a club. Is this you saying you can make a good sugar daddy?!

‘So what are you talking about now?’ You, and how you are completely incapable of reading signals. Go awaaaaaaaaaaaay.

‘Do you watch football? Kenyans like football. I like football.’ Ay caramba!!

And finally...as we downed our drinks and threatened to sprint out of the bar....

‘We’ll see you on Friday night. I hear it gets hectic, and that day my wife doesn’t mind what time I come home’.

I think I gave him a piteous look and for his sake wished he would realise how much of a fail he was. Unfortunately he didn’t. The very next day he returned, but we’d sat in an inaccessible area, so he did the next best thing and sent a waiter to ask us to join him. Yeah fucking right.

Hairless solutions.

The sun is slowly inching out, and as such, I was doing a little personal research this weekend re: bikini waxes. First of all, in case you didn’t know, the world of wax is as tricky as they come. You must choose the right style. You know, like when you go to the barber and ask for a ‘short back and sides’ or a ‘fade’ or ‘kipara shine’ (i.e. take it all off...everything- aim for baby bottom smoothness). The options range from a regular wax, which may be large, medium or small (i.e. the standard one). Then there’s a French wax, which is a modified regular wax, where they remove a little more hair from the top (of your imaginary Y fronts). We all know about the Brazilian, though few of us from personal experience, where they take off everything and head a little (actually a lot) further back. Then there’s a landing strip, which I imagine is just that.

So is there any etiquette for bikini waxes? A quick Google search didn’t so much as prescribe etiquette as suggest a few helpful tips. For example, shave 3 weeks before so the hair is exactly the right length, because apparently, there is a wrong length for these things, including too short (the mind boggles). Another website suggested one should exfoliate the area before and after. I initially disagreed with this on account of the cost of my exfoliant, but it’s supposed to help with in-grown hairs, which I imagine are far more painful. These suggestions were helpful, but I didn’t feel they answered the right questions. So here’s my very brief list of tips before you go for a wax, some of which should be natural, but nothing wrong with a gentle reminder. Add yours down below...:-D

• Shower before your wax. No explanation needed. If you have thrush, cancel the appointment. A sick imaginery pet will do for excuses.
• When is the right time to wax? I would suggest not doing it the morning of an important meeting, especially if you’re a waxing newbie, because it IS painful, numbing cream or not, and you will walk like someone forget their stick up your arse. Weekends are ideal as you can take your bruised nether regions straight into a relieving bath. Avoid times of the month where you cry because someone left a wet towel on the floor. The wax is extra-painful, and may drive you to jump off a roof. #justsaying #PMS
• What underwear depends on your desired style: if you favour le Brazilian, or landing strips, wear a thong. For all else, wear sensible panties that you can grab and pull across. Don’t borrow your younger, slimmer sister’s pair (which doesn’t quite fit) because it’s a nicer colour. You will end up butt naked wearing a faux nappy. You can also leave the lace in its drawer because you are not trying to ‘pull’ your beautician, and the wax gets very sticky.
• Take up yoga. The wax position mimics tree pose, and if you’re good at that, your beautician will appreciate the easy access.
• When you have planted the roots and branches of your tree (i.e. spread your legs), feel free to ask about the depilating practices of your beautician. After all, you’re in a position where that topic is no longer off limits, and they often have useful tips.
• Always say you’re getting a wax because of your upcoming beach holiday. You may be lying but if you haven’t waxed for 10 years, it is a plausible reason. And anyway, the art of small talk is littered with little white lies like ‘How are you?’ ‘Fine, great, awesome. You?’
• If you would like a message such as ‘I love you my puppy sweetheart sweet pea’ written in your nether regions, don’t get a wax. Pay for a shrink instead. That goes for people wanting wands, stars and butterflies too.
• It usually takes 5-7 minutes unless you’re positively agrarian down below, or your waxist (yes, I made that up) is rubbish, so that’s how much conversation you need to plan for!

Off on holiday for a couple of weeks, Easter, repentance, people...all that jazz.

Happy holidays! x

I want it all.

My friend once told me that ‘It was strange that I always have a love interest on the go’. I denied this vehemently at the time, but a thorough examination of the last 3 years has revealed that she was in fact, stating facts. So I decided that I would cease looking for men in between my trysts and work on ‘being healthy alone’. I made a startling discovery today though. It is safer for the gene pool when I am not an active participant in it, because I am a pathological flirt. It is, in fact (yes, another one), a disease. I have flirted to get better seats on planes, served faster at restaurants, lifts home from friends, store discounts at shops I don't work at, and free coffees from Costa.

I don’t know where or how I learnt to flirt, and I must now take a moment to apologise to all those characters that were my guinea pigs in my experiential days. It does appear however, that I can now unwittingly flirt, even when I am trying not to, for the sake of a lust love interest. I was a patient model today on a course where doctors learn how to not kill people who have survived a traumatic experience. You might chuckle at that line, but it’s true. Your body is amazing at allowing you to survive things like road traffic accidents, even when your leg has been cut off- something or other to do with adrenaline. You then get to hospital where you relax (sometimes anyway), and everything in your body quietens down. Your sphincters loosen themselves, adrenaline seeps less quickly out of your body and you begin to fall apart. This is the moment where doctors should step in and save the day, but alas, it’s never that easy. Hence the course...

I was made up to look blue, which given I am black, was an interesting undertaking. I looked ashen. It was slightly scary, as I imagine that’s what I would look like when embalmed. I was wearing ‘model’ clothes, in the form of a child’s purple checked shirt (*gasp*), and a green, yes...green, linen skirt that was 55 sizes too big. I knotted it as much as I could, then eventually pinned it to my underwear. If anything came down, it was ALL coming down. So there I was, lying in fake blood, looking blue and ashen, having ‘broken’ ribs, my pelvis, and left leg. The door opened and... *cue suspense music*...the most beautiful specimen of a man walked in. He smiled then approached my neck and immobilised it, you know, to make sure I didn’t ‘fake-paralyse’ myself. If only he knew...

I smiled. I then winked. According to the instructions for the moulage, I was neither meant to smile nor wink. The fake nurse in the scenario began to laugh as well, because she could clearly see what I was doing. He carried on ‘examining’ me and I sagely nodded- the model patient helping him along. I wiggled my toes as I could not wiggle my bottom, hoping it was just as seductive. Not so much. So I arched my back a bit, because let’s face it, I don’t exactly have the largest breasts in the world so spreading of tissue while lying down did me no favours. All he said was ‘don’t move your neck, you might get paralysed’. So I froze, in a half arched position, which I can reliably report is very uncomfortable. It quickly got to the point where he was supposed to assess my pelvis fracture. He placed two hands on either side of my pelvis...and it all escaped me, in the form of a squeal and a giggle and a raising, ever so slightly, of my broken left leg (the collar prevented me from throwing my arms around him). It appears he had not only diagnosed and miraculously fixed my fractured pelvis, but he had also completely re-inflated my previously collapsed lung, and blunted my ‘pain’ enough to allow me to squeal and giggle. Even the facilitators laughed at this point. Yes, this was observed by 3 independent parties.

I quickly composed myself and re-assessed (which is what he was supposed to be doing) the situation, er..man. He was indeed beautiful. He had a beautifully square, but non-geometric jaw. Beautiful blue eyes were encased like almonds in lightly tanned sockets, held up by androgynously dimpled cheeks on either side. He had broad shoulders, good for picking up girls, and was wearing a blue sweater (which, with blue eyes, is #winning). I looked down. Unfortunately he was wearing khakis that were too large, and he appeared to have a similar knot in his trousers as I did in my skirt. A match made in heaven?! Definitely not. More like ‘BLEUUUGH’. The open akala-like slippers (Birkenstocks) topped it all off. We can’t have it all, after all. Oh, I’m also going to stop actively flirting, just in case you thought I had learnt little else. I can’t not smile though, 2 years of braces (railroad tracks) made sure of that. So...

Addendum: We might just be able to have it all. Apparently my friend said he dresses badly because maybe he doesn’t have a girlfriend. *thumbing through contacts to find this man*... JK.

Nothingness

Does anyone on this earth truly know who he/she is, in the philosophical sense of the term? Specifically, anyone under half a century old (my parents were never afflicted with this kind of angst, given their generation lived through world wars, coups, famine, and hardship)? This whole search of an identity feels a bit like a lost cause. There are few people, none of whom I know, that say ‘I know who I am, and I am content in that knowledge’. Most of us are searching for something that resonates within us as ‘our inner persons’, but the problem is we often find it just in time for it or us to change. Even Paulo Coehlo (#t) seems to be searching.

But surely that must be ok? I mean, not really knowing who you are- it can’t be that bad, can it?! It often feels like an exercise in futility; all about the chase but the destination doesn’t really happen, what on earth is the point?! I don’t know, but boys swear by this strategy when pursuing girls, so perhaps there is something to be said for being in pursuit. Hell, they made a movie about it. So we are all searching for who we think we are, a forever moving goal post, but we all revel in the chase, and it appears that that is ok. What’s the alternative? Well, I suppose it would be not knowing who you are, and not giving a flying chicken’s arse. You know those people, the ones that stand for nothing and therefore fall for everything. Even when nothing moves, they chase it and fall for it.

Case in point: BMX. BMX and I have been acquainted for many years. She spent her time not trying to be anyone in particular, so each time a boy told her to breathe differently, she would immediately cease her usual one breath every five seconds, and genuinely attempt to hold her breath for the stipulated amount of time. Of course she would never be able to, and so this would force her to go out and cry like the world was about to end, pour gin down her throat, and then spend the rest of the time on the toilet, throwing up and peeing in equal measure, while sobbing down the phone to me. I often fell asleep on the other end, but I doubt she ever noticed. Oh well. We lost contact when BMX became a stripper because a friend told her to; it would be a good way to make money that she didn’t need. She may be told to kill me and would think ‘hell yeah’ so... *DELETE*

The worst kind though, is the group that hurts others while falling for ‘nothingness’. My friend asked me to share her story, and today seems like an apt day to do so. She was dating a nice boy, you know, the kind that fitted the ideal oh so well for 9 years, the rest of us were more than a little jealous. Apparently, he was simply doing what he thought she wanted him to do. He then found someone else that wanted a wild party boy who would turn up to any and every occasion drunk; work, family gatherings, social events, hospital appointments etc. He went and paid for a seat at all the bars he could find to ensure he was ‘drunk to the max’. She wanted him to disappear from his mother’s house (while still a tenant there) without a thought to her emotional well being and so he did, for a week. When she eventually demanded he disown his unborn child that my friend was carrying, he fell for nothingness. Such people.

So I’ve now decided what I want from the people in my life. I don’t want people who fall for nothingness. I want people who desire to ‘know themselves’ (not in a FB status kinda way though, because thou shalt be deleted/blocked/unfriended), who make decisions based on what they believe, not on what every Tom, Dick and Fuckery tells them. I would rather you upset me because you disagree with me, but the fact that you are trying to stand for something, reassures me that you won’t be falling for anything and everything. #Msimamo