Hijabi Librarians — Discover

We should have this in Kenya

This group of librarians works to give voice to Muslim literature and books with Muslim protagonists: “We aim to recognize, celebrate and honor the books and authors that get it right.” As the site’s authors cleverly say, “We’ve got it covered.”

Hijabi Librarians — Discover

My birthday

I usually do not care for birthdays, not even mine.

But this year round, I feel older, significantly older.

I have been put through the wringer, but I am still here! In this space, the place I presently occupy in spirit and in truth, I have come to appreciate that I choose not to give a fudge about anything that even remotely irritates. I am embracing the “walk away” approach, and possibly cuss under my breath, but I will waddle away.

Things I am over: Bad debt

Am I the only one who gets amazed at people who refuse to render payment for goods or services rendered? As in why do you need to be REPEATEDLY reminded to settle your dues? Apart from being an irredeemable ass wipe, why would you do that?

Anyone who owes me, I have blessed you with my money. It will not buy you decency or anything between your ears, but you can try.

I am sooooo into: KC!

Where has this drink been all my life? All of it!

I was introduced to it by a good pal of mine, and I have not looked back. How is it that it has absolutely NO hungover! NOOOOONE!

Good bye team whiskey, I will miss you dear Rum.

I am riding this KC wave ( Kenya Cane for those who have not had their morning coffee) like a woman possessed.

It might not be 4 o’clock anywhere on earth, but I do not care. Cheers mates!

 

 

Image credits.

Dear tribe-less Kenyans!

A fresh perspective.

This is how it starts.

This is how they play us.

They pit one side against the other, asking us to lay down our lives for their personal pursuits.

Certain birds tweet and chirp accusations. Eventually, the bird droppings fall to the grassroots, fester with ignorance and grow into violence. Everyone ignores the writings on the talking walls.

The skirt no longer greets the headscarf when they pass each other on the road as they drive to work.

Misinformation and propaganda give rise to full-blown hate.

People eventually pick up guns and rally in the streets.

Three killed, one injured.

The word person isn’t even used. A newsroom somewhere: “Foolish Africans, killing each other again.” There won’t be a #PrayforKenya. The world is bored; you did this before in 2007. Plus you don’t have the charm of Paris and you’re not white. Oh and that singer just had quintuplets. “If it bleeds it leads” doesn’t work anymore. Get those retweets. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Headlines fly, a TV screen reads: “Kenya Burning.” The producer assigned it three sentences on the script. A description on the demise of the only country you’ve ever known is reduced to a highlight.

More people call for blood. They have the taste for it now. The inner demons that slumbered since 2007 are now fully awake and starving. Almost a decade, a long time for evil to be suppressed….

One by one their sons are called to fight. The colour on the skirt fades and the headscarf starts to loosen. They don’t talk so loud now, but still tap their feet to the rhythm of hate.

The politicians they loathed, the politicians they loved… they’re all gone. They had their visas and hired choppers long before the bombs started to drop.

There is a crater now, at the corner where they stopped waving hello to each other.

Clean water and food are scarce. An entire decade of children has never stepped into a classroom. Schools are now makeshift hospitals for the remaining sons who volunteer to get killed because at least the rebels feed them.

The mothers search for their children. Skirt queues three people behind headscarf, waiting for the WFP food ration. Death didn’t care: from the Ketepa hills to the Chale sands. A body is a body is a body, and Grim’s quotas have to be met.

They cannot remember why it started and now they cannot find an end.

The mothers walk, empty and shelled into a waking death.

The generation of their futures lie rotting in unidentified graves, bone fragments mixing into the rubble of the building where Mama Njeri no longer sells the oil that Mrs. Owino needed for the deep-frying. Buried is the laughter they shared when they discussed the youthful idiocy of their sons and how expensive everything was getting. How neither the government nor the opposition ever really cared.

Their sons are dead. The women are dead. The future is dead.

Kenyatta and Odinga

The Llama Thinks…

… leaders come and go, citizens remain. Nairobi is not burning: majority of western media is already hoping isolated protests turn into countrywide large-scale violence. I pray that after all this, they feel they have wasted money on all those extra journalists they flew into our beautiful nation. The future is still unwritten, “Sit down, be humble.”

The So Necessary List:

Awesome Kenyans winning gold medals at the IAAF championships in London
#Githeriman memes

Something I wrote minutes after I heard a patriotic member of the IEBC was brutally murdered and my mind went into overdrive. Today, it had to be shared.

via When The Ink Wears Off — TAZAMA LLAMA

 

Image Credits.

As I flash you.

I blame it all on poor timing.

I left the house three hours prior to my LO’s appointment factoring in traffic, Nairobi’s erratic weather patterns, and the possibility of running into those dastardly politicians taking up both lanes as they profess lies and make ugly any wall they come across with their unnecessary posters. I get to the doc’s, do the usual checkup (LO has gained weight, yay me!), then the dreaded jabs are given and she screams like I never knew possible.

I figure we have made really good time, so a trip to the supermarket would not be a bad idea. 15 minutes later, we are at Galleria with Nakumatt in sight. I don’t know why, but I strangely looked forward to shopping, even if it’s just for that one soda which I am dying for given my daily dose of caffeine had not been met. I make a bee line for the refreshments aisle, and then I hear it. The slight whimper which signifies that a cry will be next if attention is not given. I rock her slightly, and tell her to go back to sleep, I need only a soda, and maybe those eat-sum-mo cookies then we will be out.

Who was I kidding.

LO got cross as a bear and did not care for my attempts at soothing her. She started screaming, my nerves started grating. I decided to walk as fast as possible towards the drinks section and be out of there before everything went south.  I had forgotten that not only was I out of shape, but also .1 of a ton. My attempts at a brisk walk were met by my back aching and my legs slowing down to a crawl, the furthest distance I had covered in months was between my living room and the bedroom, and Nakumatt was not the size of a servants quarter. LO meanwhile had switched it up, and was putting on a grand show for anyone with ears.  It was time to feed and she was not going to stop.

I asked a lady in blue where the nursing room was, she looked at me with confusion written all over her face and declared that she was new and did not know where that product was. She referred me to a Nakumatt employee for assistance. Nkt! By now, I had buckets of sweat pouring down my face, and my arms were shaking from the weight of my LO. I spotted a high chair with a table, and figured my feet could use a break.  I must have looked like a monster with all the sweat and makeup running down my neck to an already soaked blouse, huffing and puffing and being screamed at by a baby with nothing to wet my parched lips. I was at wits end. I CAREFULLY placed LO on the table and struggled to lift myself on to the chair designed for models with endless legs. I caught sight of the time and realized I had not fed LO in over two hours, no wonder she was upset. I immediately went into autopilot and followed my Tuzo routine.

I grabbed my boobs, but could not remember which one fed last. So I cupped both and “weighed” them to feel which one was heavier. The left one was a clear winner, so I lifted my blouse, unhooked the cup, positioned the boob and placed LO who immediately stopped crying, much to everyone’s relief.

That was when I noticed her.

The lady whose chair I was sitting on had been watching me in shock the whole time. I had taken over her space and she now did not have anywhere to place her Sleek merchandise which she was holding on to for dear life. I gave her a blank look and she stared back, when she pointed at me and lowered her gaze to where I guessed was my chest area. I looked down and saw it, like everyone else on that aisle.

My boobage was all out.

In my haste, I had thrown up my blouse and forgotten to arrange it after deciding lefty was the winner. So now I had one boob feeding, and the other just sitting there, waving at guys and mouthing “call me” to extra fine men who passed by. I gingerly pulled down my blouse, asked about the eyebrow pencil number 123 given mine was almost out. The girl could not find her tongue.

Thankfully, LO was done feeding, I re-cupped my now empty boob, said goodbye and climbed down.  Half way to the exit, I realized I had left my handbag behind. I hurried back only to find the same girl standing in front of the chair, right beside my handbag. I picked up my bag and followed her gawk.

I was looking at an imprint of my mammoth butt and back.

I had under estimated the amount of heat and sweat I was emitting. That a butt print was still there 5 mins after exit could not possibly be a good thing. I left without a word. I will be covering up the next time I am in public…to save face.

cover up

Image Credits

Header Credits.

 

 

 

 

Image credits.

They named him Idiot.

He is yet to disappoint!

A name.

What is in a name? There are trendy names, tribal names, biblical names, nick names, insults (name calling), there is no end to it. But! How much thought do people put to their names, more so, what were your folks thinking when they named you person X? Has your name affected you in any way?

Let me tell you what you should consider, and why your name might very well be the end of you or the making of you… your fate is somewhat sealed.

Many names describe Nations, seasons, places, events and have therefore priceless historical value. Like the Hebrews, some names are fragments of ancient history, and thus a revelation of divine purpose or a deep expression of hope and possible prophecies for the future. For example the name Barak means Thunder, the way I see it, Thunder is significant, hard to ignore, will be felt and acknowledged by all who are in its path, can cause great destruction or inspiration, much like Barak Obama ( see, his path had already been decided).

Names are also linked to one’s spiritual truth, and can be taken as an indicator of one’s character or natural qualities; a strong example set in the Bible is by Abigail. Abigail (whose name means my father’s joy) made a plea to David for her worthless husband, and I quote:

“…as his name is, so is he: Nabal is his name and folly is with him” (1 Sam. 25:25). Nabal means “fool.” In effect then, Abigail said, “Pay no attention to my husband. He’s a fool by name, and a fool by nature.”

There you have it! As you are named, so you shall be! Which leads me to wonder, why anyone would name their child Idiot. It might be that perhaps they ( the parents) did not fully understand what the word Idiot means, or perhaps the meaning was completely lost in translation, so they probably thought they were doing him a favor. They could not have been further from the truth.

It therefore follows, that should anyone be cursed with such a name, then he could be blameless for the error in his ways. Like Nabal, arrogance and poor judgement are intimately joined to their character. So actions and activity will seldom be in consideration of anyone else other than themselves. Let me create some colorful examples for you.

Is it not complete idiocy to shoot someone in cold blood? More so over a petty argument that could easily have been resolved by issuance of a Shebesh at the very worst?

Is it not the folly of an idiot to conduct shoddy business which flaunts various state and county laws, knowing fully well that regimes change and the law will someday catch up with you?

Is the very definition of idiocracy not captured by a man who steals from a hard-working widow irrespective of biblical warnings and pending doom for anyone who does?

I can not help drawing parallels between these two characters, one saved by his wife but killed by God while the other eliminated his wife and is awaiting punishment form God. A fool is a fool from any angle, none of them have ever made it out alive, not even those named Idiot.

Watch and learn people, watch and learn!

Image credits.