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

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Header Credits.





Image credits.

Young things.

Its almost six, I have made it to the dusty road in record time.

I roll up my  windows, knowing fully well that there will be nothing but dust until I get home. I wonder why this road is yet to be tarmacked. Promises were made, measurements taken, blue and green plated vehicles were seen parked everywhere, pretences of work being done. Politicians, the scum of the earth.

The arduous six kilometres to my house makes me wonder why. Why I live here. Why I endure this. It must be foolishness, attachment to things at too high a cost, my time. The peace and quiet, the birds chirping all day, my lungs whispering a thank you every time I inhale, the space, wide open spaces where my young can play. Do I really need all this?

I am bobbing along, listening to Cess. I hear her voice, but register nothing. She is a soothing experience, a proper companion to this slow ride. I feel slightly envious, she is paid to laugh. From the time I tuned in, I have listened to her throaty laugh more than I have heard what she said. Some people just have it good, am I in the wrong trade?

There is an unusual number of cars, all inching along, fearing that the rough road will finally pull their machines apart. I suspect there must be an incident, maybe those bloody thugs have finally been shot down and the bodies put on display. I wish these were the days when flogging and possible hanging were an option, allowing the public to deliver swift judgement upon sticky fingered people.

We drive past the first barrier, nothing to see but a dust covered watchman who cannot be bothered to raise and lower the barrier with every passing car. I pity him, sitting there all day, having to deal with lorry drivers who refuse to pay the toll and offer bribes that can barely buy a soda. Cess is laughing again.

I am tired, and need to use the bathroom. I step on it, apologising to my car for the rough treatment. I pass many of them, as I look for the reason for this “traffic”.  Then I see it but do not believe it. Surely it cannot be dry season for all these people! I know kula na macho, eating with your eyes is a thing but I did not think it was literal! First I saw legs. Shapely mustard coloured legs. Too much of the legs were on display. There was five of them, meaning there were ten legs being ogled at. They all ended at the tip of hot pants, hot pants that held bottoms that were causing this snarl up. I mean come on! But wait, these must be bunnies, I doubt any parent from these here parts would allow their daughter outside the gate dressed like that.  They were walking slowly, deep in conversation and oblivious of the lack of dust. Had the cars been zooming like they usually did, they would be coughing and not laughing at whatever stories they were telling.

I guess gentlemen do exist, given the right incentive.

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