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VOLKWAGEN BEETLES AND IMPROMPTU WEDDING PROPOSALS

Coming from a school in some unpronounceable forsaken place in Mukono (the rumored home ground of witchcraft) and getting into Aga Khan Primary school was a welcome transition. Granted I felt like a fish out of water most of the time but I was just so glad to leave a life of compulsory Saturday gardening and boiled mukene (silver fish) & posho for food that I didn't mind being a bit of an odd ball.

Aga Khan is like a meal of katogo; full of all sorts of nationalities of countries ranging from Croatia to Lesotho to Iran to Korea et cetera, I could go on but you catch my drift. The cultural day alone was a spectacle with every country trying to outshine the other in traditional drab and cultural richness. But that is a story for another day.

During my primary days my Papa was the proud owner of a blue 1972 Volkswagen Beetle who we fondly christened Ojo (after a similar car in the movie Herbie goes Bananas) that he loved to show off. On the other hand my brother Ben and I did not share his sentiments. You see Ojo had never seen the gates that housed the Aga Khan Primary & High schools and it was not for lack of trying on my father’s part. Every time dad drew near school we asked him to make light of the task and leave us at the gate. His quizzical, puzzled looks as we alighted left me feeling guilty but Ben and I had made a sibling pact never to tell him, it would only hurt his feelings. Of course what Dad did not know was that on the one off days when mother took us to school, her white starlet got to have the privilege of going through the forbidden gates.

Admittedly we absolutely adored Ojo and didn't mind washing him every other weekend we preferred his existence was kept hush-hush. It was done out of the selfish fear of being ashamed. You see on every other day the school’s parking lot held Range Rovers, Mercedes Benzes, Audis and even the occasional starlet but never a Volkswagen. It took a special kind of person to appreciate old cars and unfortunately that character trait was deficient in the kids in my school. In school kids analyzed and judged everything right from what car your parents owned, your ability to have a driver at your beck and call, lunch box contents, holiday destinations (road trips to Sheema district did not count, it had to be somewhere fancy like Los Angeles) and of course what cool gadgets you smuggled in to Saturday coaching classes. Kids for all their innocence had the propensity to be cruel.

“Are your parents poor?” a Kenyan boy once asked me. Stuck between shock and laughter I spat out the juice I was in the process of swallowing, “Why would you think that “, I asked.

“Because you do not have a driver,” he replied.

There were exclamations of surprise at the lunch table for you see seated at the very same table was the daughter of an ambassador, niece to a tycoon on a Forbes’ list, son of a minister and son of the High School principal. High self esteem notwithstanding, I was embarrassed and mortified. If a no-driver comment could incite such a reaction, I could only imagine the look on their faces if they ever laid eyes on my father’s classical car. No….that car was going to remain a family secret.

But like all well laid plans, when a thread out of line finds an anchor all the seams unravel. On this auspicious day mother who usually took us back home was a no show. So there I was playing with my hair and smiling at this Afro haired boy I had a huge crush on when I had a familiar sound and there driving up in glory on Good Year tyres, all in slow motion was Ojo making his maiden voyage in the school’s driveway. Everyone saw the car and when I say everyone I mean even the high school gangs who unashamedly pointed it out and started laughing until it came to a stop at the waiting shed. I should probably tell you that at this point Ben and I were in panic mode and trying to pretend we had not seen the car until my Papa having spotted us shouted, ‘Ben, Tina lets go’. Without missing a beat I grabbed my bag pack and raced Ben to the car throwing myself in the back, head hidden hoping to lessen the uncomfortable status. My dad started the engine, revved it a little and then it died. ‘Oh no, not now,’ I groaned inwardly, eyes shut and praying against all odds it was a fluke death. Ojo was not going to have a temper tantrum on what was proving to be the worst day of my life, at least not my watch. Nevertheless no amount of coaxing, hot wiring and begging could get Ojo to start and with every method getting thrown out of the window I felt my heart sink into my butt knowing that the inevitable was coming.

Although it was a morning ritual, performed involving holding cups of porridge, buttered toast in mouth, over filled school bags, shouts of ‘push´ and running after the car before it got away from us, Ben and I had already started a silent battle of who was going to do it. My Papa noticing the tell-tale sign was having none of it, ‘Kids you know the drill, get out and push’. My heart fell even further down and sharing panicked despaired looks with my brother we got out and took the longest walk to the back of the car.

In the evening scorching sun, every eye on us and resigned to our fate Ben and I gave Ojo a mighty shove as Papa who was also out pushing from the driver’s seat tried to start him up. It seemed the Fates had connived with Ojo who needed more heaves than we normally dosed him with to start. By this time the entire school (some parents and teachers too) had witnessed the family morning shenanigans. Once Ojo had seemed to have gained some momentum, my dad gave the thumps up and we got in before the car could start to roll down the drive way. My Papa oblivious to all drama we had caused slid in a radio cassette and we made the journey homeward amidst the sounds of The 3 tenors’ 1994 concert.

Filled with dread the next day went about my morning preparations as slowly as I could possibly muster hoping to freeze time, school was the last place I wanted to go. Once again Papa took Ojo through the school gates with the difference of having no audience as it was a rush hour time. Thankfully my classroom was a bit of a distance which allowed me the time to gather sufficient courage to face the class. Everyone laughed, well at least nearly everyone when they spied my bespectacled face all except my best friend Aarohi who whispered, “You didn’t tell me your dad had such an awesome car”. I beamed a little happy that somebody didn’t think my family poor or strange for having such a classic car. Even the boy I was crushing on came over and shared anecdotes on a Cadillac his dad owned and as we laughed and compared notes on how fathers could be so obsessed with old things the dark clouds went away and day brightened.

This particular episode was the beginning of my journey to humility and acceptance of family. My Papa later bought a Mercedes Benz E Class which for all its comfort and luxury quite frankly never felt right. When he traded it in for a 1979 VW Kombi van (that green one in the picture), the world was right again. Now all grown up, the old man’s collection of classic cars is responsible for some of my impromptu marriage proposals, every man hoping that marriage to me will earn him one of the cars as a wedding gift. Maybe someone will get lucky but knowing my Papa, he is not parting with his ‘babies’. 

In Love with Another Man

Turning off the headlights at the entrance of raven black gate, Rita reached for Henry’s hand if only for an infusion of warmth. “Do you want me to come in with you” he asked face hidden in the shadows of the interior lights. She shook her head and paused for a moment before she alighted from the car and walked through the gate. Rita knocked on the door and she felt rather than heard it open. She looked up into Andy’s smiling face and half grinned back. Blindfolding her with his strong hands he led her into the foyer and to the accompanying sounds of Jazmine Sullivan he whispered “I have a surprise for you”. He let her go to the exquisite sight of tealights, giant lilac candles, multitudes of peach & red rose petals and already sensing what awaited her she turned to find  him wearing a nervous smile on bended knee holding a flawless white gold sapphire ring.

She gazed at him, drinking in very angle of his handsome face. She took in the deep dimples peeking out at his cheeks, the prematurely graying hair, his golden whisky eyes noticing all the little things that she liked to tease him about. This man was goodness, perfection, love and everything any woman would kill for. She was tempted, so very tempted but instead she sighed and cupping his face she said, “Andy we need to talk”.

His face fell and she felt her heart give a lurch at the devastation and sadness she saw in his eyes. Clasping his hand to hers she tilted his head up to meet her own gaze and steeling against all the emotion she could sense in his slightly trembling frame she said “ I can’t go on pretending, I am in love with another man”

She watched him close his eyes, heard the ring tinkle as it fell to the floor and heard him slowly mouth ‘Why?’ Spirit crumbling she begged, “Please at look me”, and when he opened his eyes she went off in a tirade scared  that he would run away before she had a chance to explain. “I can’t explain why it is him and not you. You treat me so much better than him and if I was sane there would be no competition but I find myself in love with him” she uttered. Andy angrily shoved Rita and stood up roughly dragging her along with him, ‘What have I not done right? What have I not given you?” he shouted. “You have given me everything. Henry doesn’t even treat me right but when am with him there isn’t anything like it. If I could I would forget him, please believe me” she pleaded.

“How can I believe anything you say?” he was now yelling upturning flowers and the bucket of champagne, “You made me believe you were in love with me. I wanted to make you my wife” gesturing to the room that was now in tatters. He turned his back to her; his shoulders slumped like a man weighed down with so much pain and in a cold voice said, “Get out. Get out and don’t you ever come back”.

Rita froze, she had hurt the man who had made her happy for so long and all instinct pushed her to run to him, get on her knees, ask for his forgiveness and beg him to take her back but it was for naught. For outside all this pandemonium was Henry; the man with a perfect body, who she always seemed to fight with but was just right for her. Walking towards Andy, his back still turned to her she gently touched his arm, “I am so sorry for what I have done to you. I will never forget us”.

As she turned to leave he held onto her arm and abruptly Rita was whirled into a hug. Andy held her like a vice and in a hoarse broken voice pleaded, “Don’t leave me. Whatever is wrong I can fix it even if it takes me a lifetime. We are soul mates, you know we are. Let’s get married and have those adventures & children we always talked about. Forget him”. Clutching to him, she wept for all our lost dreams and memories, the agonizing heartbreak and the pain that we would no longer be us. “You will find somebody else. There will be another woman who will treat you right and understand the man you are. Don’t let this dim all that fire inside you.” Then she kissed him for one final time, a slow savoring goodbye kiss mingled with salty tears and ache. Standing on tiptoes she kissed his forehead and whispered, “Goodbye Andy, another soul mate will find you. Perhaps we will find each other in another  lifetime”. They clung to each other for a few more seconds and without a backward glance Rita walked out the door guilty, hurting and a total entanglement of emotions.

That was her price for falling in love with another man.

Passion makes the world go round, love just makes it safer - Ice T 

SINGLE GIRL EQUATION

(Boss + First Day x Refusal = Fired)

Dear Diary,

Today was my first day as an IT Officer and after several failed employment searching attempts and taxi journeys in and out of town I totally deserve it. It was only fair therefore that when I walked into the administration office that I wore a coral lipstick smile and donned an outfit that would not look out of place at a Wall Street office. The sun was sunshine, the birds were singing etc (I forget how that song goes). I was Muhammad Ali ready to sting like a bee and fly like a butterfly. I was going to crash this job.

The snobbish secretary waved me towards a door and knocking meekly I entered the Executive Director’s Office. With his back slightly turned to me, staring through the venetian blinds was a bespectacled giant-of-a-man with a slight tummy pouch looking every inch the boss. I sat before I was invited to (the four inch heels were killing me) and we fell into a bit of tete-a-tete. So when my new boss got up, turned the blinds down, turned the key on his door, held out his hands to help me stand up I sensed no danger. That was until he grabbed my derrière, stealthy unzipped my skirt, fumbled around my décolletage all the while trying to stick his tongue through my clenched teeth (the man clearly didn’t know that kissing had been invented). At this point you are probably asking what I was doing.

On the precipice danger of falling over on my unstable heels I found myself unwillingly holding onto this very disgusting man. Using his arm as leverage I gained stability and shoved him away. He was smiling! The fool was smiling and I wanted to punch him just to wipe the smirk off his face. Pretending like nothing happened he handed me the appointment letter and dismissed me. Did I forget to mention he is an old friend of my father?  The man, you see, has no boundaries or limitations.

I strolled to the IT Office in a surreal bubble. I was furious and still fighting to comprehend what had ensued. The ICT Manager was friendly (thank goodness), the orientation a breeze and the day was on track of getting better when my phone started ringing incessantly. For the next 20 minutes I swiped call button left until the caller showed up. Surprised by the sudden presence of the ‘Big Boss’, my other boss hurried forward like an eager weasel, bowing (and scraping?) to receive him. The man was treated like an apparition worthy of adoration.

I was relieved when he made a sign to leave but as fate would have it it he beckoned me to walk out with him. Bile rising in my throat I forced my legs that felt like stones to budge. “I was hoping we rendezvous later and come up with an arrangement” he said and like a bimbo I smiled and nodded. This man was clearly delusional and out of his mind. My first lunch break found me hailing a taxi back home. Later that night over dinner I told the folks in-matter-of-fact way that I and that job were incompatible. The look of disappointment of my father’s face had me blurting out the entire anecdote. It was not worth it to look like the failed & ungrateful child.

While I narrated the incident, my parents’ faces were devoid of emotion. Let’s just say after there was my Papa foaming at the mouth, making a late night phone call and hurling English-Runyankole profanities. My mother just hugged me and took me to bed. Sexually assaulted on the first day was certainly not how I had seen my day going.

Currently Infatuated With I

Marsha Ambrosius

Words can’t describe how Marsha Ambrosius’ music makes one feel. Once the other half of the British Neosoul duo Floetry she and Natalie Stewart birthed songs like Say Yes, Getting Late, an intricate combination of spoken word and music. Since going solo right from Late Nights & Early Mornings to Friends & Lovers albums Marsha pours sensuality and essence into her music.

Her songs breathe of bliss, velvet against soft skin, strawberries dipped in chocolate, setting the right theme to seduce your man (or woman) throwing them into an abyss of passion. Also known as The Songstress Marsha’s sultry soulful vocals give symmetry between sexy, indulgence in love’s pleasures and pangs and life with just a hint of raunchiness. She coos, what my friend likes to call, the perfect baby making music.

Marsha inspires fantasies of drawing a vanilla strawberry scented bubble bath, pouring a glass of white wine, grabbing a historical romance (tales of an Earl and his wayward wench), leaning back in the tub and enjoying the gentle assault on sensation. She is the perfect way to wind down on those blue days or hectic weekend where you just want your spirit to swim in calm water.

Make sure to listen to Far Away, With You, The Break Song (this will probably make you cry), I Hope She Cheats on You (With a Basketball Player), Butterflies from the Late Nights & Early Mornings Album. Currently listening to the 2014 Friends & Lovers album for probably the 10th time my fast favorites are Run, Shoes, Without You (ft NeYo), Shoes and Spend All My Time(with Charlie Wilson). As (a song with Anthony Hamilton for the movie The Best Man Holiday) is a faultless addition to your collection.

PS: You can download all her songs from mp3clan.com


Run...



Black Forest Gateau

Sounds so French doesn’t it? However the Black Forest cake is of German origin claimed to have been created by confectioner Josef Keller. The Black Forest gateau has multiple layers of chocolate cake with whipped cream and cherries betwixt each layer, topped off with more whipped cream, maraschino berries (would be a perfect name for rum) and chocolate shavings.

Despite my phobia for dentists and the evidence of several cemented teeth in my mouth I am addicted to Black forest. I would probably get sick of it if I consumed everyday but until the day I do I am happy to treat myself to a slice on my diet cheat day.

Hmmm…..nothing beats the explosion of senses on taste buds when the moist chocolate cake, whipped cream and cherries twirl and combine. It is a beautiful moment worthy of time standing still.

Usually the main subject for my food porn addiction, you will me find scrolling through pages of black forest pictures and recipes when ravenous, hoping the optical illusion abates my hunger pains until Mama Shona (our food lady) summons me for lunch. Raise your hand if viewing food while famished only exacerbate your stomach‘s protesting growls. Everybody? Pretty much guessed that outcome. However you will still find me sending cake picture messages to my boo, hinting of my cravings which usually gets his going and lucky for me the evening will find us pampered with a cup of Mocha and slice of black forest cake.

Food porn!!!!

For those sweet toothers like me, I would recommend Café Javas and Sheraton’s Temptations Cake Shop for a quick fix and the discovery of a variety of other exquisite cakes (yummy red velvet & white chocolate strawberry cake). Bakeries and home bakers can make it on order while supermarkets like Shoprite (yeey for cake Fridays every week) offer it at a reasonable price.

Go on then, have your cake and damn the consequences (although if you are not big on dental hygiene, it is probably for the best that you have your dentist on speed dial).

Leonardo Da Vinci (1452-1519)

It has long since come to my attention that people of accomplishment rarely sat back and let things happen to them. They went out and happened to things.                  Leonardo Da Vinci


If you browse through my Facebook profile you will find a few quotes by Da Vinci and if you happen to stumble upon my Twitter account you will be greeted by a giant image of the Vitruvian Man. To say that I am infatuated with Leonardo Da Vinci would be an absolute lie. I am absolutely obsessed with this Florentine vegetarian, poly math, dyslexic, ambidextrous, rumoured homosexual who was the epitome of the Renaissance Man. Born Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci (translated Leonardo son of Piero da Vinci) out of wedlock to a lawyer Piero da Vinci and peasant woman Caterina in 1452, Leonardo’s father noticed his son’s brilliance and had him apprenticed to the Florentine sculptor Andre del Verrocchio. Although a chronic procrastinator, Leonardo is famous for his paintings of the Mona Lisa, Vitruvian Man, The Last Supper, Lady with an Ermine and Madonna of the Rocks; he was also an architect, musician, cartographer, writer, anatomist, geologist, mathematician to mention but a few.




Inspite of being homeschooled and receiving an informal education in languages (Latin), geometry and arithmetic, Leonardo da Vinci was a great thinker with a curious mind and inventive imagination whose fields of expertise were mostly self taught. As part of advancing his anatomy knowledge Leonardo was rumoured to dig into graveyards to steal corpses and dissect them to make detailed sketches case in point ‘Embryo in the Womb’ although it was later revealed that he was given permission to use the cadavers at Hospital of Santa Nuova in Florence. Leonardo later merged art, anatomy and mathematics to paint the Vitruvian Man.

As part of his quirks Da Vinci used to wear clothes of bright colours especially pink to freshen up his complexion. Leonardo never married or had children (too bad, he would have sired geniuses), he wrote most of his notes in mirror-image script to prevent others stealing his work, he was imprisoned in 1476 for 2 months on charges of sodomy with a male prostitute but was later acquitted, he had a raging rivalry with Michelangelo and enjoyed a friendship with Niccolo Machiavelli (Michelangelo & Machiavelli were also both Renaissance men). Leonardo had an avid love for fauna that he purchased caged animals and birds just so he could set them free. His fascination for the possibility of flight had him observing birds in motion resulting into conceptualized sketches for aerodynamic inventions resembling helicopters, parachutes, airplanes and hang gliders

He is attributed to have developed designs for inventions like motor cars, bicycles, armored tank, weapons, swinging bridges, mechanical robots, steam cannon.

Da Vinci’s notes on his construction of the first humanoid robot are currently used by NASA to design the planetary exploration robots. In 2001 a bridge was constructed in Norway based on Leonardo’s 1502 single span bridge sketch. In 1995 Bill Gates bought Da Vinci’s Codex Leicester for $30 million which contains his observations on hydraulics and water movement. Plus the man was a sucker for word plays and puzzles.


Anyone who has read Dan Brown ‘s Da Vinci Code would know that Leonardo Da Vinci was also an alleged grandmaster of the debated Priory Of Sion formed to guard the race of Jesus Christ. While this topic is full of controversy it is an excellent argument subject matter for the conspiracy theory buffs.

Leonardo da Vinci died at Clos-Luce in France and was buried in the Palace church of St.Florentin (is this coincidence? Florentina). The French revolution ruined most of the church and because of that the exact resting place of Da Vinci’s final resting is unknown.

For all the series fans, I would recommend Da Vinci’s Demons. Although it is fictional and made mostly for entertainment, there are some throw-ins of factual information on the maestro that will fascinate you.

Why Men Love Bitches

I am a Bitch who knows some other bitches. We are all proud and certified Bitches stamped, ready to go out and share it with the rest of womankind. I am roaring out loud that bitch is the way to go. However should any man, boy or hooligan call me that, he will meet the open palm of my small hand as I slap the living daylights out of him.

I am aware that I have created quite uproar but before any woman desert me for speaking such blasphemy hear me out.  About three months ago our CFO (a delightful temperamental sunshine-coloured woman) emailed all the ladies in the office a surprising ‘gift’ that created controversy at the work lunch table that afternoon. It was Sherry Argov’s Why Men Love Bitches. I know what you must be thinking; the title alone is enough to start an uprising by the female population if only to prove that they are no bitches. ‘Bitch’ in ordinary circles (except of course in Boondocks & Katt Williams’ standup comedy) is a derogatory term used to refer to a woman. Granted it is a nasty word to but trust feminists to have found a way to turn this into a tool of empowerment.

Reading the book later that night I was blown away by the idea that this woman presented on how women can control the dynamics of relationships. According to Sherry men do not like women who are doormats, the all ‘too nice-too sweet’ girl next door who whimper and waft when you do not call her. Men are put off by the clingy girl who is so worried about them, caging them, building an altar to them, so dependent on them it that her world revolves around him. Apparently it is better to be a bitch, assertive, know just the right angle to stroke a man’s ego and play bimbo just enough to get him to do what you want. At the first glance Sherry gives the impression that bitches should act like the those douche bag exes we have all had who never called and acted like they we were doing just us a favour just to date us however an in-depth read  presents exactly that (I am kidding....don’t ever do that to your significant other). The truth is that the book pretty much preaches that women should be self- confident and have boundaries, how they should quit hopping like bunny rabbits just to run to his beck and call, and instead of stewing up a storm of anger they should just notify the guy-in-question when he is acting less than the gentleman he should be. Your mama did not raise you to be somebody’s doormat.

 Now I wouldn’t advise anyone to act like the mizigo women I hear about in the slums who scream for the entire world to hear when the man is being an idiot and less than attentive in bed (bad move). “Honey I was not amused with the move you pulled yesterday. Please do not do that again” delivered with a smile, with or without the endearments (depending on how miffed you are) and a bit of silent treatment will do just the trick. You end up pulling off sweetness without letting him get away with it.

 So back to bitchiness, now some women take the bitchy thing too far. They are mean, so darn aggressive bordering on psycho, disrespectful, difficult, giving off an aura of meanness that has men giving them a wide berth of space. Then they go on complaining how they just can’t find a man. You can be a go-getter, self assured, CEO of some company and still be all sugar, spice and everything (basically a Powerpuff girl). My definition of being a bitch is finding the perfect balance of asking for what you want (within reason) without sacrificing your femininity.

During one of those rare father-daughter talks my Papa advised me to treat a man right but not to build my entire life around him. He told me to hold my own weight, be independent, remain exactly who I am and act like I am a prize and that way no man would ever take me for granted. This action plan although not full proof has worked perfectly for me.

 I do not condemn nice girls everywhere I just think they should add just a bit of zest in that awesome personality they already possess. Honestly as humans we tend to take people who are too nice to us for granted regardless of gender and that applies for all relationships.

All sense of propriety and niceties aside ladies, y’all need to grow some boobs, balls (oops wrong gender), or even an extra vagina (if that helps) and get some standards. Men only treat you the way they do because you let them get away with it. We all have that guy that we pine after, who calls you once in a month at ungodly hours (btw 11:30 pm is an ungodly hour) for the occasional booty call, texts back on whatsapp after 4 days even if you can clearly see his stupid behind is always online. The dwanzi who has got us practising those acrobatic karma sutra sex moves to please him in bed but still won’t introduce us to his boys as a girlfriend even after a year. Girl you need to let his sorry ass see that door slam in his face. Adopt some bitch attitude.

Don’t be that girl that shuts up when he screws up and become his weekend maid service while he is off keeping FIFA scores while on Playstation with the boys. Don’t allow yourself to leave the bedroom without that much needed orgasm because you are too afraid to tell him just how you like it (mbu you will hurt his ego). I will admit some guys will leave you (even those you like) but the perk is you remain with the worthwhile ones. The kind that will respect and value your opinion without thinking you are aloof and standoffish.

Bitching isn’t about complaining all the time about what is wrong or trying to wear the pants in the relationship. Bitching is being unafraid to voice an opinion or disagree. Being a bitch just means not allow anyone to walk all over you. If his ass does something you do not like, speak up instead of avidly watching Sony Max’s A 1000 Ways to die looking for ways to make his murder look as natural as possible.

                              Ever since I was born, I have been trained to serve you.                                                        What do you like to do? Whatever you like. (WTF??!!!)

I once went out with a guy who I am sure was used to treating his women indifferently. On a Saturday he invites me over to his place for drinks with his friends which I accepted on condition that he pick me up since I was unfamiliar with his residence location. Time check 11:30 pm and there I was a lone figure stuck at a gas station with night duty pump attendants giving me creepy eyes. By this time the fool was not picking his phone and my hyper imaginative mind was playing tricks on me. I took matters into my own hands and with the help of one of his friends found my way to his place. Acting like he had not abandoned me, he hugged me and on my inquiries on his absence, he launched into a sob story about a liquor bottle slicing him and showed me the accompanying cut as if I was his mama that would kiss the hurt and make it go away. Needless to say there was a stunned silence and cries of ‘owww’ from the guests later when I slapped him and just for good measure back handed him. His ego bruised, my hands smarting from the pain I walked out of the gate, took a cab to Legends and had an awesome night. There was no communication from him until a week later when he sent an apology message that immediately saw the bottom of my recycle bin. Happy ending to this story we are now friends although he now knows better. (PS: slapping is not encouraged unless he is being a total douche bag and your temper gets away from you)

Standards set you apart from every other female. They are your signature, the unforgettable thing about you. Your standards whether they are on when you decide to sleep with him, your exclusivity, how you should treat each other while dating etc are entirely up to your tastes and preferences. I have had the privilege of being privy to the inner workings of men’s minds during those moments when my male friends gossip and forget I exist. Men (the millennial ones at least) actually like women who are not afraid to speak their mind, those are the kind that they will take home to their mamas. The too nice girl, they say, is a suspicious character who is vying for the Mrs. title and once that ring is on her figure she will become the female version of Sméagol.  They want character equilibrium of a bitch and the nice girl. The female CEO that will still cook their dinner and accept occasionally to be a damsel in distress all the while keeping it together without losing her individuality.

So yeeeyy Bitches.....let’s go conquer the universe.

The Nerve of Ugandan Boda Boda Men

Normally when you get a boda boda its all about getting from point A to point B. Well scratch that maybe not entirely, it’s also a gender thing I mean when I get a boda it’s always how little I can give the guy for the longest distance possible using my feminine charms and penny saving schemes. As for guys or so am told its about getting the fastest boda guy money can buy, fighting Kampala traffic, wind blowing through non-existent hair and getting to the meet place before your dream girl so you can tell her how your car broke down and it’s just around the corner (guy I once went out with did it, it was amusing to see him squirm with embarrassment when I caught him)

But back to what got me here; it was one of those nights where I had conflicting reception parties to attend but thankfully Nakawa and Kololo are neighbours. On my way back from 7 trees, slightly drunk from just a bit of wine (does half a bottle constitute as little?), elated from meeting old friends and wedding blues the boda rider stopped side by side to an Audi driven by this hot Indian giving me the eye. Of course I noticed but didn’t think the boda guy noticed it too but as soon as we turned it was all he started to talk about. Now usually I like the riders to just shut up and get me to my final destination but with this one could not keep a lid on it.
His story started with how many white women he had slept with and how good they felt in places I don’t care to repeat and subsequently how they always begged for more. I was already squirming in my uncomfortable seat by the time he was going on about how African girls only want white men because they go ‘downtown’ (if you don’t know what that means - research that is what Google is for). Then it got downright hilarious when he offered to show me what the fuss was all about and there I was in stitches holding on the luggage metal bar for dear life. I mean the nerve of some men I cannot even begin to comprehend but well <sigh> they provide a little spice to an otherwise dull life. Next time am mentioning destination, haggling fare, plugging in earphones for some Jazmine Sullivan or Sara Bareilles music and just sitting pretty for the boda ride.