It’s a “G” thang!

What is the general rule on making fun of gay people? This is an earnest question I’m posing. No tongue in cheek here. Someone please loop me in. Am I likely to start a storm in this teacup if I poked fun at gays? I’m sorry, what’s that? They will take offense? Really? What, gays can wear heels but are incapable of laughing at themselves? Isn’t that double standards and being somewhat uptight? (No pun, of course). Camaan!

 Listen, last month I read this Op-ed piece in the Washington Post about this rousing “renaissance” of gayism. It was a satirical piece that theorized the intellectual supremacy of gay people. The writer went ahead and dropped names of some of the most successful gay people in business, arts, culture and sports and tried to link their sexuality to their success. It was a foolishly hysterical piece because I’m sure there are also unsuccessful gay people. I think your level of intelligence isn’t dictated by your sexuality. Anyway, the piece came an inch from implying that gayism was the new green movement global phenom and it generated over 800 heavy-breathing comments by gays, homophobes, bible thumpers, and the French. I learnt one vital thing from that piece; that gays don’t use smileys as much as I had imagined.

Teeth for Sale, Fatherhood

After five years, she finally packed her stuff. Not that she has much. A few dresses. Half a dozen tights. Tops. Socks. Jackets. Knickers. Vests. Shoes. They all fitted in her small holdall. She seemed excited at the prospect of leaving, maybe because she saw this as freedom, as independence. She would finally be the lady she has always wanted to be, the lady she couldn’t be. She would finally do as she damn pleased. I wasn’t around when she left, but when I came back I knew she was gone because the house sighed heavily with her absence. And it was deathly still.

So after taking a shower, I succumbed to temptation and phoned her up and I inquired how she was doing. She said she was fine. (And you know what that means, when a woman says that). I asked if she missed home, and there was a brief silence in the phone before she said, “yes,” faintly, like she was embarrassed someone would hear her. Or maybe she was embarrassed to having to lie to me. “When will you come back?” I heard myself ask.

As a general rule, I don’t hang out in Westlands

As a general rule, and as a need to preserve my sensibility, I don’t hang out in Westlands. But I went recently, to pay homage to a friend who was having a birthday thing, and I was reminded once again why it’s not a place that gongs my bell. At dusk, Woodvale Grove transform into a green ugly vein of profligacy that throbs like a septic wound. If Nairobi is a body, then Westlands is it’s varicose vein.

It’s the gridlocked traffic at 2am, twisted and whorled together like overnight spaghetti. It’s the horde of drunken underdressed girls in their high heels and blood red lips and vacant looks, jaywalking across the road as they cling onto the arms of their men whose eyes twinkle with ideas. It’s the hubbub of the music spilling onto the streets from all the clubs competing for patrons. It’s the long-nosed young expats standing in the cold outside Bacchus and Havana Bars totally disbelieving of their good fortune at being in Africa complete with a gardener and a slender girl with half her tits in his mojito. It’s the spoilt daddy’s boys from Gigiri who crawl by the street in their latest serpent black luxury sports cars, with interior lights switched on so that you don’t miss the face of privilege. And in the air, the smell of sexual anticipation hangs like Limuru fog in July and will remain so until the dawn sunlight blows it away to Kitengela.

A power nap in the ditch

 He works in a bank. A Relationship Manager. He’s good with people, he reads them. He spends his days giving people what they think they want. He negotiates with them. He acts like he cares about these people; he has to because people with money demand attention. But to him they’re simply bottom lines. He doesn’t love working in a bank though but now he has his own office. And his own phone line. So he stays because soon he might have his name on his door.

He’s 33. Two boys; 4 and 2years old. A wife. No pets. He rents a three-bedroom apartment in some old apartment block in Parklands. He’s lucky, rent is cheap. His landlord lives in India, every month he wires money into his account. He plans to save for another year then develop some plot in Ngong. He’s Kisii.

The Banker wears suits to earn a living. But his taste in suits isn’t the best, which could be something to do with his tribe. The suits hang around his shoulders. Sometimes their colour reminds you of a fruit. His suits fit like most TV anchors’. Gunny bags. But The Banker’s personality overshadows his suits unlike those who wear suits to make up for their bland personality. He has a large laughter and when he laughs he’s those guys who will slap you the back. Of course it hurts.

He’s a fairly tall chap, the Banker. But he’s growing heavy around the midsection. He’s started going for swimming at Aga Khan Sports Club every Saturday afternoon. But he loves his beer.

Ignorance was always bliss in such a case she figured

By Faith Makau, Short stories

She got that funny feeling again and she didn’t like it. Every time Kariz called it was perfunctory. It reminded her of high-school when they used to check- in for roll-call. This was odd. She used to look forward to his calls but lately she felt weary. It had been a week yet she hadn’t even noticed. Maybe it was because now they seemed to be leading separate lives. He told her of a trip he was planning for the next month with a couple of guys but she was nonchalant. Her mind wandered as he went on and on. Previously she would have wanted to be in on every detail. But she realised now that the less she knew the better. Anyhow, she had lived her life for him for too long. It was her turn.