TIME: 1336 HOURS
I have just come from lunch, where my stomach has involuntarily been subjected to burnt and undercooked ‘pilau’ and a labyrinthine mixture of french beans, carrots, peas and potatoes. It pains me to the core of my bone marrow, that I have had to pay the Mama from the land of chegets (jackets) and kuthogana, 200 shillings for that misdemeanor of a meal.
While I would like very much to sulk over the fact that that money could have bought me about ten nice (much needed) tops at Gikomba, there is already a giant pile of things fueling my Monday mood swings, so I’d rather not. I simple decide that the sun will have to turn blue before I go back there to eat.
On my way back to the office I have to cross some road, and as I do, some man that must have come straight from the devil’s ass, resolves that his life will crumble if he doesn’t exercise his asininity on me.
Man: Maringo ni ya nini? Sasa unatingishia nani matako? Hata zenyewe haziko! (Why so proud? Who are you shaking your buttocks for? They are even non-existent!)
Me: Looks around to see who he is talking to, only to find that there is just me and him there.
Man: Si ukuwe tu mpole?!Utazeeka tu ukufe ( Just be humble. You will also grow old and die)
Now, I need to clarify at this point, that I am being falsely accused, because in truth, I am too grumpy to think about impressing anyone with my derriere, let alone some nitwit on the road. And while I am not usually one to lush out or engage in battles of any sort, I am feeling a hell of a lot irritable today, and my annoyance just escalated to 10 on the richter scale. Oh I am gonna give the ignoramus a verbal assault he has never seen before!
I take a second look at him, a closer analytical look. Then, instead of launching my attack, I smile. Laura this is a combat you have already won hands down.
I, apparently, am at fault for having ass-ets that are shakable, which, from whatever angle you look at it, (oh, pun heaven), isn’t really a fault. Him? His Body Mass Index confirms that he would do a better job at being a drum road roller than at being a human. And that, beloved readers, is unchangeable. Irreversible. Terminal.
Men, before you give moronic remarks about a woman, please, make sure you are Brock O’hurn.