#WhyKenyanMenCheat: A Response To That #NjokiChege Article

I assume you’ve already read Njoki Chege‘s article: LADIES: It’s all your fault that he is CHEATING!

I said I would do a feminist response to the article and here it is.

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed here are mine and mine alone. I will ramble but I will make some sense :-)

So the gist of the article is that it is the woman’s fault that her man is cheating on her. Her arguments are simple:

  • You are fat
  • You are an idle nag
  • You have no sense of fashion
  • You are lazy and boring in bed

I think she made some sort of sense here by the way. The above are some of the reasons men will cheat, definitely. Why? Because men are visual creatures. Men consider dating a woman on two levels: 80% looks, 20% character. As for women the converse applies.

Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t so for ALL men and ALL women; the range varies like the rainbow.

BUT, I believe that if a man wants to cheat, HE WILL CHEAT. You could be ‘Vera Sidika’ or ‘Halle Berry’ and you will still be cheated on. So Njoki’s points only apply to but a few women and not all and most likely not for the above reasons. If someone like Jennifer Lopez could be cheated on, what makes you so special?

I feel that blaming women wholly as the reason why their men cheat is plain wrong. I still believe that reasons for cheating vary. I hate that she solely pointed out that women are the reason.

Women, don’t be fooled. BE YOU. Everyone else is taken. Don’t try copy pasting someone else’s ideas and livelihoods.

If you’re a curvy girl, EMBRACE YOU.

If you love talking, SPEAK YOUR HEART.

If you would care less about appearances, DRESS SENSIBLY.

If you feel insecure in bed, WORK ON IT.

Basically, I still hold on to the philosophy that how you dress says a lot about who you are. Your fashion sense says something about you. I repeat, men are visual. So they WILL look at how you’re dress and make judgements about you. I’m not telling you to dress FOR men, I am saying, DRESS FOR YOURSELF. Never dress for anyone else but yourself. No matter your body shape, dress like you’re gonna die that evening!

Love talking? Speak girl! Speak your mind. Don’t hold back just because he says you’re nagging. Don’t nag either; talk calmly and be clear. Be assertive. Personally, I have discovered that sometimes when I want to put a point across I appear as if I am angry and shouting. I am learning to shift that. But it doesn’t mean I will stop speaking my mind. It only means I am not perfect.

Sex is a gift from the maker. It is beautiful. It is even more glorious when it is shared with someone you love. Girl, if you love that man and you are sure he loves you back in equal measure (if not more!) then let go of all your inhibitions. Relax and let him devour you. Give him your all and take him up as he is. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with though. Don’t let him take full control. Be yourself.

And that’s it folks. I am done. Appreciate your comments :-)

#StandWithMalala #BlogActionDay #MalalaDay

Each year, Blog Action Day provides an opportunity for people around the world to join a global discussion about an important issue. From human rights to poverty and the environment, writers from over 130 countries bring that issue to a massive global stage.

Today there’s another moment happening, focusing attention on a global issue – and we wanted you to have the opportunity to be a part of it: Malala Day.

Stand with Malala

Malala Day celebrates the birthday of Malala Yousafzai, the girl who was shot for bravely defying the Taliban and attending school. This year, she has traveled to Nigeria to see the plight of girls, like her, in great danger for simply going to school.

Malala wants to use Malala Day this year to ask everyone to raise their voices to say: we are #strongerthan those who use fear, intimidation and violence to stand in the way of every girl and boy’s basic right to an education.

Raise your voices. Do not be afraid. Do not fret. Speak up. Speak up against injustices. Against discrimination. Stand up for equality!

Malala is in Nigeria for Malala Day and she and the girls she has met with are asking us to support their call to protect every girl and boys’ right to an education. Here’s how you can help.

1. Sign your name with Malala and the Nigerian School girls
and let Malala, the Nigerian girls and the 66 million girls out of school know that you will stand with them until every girl can safely go to school. They are not alone.

2. Give to the Malala Fund and support the organizations that Malala Supports.
The Malala Fund empowers girls through education to achieve their potential and be agents of positive change in their communities. Working in Nigeria, Pakistan, Kenya and Jordan, the Fund joins with local partners to invest in innovative solutions, advocate for quality education and amplify the voices of girls to demand change. Show your support now.

3. Share your own #StrongerThan message on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook.
Join with thousands of others who are celebrating the strength of all girls and let the world know that we are #StrongerThan poverty, oppression, violence and fear. Together, we will prevail and achieve education for all.

#PetPeeves: Staring!

It. Is. Rude. To. Stare.

I don’t know about you but I hate people who stare. Especially those who stare at me. I don’t know why, but I just find it rude, obnoxious, unsettling, weird and simply wrong.

I rarely stare at people. Even when I see something or someone interesting to look at and they perhaps really catch my attention, I still don’t stare. I glance severally. Not stare.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand sometimes one sees something they find super interesting or in my case, super sexy, and as such will somewhat be unable to stop staring but still enyewe for me it still is quite weird.

I’m not the only one who thinks it is rude to stare by the way.

On a side note: Nairobi eish! Schizophrenia utaacha! Stay warm and cool at the same time peeps!

#Depression: Its Not Just A Phase


I have been debating on whether to write about this or not. It hasn’t been easy.

I have been through depression. I don’t even know how well to say it. Do I say, I’ve suffered depression? Or I have been depressed before? Or I am depressed? Or I have depression? How does one ‘own’ depression? Well… if you substitute the word ‘depression’ with, say, ‘cancer’ then it becomes…

I have suffered cancer. I have been through cancer. I have had cancer before. I am cancerous.

Weird right? Well, it is true. And then thing is, I don’t know how to say it. It is so hard to admit it to myself, let alone admit it to anyone. Including the most closest person in my life – my mother.

Luckily, you sometimes bump into articles that resonate so well with what you’ve gone through that you simply copy-and-paste them. Here’s what Stephen Fry wrote about his own ordeal. While you read this, substitute the name ‘Stephen Fry’ with ‘Barbra Muruga’. Then try a little sympathy.

Only The Lonely

There isn’t any point in denying that the outburst of sympathy and support that followed my confession to an attempt at self-slaughter last year (Richard Herring podcast) has touched me very deeply.

Some people, as some people always will, cannot understand that depression (or in my case cyclothymia, a form of bipolar disorder) is an illness and they are themselves perhaps the sufferers of a malady that one might call either an obsession with money, or a woeful lack of imagination.

“How can someone so well-off, well-known and successful have depression?” they ask. Alastair Campbell in a marvelous article, suggested changing the word “depression” to “cancer” or “diabetes” in order to reveal how, in its own way, sick a question, it is. Ill-natured, ill-informed, ill-willed or just plain ill, it’s hard to say.

But, most people, a surging, warm, caring majority, have been kind. Almost too kind. There’s something a little flustering and embarrassing when a taxi-driver shakes you by the hand, looks deep into your eyes and says “You look after yourself, mate, yes? Promise me?” And there’s something perhaps not too helpful to one’s mental health when it is the only subject people want to talk to you about, however kindly or for whatever reasons.

But I have nothing to complain about. I won’t go into the terrible details of the bottle of vodka, the mixture of pills and the closeness to permanent oblivion I came. You can imagine them and I don’t want to upset the poor TV producer and hotel staff who had to break down my door and find me in the unconscious state I was in, four broken ribs thanks to some sort of convulsive fit that must have overtaken me while I lay almost comatose, vomit dribbling from my mouth. You can picture the scene.

The episode, plus the relationship I now have with a magnificent psychiatrist, has made made my mental health better, I think, than it’s ever been. I used to think it utterly normal that I suffered from “suicidal ideation” on an almost daily basis. In other words, for as long as I can remember, the thought of ending my life came to me frequently and obsessively. But then it’s the thought behind the most famous speech in all history. To be, or not to be.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover’d country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action…

Take time to read it slowly to yourself or out loud. I don’t have Hamlet’s wit (or Shakespeare’s of course) but every logical or doubtful step from line to line expresses better how hard I thought about the advantages and cursed (as I thought) disadvantages against suicide. The speech, for the most part, stayed my hand. As it did Hamlet’s.

But medicine, much as some don’t like to hear it, can help. I am on a regime of four a day. One is an SNRI, the other a mood-stabilizer. I haven’t considered suicide in anything other than a puzzled intellectual way since this pharmaceutical regime “kicked in”.

But I can still be sad. Perhaps you might go to my tumblr page and see what Bertrand Russell wrote about his abiding passions (it’s the last section of the page). I can be sad for the same reason he was, though I do so much less about it than that great man did. But I can be sad for personal reasons because I am often forlorn, unhappy and lonely. These are qualities all humans suffer from and do not qualify (except in their worst extremes) as mental illnesses.

Lonely? I get invitation cards through the post almost every day. I shall be in the Royal Box at Wimbledon and I have serious and generous offers from friends asking me to join them in the South of France, Italy, Sicily, South Africa, British Columbia and America this summer. I have two months to start a book before I go off to Broadway for a run of Twelfth Night there.

I can read back that last sentence and see that, bipolar or not, if I’m under treatment and not actually depressed, what the fuck right do I have to be lonely, unhappy or forlorn? I don’t have the right. But there again I don’t have the right not to have those feelings. Feelings are not something to which one does or does not have rights.

In the end loneliness is the most terrible and contradictory of my problems. I hate having only myself to come home to. If I have a book to write, it’s fine. I’m up so early in the morning that even I pop out for an early supper I am happy to go straight to bed, eager to be up and writing at dawn the next day. But otherwise…

It’s not that I want a sexual partner, a long-term partner, someone to share a bed and a snuggle on the sofa with – although perhaps I do and in the past I have had and it has been joyful. But the fact is I value my privacy too. It’s a lose-lose matter. I don’t want to be alone, but I want to be left alone. Perhaps this is just a form of narcissism, vanity, overdemanding entitlement – give it whatever derogatory term you think it deserves. I don’t know the answer.

I suppose I just don’t like my own company very much. Which is odd, given how many times people very kindly tell me that they’d put me on their ideal dinner party guestlist. I do think I can usually be relied upon to be good company when I’m out and about and sitting round a table chatting, being silly, sharing jokes and stories and bringing shy people out of their shells.

But then I get home and I’m all alone again.

I don’t write this for sympathy. I don’t write it as part as my on going and undying commitment to the cause of mental health charities like Mind. I don’t quite know why I write it. I think I write it because it fascinates me.

And perhaps I am writing this for any of you out there who are lonely too. There’s not much we can do about it. I am luckier than many of you because I am lonely in a crowd of people who are mostly very nice to me and appear to be pleased to meet me. But I want you to know that you are not alone in your being alone.

Loneliness is not much written about (my spell-check wanted me to say that loveliness is not much written about – how wrong that is) but humankind is a social species and maybe it’s something we should think about more than we do. I cannot think of many plays or documentaries or novels about lonely people. Aah, look at them all, Paul McCartney enjoined us in Eleanor Rigby… where do they all come from?

The strange thing is, if you see me in the street and engage in conversation I will probably freeze into polite fear and smile inanely until I can get away to be on my lonely ownsome.

Make of that what you will.


- See more at: http://www.stephenfry.com/2013/06/24/only-the-lonely/#sthash.n9BHJdI5.dpuf

I have suffered depression. Last year from January to June. This year from November 2013 to April 2014.

It is a weird mental illness. It comes to you like a flash. No. Like that midday shadow that you only realise is following you when you look down. Creeps up on you without warning.

The worst thing is that you don’t know why you’re depressed but for some reason you simply cannot function. You shut down. Literally. Shut down. Like an old Compaq PC. Ziiiiuuuuusshhhwww… click! And it is off. People call you and you don’t want to talk to anyone. You don’t want to see anyone. You don’t want to shower. You don’t want to leave your bed. You don’t have appetite. You lose tons of weight. Your friends think you’re a snob. Your work suffers a blow…

And yet, you don’t know what the fuck is going on. FUCK! Totally sucks.

BUT, at some point…down the line… you find some strength and you wake up, shower, dress, look pretty and go outside. People see you smile and think you’re fine. But deep inside you’re dying. Thinking of the best way to jump in front of a moving bus. Like that series “Orphan Black” – that lady jumps in front of a moving train and poof! she’s gone. Hivo tu!

So next time you say “oh I’m so depressed today!” think again. Think about all those people suffering in silence. Don’t seek out therapy. Therapy helped me. Friends helped me. Family helped me.

I am open for questions on the comments section. Let’s discuss this.

Finding love when you are in your thirties, working and female ( An adaptation of Getting Personal by Chris Manby)

July 14, 2011 at 9:33am | By Anonymous

Let’s assume Nairobi has a population of about seven million people. That is just a random guess cause judging by the number of Coast Bus buses or Matunda Buses that stream into the city daily it might as well be double of what we have written down. So, seven million folks of whom fifty one per cent are female, that leaves roughly three million four hundred and thirty thousand men. Of whom twenty per cent will be under eighteen, immediately cutting the field to two million seven hundred and forty four thousand. Of whom at least thirty per cent will be over fifty, narrowing down the number of men that Kui ( our character who is looking for a husband) could consider snogging on a suitable age alone to one million nine hundred and twenty one thousand.

Discount from that one million nine hundred and twenty one thousand the ten per cent likely to be gay, one million seven hundred and twenty nine thousand. Approximately fifty percent will be married that leaves eight hundred and sixty four thousand. Fifty per cent of those remaining would be seriously attached (engaged, cohabiting, baby daddies etc) bringing the total of available men in Nairobi between the ages of eighteen and fifty to four hundred and thirty two thousand. Discount from that the number of men who are priests (you know you can never compete with God). Twenty five thousand? Probably more.  The number living with their mothers, those in mental institutions, those in prisons serving life sentences; fiftty thousand perhaps? You think more? okay, lets say seventy thousand.


Divide that by the percentage of men that SHE would actually  like -like enough to date, that is (judging by the men of her acquaintance that is in the region of one in thirty three  or three per cent). And before you take into account matters of religion, political differences, level of maturity, physical attractiveness, personality, ability to provide, level of knowledge or skills and the fact that nine out of ten men prefer witless campus divas and Vera Sidikas to thirty something women of the world. The number of single men in Nairobi that SHE could realistically hope to shack up with has dwindled from almost three and a half million to less than one hundred thousand.


To that less than a hundred thousand figure, she figures (using a computational method entirely different than the one she had used to whittle down the boys) her competition is at least two million girls. All of whom are simply bound to be better looking, funnier and more successful than she was. Given that hogwash of the ratio of men to women being one to five, the hopes of getting her ‘own’ boyfriend are being dashed by such shocking statistics.