I asked a number of my friends what would make them happy, like really happy. Some of the answers were logically what everyone else would say.
Here are a few. Money, someone who makes me laugh, when am not hurt as in when there is no one stressing me. Others were unexpected, for example a baby who doesn’t cry at night, sex, a lot of things, matoke and stew; and some guy said ‘a cat’.
But what really makes people happy? Can a single thing make you happy your entire life? If your priorities change, do the things that make you happy change?
A lot of people are not sure what makes them happy. Money, a good job and recognition can make someone happy for a period of time, but then, in the long run people get tired of routines and the attention that comes with them. The friend I asked took an average of ten seconds to come up with an answer. Most of the answers started with ‘many things….. Or I guess……. Or that is really hard but…….’.
Happiness is related to self realization. Knowing who you are first and then working to make you happy. Without understanding yourself well, you would never know where your happiness lies.
As a necessity, you need a positive attitude towards life and the challenges that comes with it. The challenges should be seen less as stumbling blocks and more as the stuff that will make you happy after you overcome them.
Appreciate small things. Sometimes the smallest of events can turn into one of the best inventions in history. Everyone knows Isaac Newton not because an orange interrupted his hobby of sleeping under a tree but entirely because unlike most people would have, he didn’t just eat the orange and go back to sleep. He thought, an opportunity fell from the tree, and he utilized it.
When you decide to peg your happiness on things that you can’t control like how much you earn or how much sex you get, you are playing a gamble with your moods. If you decide that finding a person who appreciates you, makes you laugh and never stresses you will make you happy, you are deriving your happiness from the behavior of other people, what if you are disappointed.
Happiness is not in the hands of other people, it’s not bought, and it doesn’t come with a good job. It is in us. Inside every one of us there is the trigger that excites our moods. You choose to be happy even though whatever you earn is for subsistence only. You choose to be happy even though she left you for that lecturer. You choose to be happy even if your baby cries throughout the night and you choose to be happy even when your matoke and stew turns into ugali and soup.
Happiness is a choice, not a person, not materials, and definitely not food
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
THIS IS FOR ME
The problem with a white blank word page is that it stares back at you. In your face, it seems to say. It is a manifestation of the blankness in your mind then. The fact that you can’t seem to figure out how you start, how to make sense of what you are thinking, how to make it understandable for the few great minds and the numerous feeble minds out there – if this hurts you, you are in the latter group hahaa.
You look, and then you think. You make a sentence in your head and then move your fingers, before you give the kiss – sorry, keys – that delicate touch, you find a fault in your sentence. It can’t be like that, you say, it won’t fit into the story well, it doesn’t bring out the sarcasm, I need a better one. Then you are back to thinking again and like a wicked witch’s spell, the circle goes on. You keep making sentences; you keep moving your fingers desperate for a touch of the delicate kiss even just once.
They tell a fairy of a princess that only needed a kiss from a prince to break a wicked spell that was cast upon her. Like that princess, your ideas remain an imagination in your mind, you imagine how the prince will look like after you get that delicate kiss – this time it’s the right word – and like the prince in that story the perfect sentences eludes you. Just like the princess you get imposter sentences, sentences not worth the stature of a prince, sentences that you can’t touch with your hands leave alone letting your lips touch theirs.
You imagine the rest of your story after you get the perfect start; you create it in your mind, word after word, sentence after sentence, paragraph after another. Like that princess, life after the kiss makes sense, it’s perfect, it’s happy and everything just falls into place. But you have to get that kiss. You have to get that touch. You need your prince. Damn this blank page.
Your mind starts wondering off. You start thinking about awkward stuff. Stuff like why did Microsoft make this page white? White is pure, white is clean, it symbolizes righteousness. This page is white; it might be clean but pure and righteous? Definitely not. Its tormenting, its rude in its stare. It is sinful, with thousands of sins. I just can’t pin down one of its sin in my head for you but am convinced it sins. Maybe it has cast a spell that obscures its sins from the eyes of men, even the most observant of men.
Then in between the confusion, between the awkward thoughts and when you are convinced you are not getting anywhere with your story. When you have given up on your prince, when you are thinking that maybe it was never going to happen and maybe it was meant to end that way. Like the princess, you start thinking that maybe you were meant to die with the spell. But then it hits you. In between the kilos of chaff you find your lost pin of gold. In that large dark cloud of thoughts you find the silver line. The thought jerks you. Your fingers cant wait to feel the keys. You hit one after the other. Just like the story in your mind, you go sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph.
You see, just like every fairy tale, there is always a happy ending. The prince shows up in an entourage, the princess’ heart jerks, then like an excited fetus it kicks with excitement, beats through the chest. She is wearing that wide smile on her face. She lifts her big robe and throws away her shoes. She runs like she is going to lose her legs if she doesn’t and embraces the prince in a kiss of love and witchcraft. She cant stop now, her heart wont let her. The satisfaction that comes with it wont let her.
Though it seems like forever for the onlookers, ripe with envy, blushing and trying to avoid eye contact with the two – there is no point, their eyes are closed anyway – its seconds for the princess. She wishes she didn’t have to eat, shower, wishes that she couldn’t get tired of kissing. That night never fell and day never broke. She feels a little guilty that she wishes the people around them could be swallowed by the earth. But what’s a little guilt? What’s a little evil thought if they could stand there forever, if she is going to be free of evil for the rest of her life? If she could do what she loves until death takes either of them away?
What is the moral in this jumble of word you might ask? I will not answer. I will write this. Everything everyone does needs the first step. For some people it comes easily, not such a biggie. For others its treacherous hard work, you practice, you type, you backspace like hell. You try to create that story. Man you try.
But if writing is what you want, writing you will get. Hit those keys until they lose their markings if that is what it takes. Hit that backspace until it comes off the bottom of your laptop. Write simple things, try to write complicated things. Write when you are sad, write when you are happy, write when you are mad and write when you are hungry.
Make mental and physical notes of ideas you want to write about. Then explore them, research them, give those angles and most importantly turn them into stories.
Practice for you is like patience for the princess, in the end it bring the perfect kiss. In the end, it doesn’t matter how much chaff you make. Your gold pin is in there somewhere. Find it. And please don’t swallow it or keep it within the reach of children. hahaaa
You look, and then you think. You make a sentence in your head and then move your fingers, before you give the kiss – sorry, keys – that delicate touch, you find a fault in your sentence. It can’t be like that, you say, it won’t fit into the story well, it doesn’t bring out the sarcasm, I need a better one. Then you are back to thinking again and like a wicked witch’s spell, the circle goes on. You keep making sentences; you keep moving your fingers desperate for a touch of the delicate kiss even just once.
They tell a fairy of a princess that only needed a kiss from a prince to break a wicked spell that was cast upon her. Like that princess, your ideas remain an imagination in your mind, you imagine how the prince will look like after you get that delicate kiss – this time it’s the right word – and like the prince in that story the perfect sentences eludes you. Just like the princess you get imposter sentences, sentences not worth the stature of a prince, sentences that you can’t touch with your hands leave alone letting your lips touch theirs.
You imagine the rest of your story after you get the perfect start; you create it in your mind, word after word, sentence after sentence, paragraph after another. Like that princess, life after the kiss makes sense, it’s perfect, it’s happy and everything just falls into place. But you have to get that kiss. You have to get that touch. You need your prince. Damn this blank page.
Your mind starts wondering off. You start thinking about awkward stuff. Stuff like why did Microsoft make this page white? White is pure, white is clean, it symbolizes righteousness. This page is white; it might be clean but pure and righteous? Definitely not. Its tormenting, its rude in its stare. It is sinful, with thousands of sins. I just can’t pin down one of its sin in my head for you but am convinced it sins. Maybe it has cast a spell that obscures its sins from the eyes of men, even the most observant of men.
Then in between the confusion, between the awkward thoughts and when you are convinced you are not getting anywhere with your story. When you have given up on your prince, when you are thinking that maybe it was never going to happen and maybe it was meant to end that way. Like the princess, you start thinking that maybe you were meant to die with the spell. But then it hits you. In between the kilos of chaff you find your lost pin of gold. In that large dark cloud of thoughts you find the silver line. The thought jerks you. Your fingers cant wait to feel the keys. You hit one after the other. Just like the story in your mind, you go sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph.
You see, just like every fairy tale, there is always a happy ending. The prince shows up in an entourage, the princess’ heart jerks, then like an excited fetus it kicks with excitement, beats through the chest. She is wearing that wide smile on her face. She lifts her big robe and throws away her shoes. She runs like she is going to lose her legs if she doesn’t and embraces the prince in a kiss of love and witchcraft. She cant stop now, her heart wont let her. The satisfaction that comes with it wont let her.
Though it seems like forever for the onlookers, ripe with envy, blushing and trying to avoid eye contact with the two – there is no point, their eyes are closed anyway – its seconds for the princess. She wishes she didn’t have to eat, shower, wishes that she couldn’t get tired of kissing. That night never fell and day never broke. She feels a little guilty that she wishes the people around them could be swallowed by the earth. But what’s a little guilt? What’s a little evil thought if they could stand there forever, if she is going to be free of evil for the rest of her life? If she could do what she loves until death takes either of them away?
What is the moral in this jumble of word you might ask? I will not answer. I will write this. Everything everyone does needs the first step. For some people it comes easily, not such a biggie. For others its treacherous hard work, you practice, you type, you backspace like hell. You try to create that story. Man you try.
But if writing is what you want, writing you will get. Hit those keys until they lose their markings if that is what it takes. Hit that backspace until it comes off the bottom of your laptop. Write simple things, try to write complicated things. Write when you are sad, write when you are happy, write when you are mad and write when you are hungry.
Make mental and physical notes of ideas you want to write about. Then explore them, research them, give those angles and most importantly turn them into stories.
Practice for you is like patience for the princess, in the end it bring the perfect kiss. In the end, it doesn’t matter how much chaff you make. Your gold pin is in there somewhere. Find it. And please don’t swallow it or keep it within the reach of children. hahaaa
Sunday, October 2, 2011
OF BOLD AND BEAUTY: THE Bs THAT GIVE BABIES TO BABIES PART 1
As a Maasai boy about to be a man, no meter in the world can measure your happiness. Those circumcised before you come to mock you, they hit you with sticks, they sing you coward songs. They ask you why you are still holding on to your dirty foreskin at this age. Like it’s your fault. If you had a circumcision choice, you would have followed Jesus. They sing for you the whole night, those evil beings in black clothing. They mock your manhood; they say you will never get beautiful girls. Look at me now, idiots.
They try so hard to kill your excitement. But you are not excited about girls, or your manhood or singing the whole night. In the morning you will kill your foreskin – whatever that piece of tissue ever did to people. That is what you are excited about. After that you get to stand at the gate and all the women and children leave whatever they are doing to address the emergency of greeting you, you get to go to night dances with girls wearing nothing but a few shukas, you get to greet men with your hands, you get to get laid.
Then there is the blessing and the lessons. The elders teach you to be a man. You never drink from the same cup with children including women; you don’t get beaten by a woman. Since you are a man now, you should start thinking about your own family. Then they take a sip of some milk and alcohol concoction and spit it all over your face. Sip and spit, sip and spit, sip and spit, your eyes, your lips, your forehead, until they are all done
They tell you that Maasai men don’t go home early. It’s a rule. They make it clear that going home to sleep early is for mothers, small and big girls, young boys, goats and small things that crawl this earth too afraid to be tramped in the thick of darkness. Earlier in life, when I still didn’t mind my foreskin, my father would carry his walking stick and leave after making sure the animals and the children are fine. He would come back after most of us are asleep, stand outside the house and say mmmmhhh. Anyone who is awake and in their right mind would not dare let him say that again.
They say women and children have too much noise. If you think this is insensitive, try boarding a train full of Maasai women most of them carrying babies. Maasai women have this annoying high pitch voice especially when they argue or sing. Combine that with hungry babies and if you are not lucky it will be the last music you hear. They tell us that the more you stay around children, again including women, the more the chances of getting mixed up in their uchafu (I was torn between crap and shit here, I chose to be neutral)
So as a culture and in search for better indulgence for my ears, I don’t go home early when I am on holidays. Here is where the entire problem is. Picture this, me with my crew seated on stones by the roadside because we can’t pay to watch translated outdated movies, even if we wanted we couldn’t because they have managed to lose all the money we had in the local pool. There are guys there who are experts at living by the number of balls they put in holes.
Those stones are strategically placed. Furthest from the video, close enough to the coolest pub so that we can listen to roots and drown the video show noise and close enough to the road to identify who is passing
She passes. She knows am seated there. She knows I have eyed her several times. So she does like they all do. Change her walking style. If her mama gave her what she is shaking now I wonder if there is any left with her mother. She has a body, a good one. The kind of bodies men create in their sleep. The kind body that belongs in a glass house with the words ‘marking scheme’ written above her head in Hebrew.
The good thing about having no electricity is that there are no street lights. Makes work easy for the hunters with eyes sharper than infrared lights. There are a few lamps with the market women, not much trouble though.
One of my friends says ‘get her’ like an evil whisper. That voice of the devil that lives inside you, the one that says ‘just one more beer, you have already spent most of the food money anyway……. So what is the harm if she is his girlfriend, he says he is going to dumb her anyway……. Why do they care if am gay, its not like they are the types I can get down with……. I will go to church next Sunday….. The dog ate my homework’
There and there, as truly as that hypocritical oath witnesses give in court. I follow. Slowly at first to give her time to be clear of the small paraffin lamps these market women curse our hunting practices with. Like I always do, I catch up and start a conversation. I hate silence, it freaks me out.
If I was American I would avoid like a plague those dates people go to where they pour half glass empty Champaign, toss and take a silly sip, smile, and peck and later lie down, look at the stars and smile silently. Before your hammer is down and your verdict is Josh is not romantic, hear me out.
One, if you decide to give me alcohol, you’d better give me alcohol. I drink from the bottle – old fashioned but like every African man, quantity matters. I am not the guy you peck, that is your dad and relatives. I am the guy you kiss until your heart stops, until you need me to breath for you, until both your feet are off the ground. I don’t lie down next to you looking up at the sky (do I need to explain this?) and most importantly I don’t keep quite for more than one minute if I am not alone. Heck, I don’t even keep quite when am alone, I sing or whistle
‘Niaje’ I start
She gives me the look. I know it, all straight men know it. Even gay men know it –they have their girls in that side of the world, don’t they? It’s the kind of look that takes the color off your face. The look that says ‘keep this up and I am going to pack your crap in porcupine skin and shove it so deep up your ass you will choke on the spikes’. That look makes us buy deodorants. If you are locked in a cold room with that look, you can shower with your sweat. If you walked four miles, ran three kilometers or carried her from the bus stop to your room, you don’t sweat as much as you would if you are exposed to that look for twenty seconds. Ask men
That is the look that asks you ‘who do you think you are… kwani you think you are how irresistible?’
Keep your cool Josh. Try to pull yourself together and keep the conversation going. Don’t mumble Josh. She can’t hear you well, damn those roots, damn that movie. Now what did you just say Josh? You can’t find any better joke Josh?
‘I want to ask you something’ I finally manage to ignore the voices in my head
‘I know what you want to ask me’ she jumps in
‘Ok. So you do?’ I ask
‘Yeah’ she says
‘Answer it then’ I say
‘No’ she replies
‘No what?’ I ask
‘You want to ask me to be your girlfriend. Don’t you? The answer is NO’ she says
‘Ok. Where did you get such a question?’ I ask.
‘Your eyes’ She says
Am speechless so I give that awkward smile that separates your lips showing your teeth while the rest of your face stays cold. A desperate effort to look assuring. Once when I went camping with the scouts club by some river 50 km off the village and we realized that I forgot to carry matches, I gave the same smile.
She has been looking in my eyes while they were busy elsewhere on her body. We get off the main road and she keeps walking, just as fast as she used to. I grab her hands and use more force than its necessary to make her stop. She stands there looking straight at me. Her shoulders drop, eyelid rise lips twist. It’s clear she doesn’t like this set up.
And the story continues in the next part two…………..
They try so hard to kill your excitement. But you are not excited about girls, or your manhood or singing the whole night. In the morning you will kill your foreskin – whatever that piece of tissue ever did to people. That is what you are excited about. After that you get to stand at the gate and all the women and children leave whatever they are doing to address the emergency of greeting you, you get to go to night dances with girls wearing nothing but a few shukas, you get to greet men with your hands, you get to get laid.
Then there is the blessing and the lessons. The elders teach you to be a man. You never drink from the same cup with children including women; you don’t get beaten by a woman. Since you are a man now, you should start thinking about your own family. Then they take a sip of some milk and alcohol concoction and spit it all over your face. Sip and spit, sip and spit, sip and spit, your eyes, your lips, your forehead, until they are all done
They tell you that Maasai men don’t go home early. It’s a rule. They make it clear that going home to sleep early is for mothers, small and big girls, young boys, goats and small things that crawl this earth too afraid to be tramped in the thick of darkness. Earlier in life, when I still didn’t mind my foreskin, my father would carry his walking stick and leave after making sure the animals and the children are fine. He would come back after most of us are asleep, stand outside the house and say mmmmhhh. Anyone who is awake and in their right mind would not dare let him say that again.
They say women and children have too much noise. If you think this is insensitive, try boarding a train full of Maasai women most of them carrying babies. Maasai women have this annoying high pitch voice especially when they argue or sing. Combine that with hungry babies and if you are not lucky it will be the last music you hear. They tell us that the more you stay around children, again including women, the more the chances of getting mixed up in their uchafu (I was torn between crap and shit here, I chose to be neutral)
So as a culture and in search for better indulgence for my ears, I don’t go home early when I am on holidays. Here is where the entire problem is. Picture this, me with my crew seated on stones by the roadside because we can’t pay to watch translated outdated movies, even if we wanted we couldn’t because they have managed to lose all the money we had in the local pool. There are guys there who are experts at living by the number of balls they put in holes.
Those stones are strategically placed. Furthest from the video, close enough to the coolest pub so that we can listen to roots and drown the video show noise and close enough to the road to identify who is passing
She passes. She knows am seated there. She knows I have eyed her several times. So she does like they all do. Change her walking style. If her mama gave her what she is shaking now I wonder if there is any left with her mother. She has a body, a good one. The kind of bodies men create in their sleep. The kind body that belongs in a glass house with the words ‘marking scheme’ written above her head in Hebrew.
The good thing about having no electricity is that there are no street lights. Makes work easy for the hunters with eyes sharper than infrared lights. There are a few lamps with the market women, not much trouble though.
One of my friends says ‘get her’ like an evil whisper. That voice of the devil that lives inside you, the one that says ‘just one more beer, you have already spent most of the food money anyway……. So what is the harm if she is his girlfriend, he says he is going to dumb her anyway……. Why do they care if am gay, its not like they are the types I can get down with……. I will go to church next Sunday….. The dog ate my homework’
There and there, as truly as that hypocritical oath witnesses give in court. I follow. Slowly at first to give her time to be clear of the small paraffin lamps these market women curse our hunting practices with. Like I always do, I catch up and start a conversation. I hate silence, it freaks me out.
If I was American I would avoid like a plague those dates people go to where they pour half glass empty Champaign, toss and take a silly sip, smile, and peck and later lie down, look at the stars and smile silently. Before your hammer is down and your verdict is Josh is not romantic, hear me out.
One, if you decide to give me alcohol, you’d better give me alcohol. I drink from the bottle – old fashioned but like every African man, quantity matters. I am not the guy you peck, that is your dad and relatives. I am the guy you kiss until your heart stops, until you need me to breath for you, until both your feet are off the ground. I don’t lie down next to you looking up at the sky (do I need to explain this?) and most importantly I don’t keep quite for more than one minute if I am not alone. Heck, I don’t even keep quite when am alone, I sing or whistle
‘Niaje’ I start
She gives me the look. I know it, all straight men know it. Even gay men know it –they have their girls in that side of the world, don’t they? It’s the kind of look that takes the color off your face. The look that says ‘keep this up and I am going to pack your crap in porcupine skin and shove it so deep up your ass you will choke on the spikes’. That look makes us buy deodorants. If you are locked in a cold room with that look, you can shower with your sweat. If you walked four miles, ran three kilometers or carried her from the bus stop to your room, you don’t sweat as much as you would if you are exposed to that look for twenty seconds. Ask men
That is the look that asks you ‘who do you think you are… kwani you think you are how irresistible?’
Keep your cool Josh. Try to pull yourself together and keep the conversation going. Don’t mumble Josh. She can’t hear you well, damn those roots, damn that movie. Now what did you just say Josh? You can’t find any better joke Josh?
‘I want to ask you something’ I finally manage to ignore the voices in my head
‘I know what you want to ask me’ she jumps in
‘Ok. So you do?’ I ask
‘Yeah’ she says
‘Answer it then’ I say
‘No’ she replies
‘No what?’ I ask
‘You want to ask me to be your girlfriend. Don’t you? The answer is NO’ she says
‘Ok. Where did you get such a question?’ I ask.
‘Your eyes’ She says
Am speechless so I give that awkward smile that separates your lips showing your teeth while the rest of your face stays cold. A desperate effort to look assuring. Once when I went camping with the scouts club by some river 50 km off the village and we realized that I forgot to carry matches, I gave the same smile.
She has been looking in my eyes while they were busy elsewhere on her body. We get off the main road and she keeps walking, just as fast as she used to. I grab her hands and use more force than its necessary to make her stop. She stands there looking straight at me. Her shoulders drop, eyelid rise lips twist. It’s clear she doesn’t like this set up.
And the story continues in the next part two…………..
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