My Kind of Woman

#np Mumford & Sons – Ghosts That We Knew

There’s a certain sense of exuberance we all get when things are going okay for us.

A cloud of joy descends upon our lives, and our days are filled with endless smiles and cheery laughter. We wear effervescent glows to match the sprightly feelings floating within our shallow hearts. A world flowing with milk and honey is what we see the earth to be. And each step we make feels like a giant leap towards a heavenly realm filled with clear skies and sweet-scented flowers, that is, when things are going okay for us. Yet the beauty about life is that the world isn’t as benevolent as we wish it would be, and there’s always a mean bend on every smooth path we tread on. If you’ve never reached it, damn you for being such a darling of the gods. If you have, well congratulations, you are human and are (un)lucky enough to have experienced as much reality as every average worldling ever will.

Yet in these fickle experiences of reality, I do get this thought that despite each human being worlds apart from the next, there’s a difference between a reality check, and what’s a mere test of our perception about reality.

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Quick question: Have you ever arrived home feeling both extremely tired, and extremely hungry? With each feeling being so extreme you feel as though you’re on the brink of demise? You never really know which to do first – sleep or cook, because either way, doing one will so tremendously impact the other. Maybe even escalate the torture to greater heights…

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More than once, I have questioned myself on what it is that makes a female worthy of the title ‘a woman’. Not in a biblical or theoretic sense, but in a more definitive sense of the derivative word ‘womanhood’. As unrealistic as it may sound, I feel as though there needs to be a guideline on the various types of females around, and what it is to expect out of each type – including the ‘woman’.

My Dictionary graciously states that as a noun, the word womanhood refers to: 1. female maturity 2. womanly instinct. These, to me, represent traits lacking in many a female, hence this discussion on what I feel defines my kind of ‘real woman’. I repeat, “hence this discussion on what I feel defines MY kind of ‘real woman’ “, okay. So, heat yourself some popcorn; draw down the curtains and the portière if you have one; turn off the lights; grab yourself a seat; and press play.

My mother is what you would call simple, and unsophisticated. Being at an age where most women would definitely be fed up of some of life’s routines, she chose going to the salon as that customary routine which she wished to do away with, completely. So in the unordinary state of things, she decided to trim her hair down to a manageable length (which, for this piece, would go by the ordinary name of ‘shaved her hair’). I remember her coming home, after no more than thirty minutes of absence from the house, looking like a young girl preparing to be shipped off to a super strict Catholic school, one that prohibited long hair. Everyone in the house was stunned. Turns out, what we had previously assumed was a short trip to the neighbourhood kiosk, was actually a visit to the barbers. Most stunned of all was my immediate younger sister, who has never caused a fuss as she did that day. “What were you thinking?”; “Are you insane?”; “Now how will you look in photos?”…these were just some of the questions she put my mom through.

This got me thinking as to what would prompt a woman to shed off that part of her features that is most closely associated with being the quintessence of her femininity. Her renunciation of this myth that ‘hair maketh a woman’ sparked a curiosity that lacks any form or definition, as I pondered about all the women I know who have taken the same route of abnegation as concerns doctrines on what makes, and what doesn’t make a woman.

Legend has it that a certain prince fell in love with a (certain) girl (or lady, I don’t know which) who was locked up in a castle, by some wicked somebody. If I remember the story right, the princess was never allowed to leave the castle, and only got to experience the world through the gaze of her tiny window. From this window, she would gaze at the sky, the vast green fields and the birds flying about. Soon though, this picturesque view was taken over by the love of her life, as she stared at him and he back at her. They probably even blew each other wet, innocent kisses once in a while – as they wandered through fields of conversation while holding hands and chatting each other up in romantic prose. The story goes on to state that one day, the prince decided to take matters into his hands, both literally and figuratively, and visited the girl. I think he did so due to the limitless feelings he had for her, but I’m not one to “judge”. Yet he did, and how? He used her long, fair hair as a rope, to scale the castle wall all the way up to her solitary room. (In my version of the story, however, this prince was so in love that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the princess and share the world, the flesh and the devil with her. For as any normal human would have it, pure sight never really marks the end of satisfaction for a man or woman in love.)

Maybe this is the point at which our African ladies were duped into believing that men would do anything for a female with long, fair hair. Maybe the (fictional) prince’s love made them believe that silky-smooth hair would get you a prince willing to scale walls for you. Psh…!!! I mean like – Puh_lease ladies!!! For one, none of you lives in a castle. Moreover, there are no tall castles (of which I have heard) inhabited by beautiful ladies anywhere on this blessed land of Africa. And even if you did live in a castle, the current state of things has it that most of today’s men are more worried about their biceps, or ruining their (fake) “designer” clothing and manicured nails, to even spare a thought about a wall that will lead them up to your room.

To me, all this weave-therapy most of our dear skirt-wearers put themselves through – at the expense of their natural beauty – is nothing but waste. The weaves and add-ons many ladies most graciously stink the environs with are all part of a commercial plan that a horse-owner once proposed to the business world, and by the looks of it, did one heck of a presentation; since it has seen him afford the horsing industry runaway success. Everywhere you go, everywhere you turn, there’s a lady, who was brought into the world with very dark and nappy hair, trying to look like a singing sensation from a B-movie. With her face padded up with layer upon layer of complexion additives (read: make-up), she will go on to swish her head now and then so as to try and get her hair, to float in the air. (I hope you uhmm, noted – that last bit rhymes. You know hair, and air – they rhyme, right). This she would do, while she courses her fingers through the miserable horse braided onto her scalp, trying to theatrically pull off the whole ‘Look-At-Me – I’m Beautiful’ move.

Exactly as it sounds, I do not for once love ‘fake hair’. I also do not believe that hair does make a woman; but I do stand by the conviction that natural hair does complement the true nature of a woman. I say this with the reasoning of a man brought up around women who never in their lives took up weaves as their way towards beauty. Yet in their natural scheme of things, still managed to attract enough attention from men and boys alike. Perhaps you could blame my upbringing for being backward and lame, I can take that shot. But as long as I have words to put to use, my argument at least begs address. For as I have come to realize, women with natural hair come across as being ‘realer’, and even more down to earth, than their add-on contemporaries.

Susan, a cashier at a local supermarket, is a young and vibrant cotton-ball who always has more than enough paws chasing after her. She is well fed, has the right proportions in the right areas, and thus attracts more attention than is normally accorded to ladies of her profession. Her immediate manager, a single lady in her late thirties, is but her least admirer. With no man in her life, Deborah – the manager, is devilishly jealous of the beautiful cashier at post number 6. Even with her short skirt, high heels and latest hair-do, none of her efforts at attracting male attention seem to work in her favour.

It could be because she isn’t as curvy as Susan is, or maybe the guidebook to sexual attractiveness just didn’t get its way into her cheat-sheet. Maybe her age just isn’t a match for the youthful, and beautiful, cashier who’s just been passed a business-card by a well dressed fellow of the handsome sort. Maybe. But I’ll tell you what it is. It is that ‘realness’ that women comfortable in their natural skin possess, and synthetic ladies totally lack. This lack of a unique selling factor to help you (as a synthetic female) match up against the entire female kingdom, is what makes our desperate Deborah lose out in her search for a man.

There is a certain rareness that is seen in a few, and not all, women who wear their hair as natural as it came. The manner in which they walk, talk, and behave exudes a certain lack of pretension, and more honest approach to their walk of life. Even their search for companions revolves less around revealing skirts and low-cut tops/blouses, and more around a ‘get-to-know-my-personality’ approach. When around such a female, the air feels different, as though it were a cool breeze brushing against your face after a trip to the northern end of the Majabi desert. You feel overcome by a peace that you’ve never felt when in the company of a member of the opposite sex. Each word shared between the two of you feels sweet to the taste, the laughter like crackles in a campsite fire, the stares like endless voyages into the soul of the sea. The chemistry feels so enchanting, the experience feels magical.

I don’t know whether men think of such experiences objectively, because many wouldn’t know to put it in words or even describe it, but I’m sure some few ones do feel it. That difference in room temperature whenever you’re around an all-natural woman; that room to be yourself and rid yourself of all chivalric pretences. It’s all in the works of a true African woman.

This, compared with the girl you met at the bar last Saturday: dressed in a purple jumpsuit and purple stilettos, in purple braids and purple make-up, (a purple extravaganza if you may) with each accessory ill-assorted with regards to the whole do; is a contrast light years apart. Because when with a female so inclined to a synthetic approach to life, especially those with undying love for multiple layers of make-up, everything feels synthetic. The air feels hot, sweaty and icky. Conversation feels like the buzz of houseflies flying about an empty farm on a hot, Sunday afternoon somewhere in Texas. When you stare at her over-emphasized eyebrows, your thoughts constantly have to pull themselves out of pools of contempt and disgust, as you picture mud-slides occurring on her very face. Chances are her English will be no good, and that pea-brain of hers might only spew forth words like ‘As in like’, ‘Ahaa’, and probably some ‘For real’. I can go on about how ugly things could be with such a female, but the long and short of it all is that, nothing seems real about such a female, nothing at all. Not even her very name. You feel cheated by the very sight of her, and the sight of a woman in all her natural majesty feels like a very welcome change. A very welcome one at that.

Each time I see a high waisted woman in fake assets, fake hair, fake lashes, ‘fake facial-complexion’ (read: light-skinned on her face while black and blue elsewhere) – my mind immediately shuts itself from any beauty that she might otherwise have in her. Because honestly, from the onset – she really isn’t selling herself, but rather the many fake products her body can handle. As for an ebony woman in a ponytail, plain-old blow-dried hair, all-natural hair, dreadlocks, even shaved hair if it works well – I immediately think about how easy it would be to converse with her in a poorly lit, and none air-conditioned club; about the ease with which I would approach my parents and introduce her simple, and unmolested, beauty as my companion’s; about how much I would enjoy buying her gifts since the purity of her fashion taste is so virginal it hurts; most of all, I would think about how honest my feelings for her beauty would be.

Simple dress/pants, unpretentious jacket, flat shoes, natural hair, little or no make-up, and an impregnating smile – now that is my kind of woman. The kind who I have always fallen for and always will. Never have I dated, or even taken a second look, at any woman who wears shoes taller than the length of my middle finger. Or one who uses excessive make-up as her only way to feel “beautiful”. I’m a keep-it-real sort of guy, so I sure as hell will only breathe for a woman who keeps it the same.

My woman should be the one with enough wit and emotional maturity about her to help me through my reality checks. One who’ll fuel the sense of exuberance I will get when things are going okay for us. One whose presence feels like a cloud of joy descended upon my life. Who will share with me days filled with endless smiles and cheery laughter. Together we’ll wear effervescent glows to match the sprightly feelings floating within our shallow hearts. A world flowing with milk and honey is what we will see the earth to be, and each step we will make will feel like a giant leap towards a heavenly realm. One filled with clear skies and sweet-scented flowers.

And if ever things go awry, we – that’s me and her – will take that mean bend along every smooth path we tread on in real style.

#np Robin Thicke – Teach U a Lesson

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Hand-Induced Pleasures

#np Jazmine Sullivan – Need You Bad

coitus more ferarum

Directly translated as: ‘congress in the way of beasts’. A medical euphemism for the doggy-style sexual position. Quite a good choice of words, aye? Especially when that being described is one of men’s favourite choices, or maybe it’s just me, when it comes to bedroom matters. A posture we would want women to constantly maintain, every second, every day (checks for men in support of this view). Just seeing those curvaceous hips and the sight of those voluptuous cheeks, all day, every day…ooh – if only… Well, that would work for most men, unless you’re one of those rare ones who’s into feet, or nails perhaps (choke). Nonetheless, I bet you that if the Roman gods had any arguments on just what position was the best to give it to a woman right, Doggy-Styleus was their go-to guy. I mean, look at the way he described his art: coitus more ferarum. Too tasty…

Back to present-day though…

The week is finally over. How about that guys? No more work, no more traffic snarl-ups, and no more dealing with bosses or clients. Its just you and the world that begins by your door-step. The world that full-time employees only get to see over the weekend – when not compensating for the lack of sleep or drinking themselves to near-death of course. So give yourself a hearty round of applause dear readers, for making it through yet another week filled with the bustles of life. Come on, I mean it guys. Clap as hard as you possibly can, because we’re ushering in a weekend filled with the many pleasures that we can and cannot afford. From those that put you at the risk of being arrested by the authorities; to those that leave you in dazed and clueless bewilderment, come Monday, as to what actually happened; and not forgetting those (really) sweaty indulgences that happen underneath the glare of closed doors. And I mean, the really, really sweaty, and crazed-kind-of activities. Those that pleasure every inch of your damn frame, and make you want to scream and shout in wild pleasure. From, uhmm….carrying a glass of water, to – you know….looking for the remote control. They really work up a sweat, don’t you say? Yeah…I knew you love such indulgent affairs.

Aaanyways, I’m a wiser man. Even wiser than last week, and wiser than I’ve ever been. Because it just occurred to me that men and women celebrate/show their happiness/express fun – in different ways from each other. (Take notes.) Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve noted that a majority of our males (grown men and young boys alike) celebrate by clenching their hands in a fist, and running about in wild joy. The exception is that the grown folk have an uncanny talent in losing their masculinity and reverting into kids. Scampering around as they jump, shout and chest-bump anyone in sight; exactly as young male adolescents who just had their first kiss would. On the flipside, the females (grown ladies and young girls alike) make their celebrations a teensy bit classier. When their celebrity crush walks onto stage or the team they support gets a point, they throw their hands up with open palms, and scream or shout something close to ‘Woooooooh…’ or ‘Yeeeeeeah…’. Simple as that. No sweat lost, no calories burnt. Just a few eardrums shattered by the screeching noises made.

Note, if you may, that the key difference here is this: boys/men – clenched fists; girls/ladies/women – open palms. Where does this trail of thought leave you and I? Well I did think about it, and in the same process of growing wiser, took on a different approach to rationalize this newly learnt concept.

Here’s my first breakdown of the concept:

Biologically, (most) men are all about the ‘hardness’ of life. Theirs is a world where everything boils down to the following: taking on (difficult) endeavours that will somehow result in a conquest or praise of some sort; going to the gym to carve and chisel out their muscles; working hard so as to buy the biggest, boldest car; and living a life where they are in charge of doing the hard stuff (eg. fixing broken items in the house, getting greasy as he repairs his wife’s stalled car, which almost always happens at twelve in the night etc.) Basically, men love making bold statements, about themselves, to both their partners and the wider public.

Women, the biological inferiors to men – yet superior to us in more ways than we are led to believe, are naturally more timid in their approach to life. A larger percentage of our dear ladies, not all, live a life where: looking pretty and feeling sexy is a must-have, daily experience; their sense of attractiveness comes from how beautiful or curvy they are as compared to the next woman; and when they do workout or go to the gym, tend to do it out of a need to get a more curvy shape, shed excess weight or tone up their curves/muscles. Theirs is a life driven by the need to look, feel and be their sexiest, with the essence of success taking a totally different route as compared to men eg. bagging the manliest/ most handsome man; having the sweetest boyfriend/husband and the happiest relationship/marriage; having the (boyfriend/husband with the) most financial means – all these in comparison with their friends. (Ladies, you can gouge out my eyes and crucify me later)

To the second bit of my hapless explanation:

Men are more suitably built and raised to ‘grow‘ into ‘being hard‘. Dad will stress the importance of how it’s not proper for a man to be soft, or even cry, and how ladies are the only ones (on the entire face of the earth) who are supposed to shed tears. When dad’s not around, the Godfather will tell you that only women and children are allowed to make mistakes, while men can never afford that luxury. Women, however, are groomed into being sweet, approachable, emotional, and hesitant to taking a knife-edge approach to life. Hence, there are fewer women willing to take great risks, while they too account for an almost perfect 90 percent of the crying human population.

A recap please: so far, we see young boys being taught how to stop being soft, and being tougher in life. While young girls are taught how not to sit when around men, and why it is important not to be tough-mannered or behave as boys do: which would be, lacking emotion, playing boyish games, or wearing boyish clothes.

Now if that’s not enough, as a man, your gentleman sausage will always grows from soft to hard, not the other way round. Only going soft once the sexual excitement is over and you have experienced the supple-soft side of life at the hands of a woman’s soft breasts, soft behinds, and juicy sex. This biological structure (of the path of excitement) would (kind of) explain why a man would go from watching, or playing, a game with his hands at an ordinary stance up until the moment that the ball gets past the try-line, or into the arms of the net, or into that golf-hole. Almost instantaneously, the arm muscles get tightened, the fist gets clenched; and the mouth pours forth a croaky sound we think is a roar similar to that of a lion. Only when the excitement is over will his muscles loosen up and his clenched fist be pried open. From soft to hard, and back to soft – the biological nature of a man’s ‘limbs’.

Onto women: When women see attractive men, or men with tight bums, high muscle tone and a six pack to boot – they (get this) ‘claim’ to go all soft. They claim (cough) that the view of such eye-candy makes them want to be touched all over by the attractive man/men in question. Furthermore, “widely-accessible literature” states that their knees get weak, their minds get dizzy and their talking gets slurred. So, a quick review of facts at hand will show that the sight of muscular men, with chiselled-out muscles and abs, makes most women, literally – weak and submissive. Basically, women want ‘things that excite them’ packaged in ‘hard’ gift-boxes. Hence the reason that they enjoy the sight of hard-bodied men, love the feel of an erect willy, want ‘it‘ given to them hard; all-in-all, they love everything ‘nice’ being hard (hard-cash, hard-core men, hard-on’s etc.) Since all these hard-stuff makes them ‘soft and ready for more’, it would only be biologically reasoned that when men show a hard-clenched fist, they – as women, wave palms that are figuratively open and willing.

So that’s my flimsy attempt at explaining the reason why men clench their fists during celebrations, while women throw open palms into the air – and sometimes wave them like they don’t care. But if all these theories still don’t make sense to you, then my last theory will be as basic as basic has ever been.

Men pleasure themselves with a clenched fist, while women do it with an open palm, and a few choice fingers sticking out. So excitement for a man is equated to a clenched fist as he roars out in ecstasy, while for a woman, it is equated to an open palm as she writhes about screaming something close to ‘Woooooooh…’, ‘(Oh) Yeeeeeeah…’ or ‘(Oh) Yeeessssss’.

Simple as that…

#np TLC – Red Light Special

Soft Lips and Creamy Pasta

#np Louis Armstrong – What a wonderful world

Quiet. Absolute quiet, with a light touch of never-ending tranquility. Water drips from the tap, slowly, surely. Repeatedly stroking the voiceless chords of the room in neat strums of acoustic breaches of the peace that has enveloped me tonight. Yes, yet another night of me and my keyboard. No women-loving, code-named, crime-lords with me tonight, or mercenaries from Dublin. Just me and the dripping-tap that is ever so calmly letting off drops of night-long disturbance. That and the raspy sound of Mr. Armstrong baring his soul out at how red roses really are.

A distant tune weaves itself into my already harmonious atmosphere. From the sound of it, it seems that one of my neighbours has decided to say goodnight to the world through those gospel cd’s sold along Moi Avenue. You know, the ones that every non-alcoholic woman above the age of 40 listens to, or those whose videos are shot in the middle of a roundabout, in front of a fountain that met its thirst-induced death ages ago. The hums and hymns continue pouring in, causing the hate for those loud city stalls, and their ever moody patrons, to scurry their way to the surface of my emotions. A hate that burns ever so brightly underneath my hairless chest. One that has one too many a time brought me to the brink of tearing down the blaring speakers from which the noises of downtown Nairobi emanate from. (Watch this space people. Soon, I just might give you guys an action-packed account of a bachelor gone berserk on the noisy streets of downtown Nairobi.)

Moving on though, I’ve always felt – and always will feel – that the best way to truly assess a woman’s nature, and the entire essence of her femininity, is by watching how she eats her spaghetti. Not in the comfort of your home, or under the cover of those eternally dirty sheets, but in a posh restaurant, or café. One that serves something more than just a main course. Where you pay for more than just the meal, since the ambience comes with its own price. A diner where none of the noise from the young girl – Bieber, or Nicki Minaj and her silicone friends, will ever be allowed to ricochet through the chandelier-lit, glass adorned room.

Now I may have gone ahead of myself and painted a picture that many-a-working Kenyans might not quite afford, or be well acquainted with, one or the other. But I feel that the time has come to put my fellow brothers wise. I feel as though we men, are most times blinded by all the whim-whams offered by our dearly treasured women, that we forget to have a look at what lies underneath all that curvy, or not-so-curvy, goodness. That most men would go out on a whim to impress a lady who is far from being a true woman, just because she shows more than enough skin, or her ‘bozzom’ has your undivided attention.

Allow me to explain further:

Take One: Leona Lewis.

image

A British musician who seems well-bred and raised right. Her looks? They sure rank WAY beyond your average looker. Her voice…my-oh-my, and I mean MY-OH-MY!!! To me, she represents the last generation of women with enough ‘umph’ in their swing to make smart men do really stupid things. I feel as though she might just be among the few ladies of whom most women will openly, comfortably, and undeniably agree – is beautiful.

Take two: Nicki Minaj.

Born somewhere in the Caribbean islands, raised in ‘silicone’ valley, and the current Queen of Siliconia. Do I need to explain her further? I think not. We all know what she is made of. A few more silicone shots and she just might join Lil’ Kim pictured below in Silicone Hell.

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Now picture a scenario where each of the two is eating a bowl of spaghetti, rather yet – pasta (sounds more enticing, don’t you agree?). Imagine a meal of pasta sourced somewhere in the hills of Italy. One with a name more exotic than the language itself. Bright yellow in colour, and sprinkled over with dashes of fresh green parsley. Slices of fried mushrooms and baked ham poking out. Each strand of pasta oozing with creamy Parmesan cheese. All of these colours and tastes, teasing to the senses as they may be, effortlessly melting in your mouth. Ladies and gentlemen, picture some Tagliarini Primavera, would you. And after that, picture how Leona Lewis would eat it. Take some steps further down the dark undiscovered alleys of your imagination and imagine how Nicki would eat the same.

Men, do you now agree with me? Ladies, am I right or wrong in saying that a meal of spaghetti can help reveal the true workings of the inner woman? The one underneath all the make-up and silicone. The one who only comes out in the dark of night, when no more pretence and innocent giggles are needed. Or when she is home alone, with an old white wife-beater on, watching the Real Housewives of somewhere, waiting for a call from her man. Who she will go on to give a colourful picture of how sexy she is dressed, and how bored she is without him. (choke)

I’ll leave you to our devices and allow you to form your verdict, as I stick to mine. But if you are on the masculine end of this readership spectrum, be a sport and try this out for yourself. Order spaghetti for your soon-to-be woman, catch or plaything – whichever she may be. It works. I can guarantee that. If you are, however, on the feminine end of the few that wander onto this page, and fall into the ‘Nicki’ category, how about I give you some tips on where to buy some face for your make-up.

For the few of you who do fall into the ‘Leona’ category, will you please marry me? I mean, I hate to admit it but I love a woman who loves herself enough to go out on some of her days, if not all, without make-up. One whose eyes, nose and lips, especially the lips, make me stare at her for eternity. Make me want to turn into Parmesan cheese. To be sprinkled all over the Tagliarini Primavera I order for you, just so you can eat me up and eat me whole as I sail the grey waters of your personality in my quest to find out how worthwhile the endless stares and night-long fantasies really are. And to prove that the woman in you will help me forget that beauty, such as that of Leona Lewis or Kelly Rowland, even exists. However you take my intentions in buying you this meal of pasta, dear lady in red, I’d really love to see you eat, and hopefully, get to enjoy you further later tonight.

#np D’Angelo – Send It On