Yesterday I made a total ass of myself, but this really should be the last paragraph, so let me start from the beginning.
I do not really like shopping at Tuskys. As a result, I have been accused of several misdemeanors including 'feeling' (note not 'being') too posh, but last week, my witty brother-in-law put it into perspective; Tuskys is full of normal people! At Tuskys, you are unlikely to bump into somebody with green hair or a teenager buying an energy drink on his skates. Admittedly, I am attracted to eccentrics, and no wonder Tuskys does nothing for my excitement gene!
It so happens that the most convenient supermarket on my way home is none other than Tuskys. I could do Nakumatt only 200 metres further, but sometimes I am lazy like that. So yesterday I walked into Tuskys, full of normal people, did my shopping with the normal people, and while at the till waiting for the jamaa at the end of the till to pack my stuff (really, why do they imagine I cannot pack my own stuff? Or is it job creation?) I remembered I needed to go to the open market to buy potatoes et al!
Wearing my sweetest smile, I asked the 'packer' if he could be so kind and put in an extra plastic bag for me. My smile did not obviously melt him as with a stony stare, he informed me that "hatupeani makaratasi ovyo ovyo". My face instantly went hot, and if you are light skinned, you know what a blush does to your skin colour.
I said, "Can I buy it?" Duh! But I didn't know what else to tell him.
"Hatuuzi". Came an answer in form of a growl!
That was when I did something I consider below me (I told you about being accused of feeling too posh). I grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed in my my handbag. I seriously do not know what came over me prior to this action, but I plead temporary insanity. My actions were totally beyond me. But really, with all the shopping I unwillingly do there, and all the 'macoins' I have left there because I refuse to take their Tropicals (how come other supermarkets can get coins? Nkt!), surely one miserable plastic bag will not drive Tuskys under!
Then the stand-off! Of course he dared not enter my handbag to retrieve the miserable piece of plastic, but I could see him weighing options of what I would do if he tried. Good decision not to, I tell ya! Thing was, he was holding on to the shopping I just paid for! All these for one miserable plastic bag! I could bring them all the miserable plastic bags in my house, I don't know what to do with them I cannot recycle them enough! Nkt!
Anyhooo, I held my ground. He held his! Boss came, confirmed that they did not dish out makaratasi ovyo ovyo! Twat! Mumbles (rightfully so) from the customers on queue! Bigger boss comes, confirms the same thing. Idiot! One miserable plastic bag! At this point, I knew I didn't want the plastic bag that much to cause a scene, but it is a matter of principle sometimes.
Sso I didn't give in. As calmly as I could (trying to save whatever dignity, it is a plastic bag remember), I told them I would not be returning the bag, and if they wanted to keep my shopping, sawa! My daughter would just have to go without her Weetabix tomorrow - I was tempted to use my 'I am a journalist' card but I changed my mind!
Tighter rope they were on. Customers were asking 'kwani karatasi ni nini', 'tunachelewa bwana' or 'ile pesa ya sweeti si mnunue karatasi'. The security guard was close by (one of these days I will be on first name basis with security guards) but I suspect he was also wondering what the fuss is all about. They grudgingly gave me my bag, I quiped (in my head of course), said thank you (not meant, of course), walked out with my head held high but still red in the face, and most importantly, a resolve; I am never shopping in Tuskys, any Tuskys! It is full of normal people
I still felt like a total ass!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
JACK OF ALL TRADES
I am a jack of all trades (still cannot tell what trade I am a master at; sigh…). In my life, I have cleaned houses for richer humans, I have stacked shelves in a supermarket, I have looked (more than looked, I tell you) after old people in old people’s homes, I have looked after people’s children (loved some, hated some), I have been a receptionist, a personal assistant, a marketing manager (talk about climbing the corporate ladder!) and now, I am a writer. Beat that!
In between all that, I have worked as a tour guide (truth be told, I know jerk about the flora and fauna of Kenya but I tell you, hats off for all tour van drivers – they are f&f dictionaries). I particularly loved the tour gig, mainly because I got to do something I totally enjoy – tour our beautiful countries for free.
This job afforded me the opportunity to meet different characters who were unfortunately not always nice, or sensitive. I sucked up a lot, I held my quick mouth a lot when things were said and left me thinking ; ‘they just didn’t…’
I vividly remember one particular trip we made to Mt Kenya. On our way to the mountain, we passed and stopped by some deprived villages. In my naivety, I imagined they wanted to stop by the villages so they could give the poor some loose foreign currency or clothes but no!.. no!.. no!…to them, it was a chance to see the Africa they seen on CNN and a photo opportunity of a lifetime!
I am famously a sucker for children – every time I see a child who is not living the way they should (not in poverty, that is), it breaks my heart. I want to take them away, wash them, clothe and feed them and finish with a big bear hug.
In front of us stood about 10 children aged between 2 and 10 years. Runny noses, dirty bodies, torn clothes but most were naked. They obviously had not had a proper meal in a long time and in my head, I thought this was their chance to have some money to get a good meal. They were crying for salvation, so to speak.
They knew no better life, perhaps why they were in such high spirits. Excitedly they were screaming ‘mzungu mzungu’ (although I have several times been called mzungu in my life, I doubted they were referring to me, hehe)…so anyway, screaming ‘mzungu mzungu, tupige picha’ (White man please take a picture of us).
I smiled while I stood in the background, but truth be told, I was using my smile to mask the utter despair the situation left me in. I had a big urge to cry, but instead I brought out my ‘tough’ and fixed a glassy smile instead – this after all, was my job and I was not allowed to let emotions take over.
For the children, this was the highlight of their day. They saw mzungus and the mzungus had gadget like things that were digital cameras. So they posed as my clients happily clicked away, taking turns to pose with the children as they declared ‘how cute they were….’ WHAT? BITE MY ……
The kids in front of us were anything but cute! Don’t get me wrong, I do not think anyone is born ugly, money, or lack of it, dictates how ugly or beautiful one turns out; how else do you explain the ugly. Poor (literally) duckling in your childhood days who suddenly became absolutely drop dead gorgeous when they got a job? Do the math!
So yeah, ugly kids and obviously visually challenged tourists. I wished I was their Facebook friends, then I would have placed a bet for the first time in my life, that those pictures would be uploaded on their Facebook page as soon as were back to civilization.
That way, they would be able to tell and prove to their friends that they know how bad things are in Africa – they have been there and they got the pictures to show, ey? Of course, they will conveniently forget how ‘rather polished’ I am, how the middle class in Kenya lives much better than the western middle class (I have been there, I know) – that would not make a good story at the pub, would it?
But what to do?!
Jeez, does the end of this article sound like an anticlimax or is it just me?
In between all that, I have worked as a tour guide (truth be told, I know jerk about the flora and fauna of Kenya but I tell you, hats off for all tour van drivers – they are f&f dictionaries). I particularly loved the tour gig, mainly because I got to do something I totally enjoy – tour our beautiful countries for free.
This job afforded me the opportunity to meet different characters who were unfortunately not always nice, or sensitive. I sucked up a lot, I held my quick mouth a lot when things were said and left me thinking ; ‘they just didn’t…’
I vividly remember one particular trip we made to Mt Kenya. On our way to the mountain, we passed and stopped by some deprived villages. In my naivety, I imagined they wanted to stop by the villages so they could give the poor some loose foreign currency or clothes but no!.. no!.. no!…to them, it was a chance to see the Africa they seen on CNN and a photo opportunity of a lifetime!
I am famously a sucker for children – every time I see a child who is not living the way they should (not in poverty, that is), it breaks my heart. I want to take them away, wash them, clothe and feed them and finish with a big bear hug.
In front of us stood about 10 children aged between 2 and 10 years. Runny noses, dirty bodies, torn clothes but most were naked. They obviously had not had a proper meal in a long time and in my head, I thought this was their chance to have some money to get a good meal. They were crying for salvation, so to speak.
They knew no better life, perhaps why they were in such high spirits. Excitedly they were screaming ‘mzungu mzungu’ (although I have several times been called mzungu in my life, I doubted they were referring to me, hehe)…so anyway, screaming ‘mzungu mzungu, tupige picha’ (White man please take a picture of us).
I smiled while I stood in the background, but truth be told, I was using my smile to mask the utter despair the situation left me in. I had a big urge to cry, but instead I brought out my ‘tough’ and fixed a glassy smile instead – this after all, was my job and I was not allowed to let emotions take over.
For the children, this was the highlight of their day. They saw mzungus and the mzungus had gadget like things that were digital cameras. So they posed as my clients happily clicked away, taking turns to pose with the children as they declared ‘how cute they were….’ WHAT? BITE MY ……
The kids in front of us were anything but cute! Don’t get me wrong, I do not think anyone is born ugly, money, or lack of it, dictates how ugly or beautiful one turns out; how else do you explain the ugly. Poor (literally) duckling in your childhood days who suddenly became absolutely drop dead gorgeous when they got a job? Do the math!
So yeah, ugly kids and obviously visually challenged tourists. I wished I was their Facebook friends, then I would have placed a bet for the first time in my life, that those pictures would be uploaded on their Facebook page as soon as were back to civilization.
That way, they would be able to tell and prove to their friends that they know how bad things are in Africa – they have been there and they got the pictures to show, ey? Of course, they will conveniently forget how ‘rather polished’ I am, how the middle class in Kenya lives much better than the western middle class (I have been there, I know) – that would not make a good story at the pub, would it?
But what to do?!
Jeez, does the end of this article sound like an anticlimax or is it just me?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Sad Day
Tuesday the 25th May, 2010, was a very sad and emotionally draining day for me. By evening, the hubby wanted to know whether I was ill – my usual loud self was away, my responses to my ever so energetic daughter were all rather on auto pilot.
Just to put you in the picture, I am in charge of publicity and fundraising for Hope for Cancer Kids, a charitable organization that looks to ‘wholistically’ take care of children with cancer and their families. Our job is to raise both awareness and funds, at the same time fight the stigma that comes attached with childhood cancer so parents are on the look out so as to arrest the cancers before they become incurable. Our long term goal is to have 80% child cancer survival rater, in line with the developed world statistics, as opposed to the current 10%.
My director, whose child was diagnosed with cancer 3 years ago when he was only 3 years old, had lost his son two weeks ago. On 25th was the first day I spoke to him one on one about the death of his son Lee. He, always strong, narrated how he held his son’s hand as he took his last breadth. Not an easy thing even for the strongest of the strong. He did not once cry as he told me about it, I suppose he has done all the crying while his son was ill – it was almost a relief when he passed on, as it had become obvious that he was not going to get better, but his pain was unbearable.
Just after he finished narrating his story, a woman we both know walked into the office. Her son, 5 years old, has been a ‘resident’ of KNH children cancer ward for the last two years. He, sadly, had lost his battle about the same time with Lee – they had been friends. Unfortunately for the woman who stood in front of us, she has not been able to burry her son. In the two years he has been at the hospital, his hospital bill had risen to Kshs600,000. Unfortunately, and you cannot blame them really, KNH requires her to settle at least half of the bill before the body is released. This, for a woman who received the sad news of his son’s demise while she was at a burial site burying her father, whose body had been held hostage at City Mortuary because they could not raise about Ksh50,000 to settle mortuary bills.
I have never met a woman more resigned to fate than the woman who stood in front of us.
It frustrated me and I could not help feeling partly responsible that her mourning period was being extended. If I was doing my job right, surely her son would not be at the mortuary accumulating bills! I know it is silly to feel like that, but I still feel terrible.
On the 18th June, we are holding a fundraising dinner at the Panafric Hotel. The aim of the dinner is to raise at least Ksh1.5 million. Not anywhere near what we require, as currently, we have over 120 children at the wards with bills ranging from Ksh20,000 to Ksh700,000, totaling to about Ksh15million. The Ksh1.5million however will help us take NHIF covers for every child at the ward currently, and in the future. We will need more money as it is a continuous process, but we have to start somewhere.
The idea of the insurance scheme is to involve both NHIF and KNH, who have both agreed to join our bid, NHIF especially as a part of their social responsibility. We have several other corporate like Safaricom, Magnate Venures,NMG already on board, and others interested and we can only hope they will join us. Individuals are welcome as well, either as volunteers or donors, and donations do not have to come in cash, there is always use for clothes, books, old fridges, heaters etc, get in touch with me I will be happy to help.
Back to the dinner, any corporate willing to join will pay Ksh50,000 for 7 people, individuals Ksh 10,000 but this is for two people. If you like flying solo, Ksh5,000 is enough. The money is just enough to pay for the dinner and insurance for 1 ½ families. Please join us so we can tell you why we so desperately need your help.
As for the woman who came to the office , we only promised to try, but cannot make any concrete promises. We shall present her case to the KNH but we are not holding our breadths – only last week, they offset a bill for another patient of Kshs500,000.
We need financial help especially. If you cannot join us for the dinner, we can still use your donations, whatever amount it is. We have an M-pesa account, 511100, you can send through bill section, or alternatively inbox me (ciku@hope4cancerkids.org) and I can direct you how to help, financially or otherwise.
Please visit our website www.hope4cancerkids.org and get to know us better and get acquainted with our projects.
Thank you
Just to put you in the picture, I am in charge of publicity and fundraising for Hope for Cancer Kids, a charitable organization that looks to ‘wholistically’ take care of children with cancer and their families. Our job is to raise both awareness and funds, at the same time fight the stigma that comes attached with childhood cancer so parents are on the look out so as to arrest the cancers before they become incurable. Our long term goal is to have 80% child cancer survival rater, in line with the developed world statistics, as opposed to the current 10%.
My director, whose child was diagnosed with cancer 3 years ago when he was only 3 years old, had lost his son two weeks ago. On 25th was the first day I spoke to him one on one about the death of his son Lee. He, always strong, narrated how he held his son’s hand as he took his last breadth. Not an easy thing even for the strongest of the strong. He did not once cry as he told me about it, I suppose he has done all the crying while his son was ill – it was almost a relief when he passed on, as it had become obvious that he was not going to get better, but his pain was unbearable.
Just after he finished narrating his story, a woman we both know walked into the office. Her son, 5 years old, has been a ‘resident’ of KNH children cancer ward for the last two years. He, sadly, had lost his battle about the same time with Lee – they had been friends. Unfortunately for the woman who stood in front of us, she has not been able to burry her son. In the two years he has been at the hospital, his hospital bill had risen to Kshs600,000. Unfortunately, and you cannot blame them really, KNH requires her to settle at least half of the bill before the body is released. This, for a woman who received the sad news of his son’s demise while she was at a burial site burying her father, whose body had been held hostage at City Mortuary because they could not raise about Ksh50,000 to settle mortuary bills.
I have never met a woman more resigned to fate than the woman who stood in front of us.
It frustrated me and I could not help feeling partly responsible that her mourning period was being extended. If I was doing my job right, surely her son would not be at the mortuary accumulating bills! I know it is silly to feel like that, but I still feel terrible.
On the 18th June, we are holding a fundraising dinner at the Panafric Hotel. The aim of the dinner is to raise at least Ksh1.5 million. Not anywhere near what we require, as currently, we have over 120 children at the wards with bills ranging from Ksh20,000 to Ksh700,000, totaling to about Ksh15million. The Ksh1.5million however will help us take NHIF covers for every child at the ward currently, and in the future. We will need more money as it is a continuous process, but we have to start somewhere.
The idea of the insurance scheme is to involve both NHIF and KNH, who have both agreed to join our bid, NHIF especially as a part of their social responsibility. We have several other corporate like Safaricom, Magnate Venures,NMG already on board, and others interested and we can only hope they will join us. Individuals are welcome as well, either as volunteers or donors, and donations do not have to come in cash, there is always use for clothes, books, old fridges, heaters etc, get in touch with me I will be happy to help.
Back to the dinner, any corporate willing to join will pay Ksh50,000 for 7 people, individuals Ksh 10,000 but this is for two people. If you like flying solo, Ksh5,000 is enough. The money is just enough to pay for the dinner and insurance for 1 ½ families. Please join us so we can tell you why we so desperately need your help.
As for the woman who came to the office , we only promised to try, but cannot make any concrete promises. We shall present her case to the KNH but we are not holding our breadths – only last week, they offset a bill for another patient of Kshs500,000.
We need financial help especially. If you cannot join us for the dinner, we can still use your donations, whatever amount it is. We have an M-pesa account, 511100, you can send through bill section, or alternatively inbox me (ciku@hope4cancerkids.org) and I can direct you how to help, financially or otherwise.
Please visit our website www.hope4cancerkids.org and get to know us better and get acquainted with our projects.
Thank you
Friday, April 30, 2010
I WANT TO BE A CHINA MAN!
When a thief got more than he bargained for
When I tell people that I do not like to venture into downtown Nairobi unless it is a grave matter of life and death, I am usually accused of being posh; let me set the record straight, I am not posh, I am a villager and crowds who push and shove scare the living day lights out of me. I have also been mugged several times and it is always when I am a part of a crowd, and once (or twice) beaten, twice (or thrice) shy!
One of the few times it was a matter of life and death (ok, so I exaggerate, nobody was dying really) and I had to walk to Machakos Bus Station. I was terribly tense, I did not look at anyone straight in the face and I held myself so together that my joints ached from all the tension. However, I did not fail to notice an oriental man walking infront of me with all the swagger in the world. Unlike my hubby, I cannot differentiate between a Chinese and a Japanese – so shoot me, but I digress. Because of the event that followed, I am convinced he was Chinese.
I noticed him for several reasons; one, he was the only non Black in the vicinity and two, he was carrying a rather expensive looking camera and clicking away (see, I know he was Chinese). I was debating on whether to warn him about the danger zone when an unscrupulous fellow came from nowhere and grabbed his camera, taking off at a very high speed.
Oooh…how I had seen that one coming! I took a deep breadth, readying myself to shout ‘mwizi’, when the most amazing thing happened; the China man flew, and I mean, he flew like a bird! His feet were not touching the ground (I must insert that I have a bad eye sight so there is room for error). His offender was a tall man by any standards and obviously used to running for his life, the China man, not more than 4 feet, I tell you. The China man did a ‘0 to 60’ in 5 seconds flat. This is no exaggeration!
Things happened so fast I could not, even if I wanted, describe in detail, but within 20 seconds, there were 4 bloody men on the ground, the China man, just like in the movies, had one foot on top of the main offender’s chest, and he had his camera. All intact!
Where did the other 3 men come from? I hear you ask. Well, obviously, the thief had back-up, and they had tried to save their friend. Even they did not know what had hit them, a fact confirmed by how they looked around, bloody faces and confused and dazed eyes!
Whenever one of the tried to get up, he would get a kick straight from a Jackie Chan movie. The China man kept speaking in a strange tongue (tehehee), obviously very agitated, wagging his finger at the 4 more. We all guessed he was reprimanding the 4 sinners on the floor.
By this time, a crowd, that included yours truly, had gathered, and we were all clapping for the China man. A few minutes later, the cops led the limping offenders away.
At that point, I really wished I was Chinese! Honest. I thought abut all those times I could have sorted several thugs in 10 seconds or less, just like the China man, then I realized I only had myself to blame – not because I am not Chinese, that one I blame my parents, but because, when I was in college, I took martial arts.
Yes I did you doubting Thomases!
I am officially a brown belt and I should be able to kick a lot of people’s ass silly. Only problem is, I have not been to a karate gym in more than 10 years, and the other day I tried to do a high kick and only succeeded in looking totally ridiculous and landing flat on my tush! It hurt, and it was not attractive!
My instructor was the gentlest of souls, a man called Mwangi, and stood only up to my chest (when you are training, you tend to stand very close to your instructor so get your mind off the gutter). I was his best female student, and I suppose he would be really disappointed I wasted my talent.
I might not be so young and agile anymore, but I guess, if I started training again, I could save my smart phone.
Haiya!
When I tell people that I do not like to venture into downtown Nairobi unless it is a grave matter of life and death, I am usually accused of being posh; let me set the record straight, I am not posh, I am a villager and crowds who push and shove scare the living day lights out of me. I have also been mugged several times and it is always when I am a part of a crowd, and once (or twice) beaten, twice (or thrice) shy!
One of the few times it was a matter of life and death (ok, so I exaggerate, nobody was dying really) and I had to walk to Machakos Bus Station. I was terribly tense, I did not look at anyone straight in the face and I held myself so together that my joints ached from all the tension. However, I did not fail to notice an oriental man walking infront of me with all the swagger in the world. Unlike my hubby, I cannot differentiate between a Chinese and a Japanese – so shoot me, but I digress. Because of the event that followed, I am convinced he was Chinese.
I noticed him for several reasons; one, he was the only non Black in the vicinity and two, he was carrying a rather expensive looking camera and clicking away (see, I know he was Chinese). I was debating on whether to warn him about the danger zone when an unscrupulous fellow came from nowhere and grabbed his camera, taking off at a very high speed.
Oooh…how I had seen that one coming! I took a deep breadth, readying myself to shout ‘mwizi’, when the most amazing thing happened; the China man flew, and I mean, he flew like a bird! His feet were not touching the ground (I must insert that I have a bad eye sight so there is room for error). His offender was a tall man by any standards and obviously used to running for his life, the China man, not more than 4 feet, I tell you. The China man did a ‘0 to 60’ in 5 seconds flat. This is no exaggeration!
Things happened so fast I could not, even if I wanted, describe in detail, but within 20 seconds, there were 4 bloody men on the ground, the China man, just like in the movies, had one foot on top of the main offender’s chest, and he had his camera. All intact!
Where did the other 3 men come from? I hear you ask. Well, obviously, the thief had back-up, and they had tried to save their friend. Even they did not know what had hit them, a fact confirmed by how they looked around, bloody faces and confused and dazed eyes!
Whenever one of the tried to get up, he would get a kick straight from a Jackie Chan movie. The China man kept speaking in a strange tongue (tehehee), obviously very agitated, wagging his finger at the 4 more. We all guessed he was reprimanding the 4 sinners on the floor.
By this time, a crowd, that included yours truly, had gathered, and we were all clapping for the China man. A few minutes later, the cops led the limping offenders away.
At that point, I really wished I was Chinese! Honest. I thought abut all those times I could have sorted several thugs in 10 seconds or less, just like the China man, then I realized I only had myself to blame – not because I am not Chinese, that one I blame my parents, but because, when I was in college, I took martial arts.
Yes I did you doubting Thomases!
I am officially a brown belt and I should be able to kick a lot of people’s ass silly. Only problem is, I have not been to a karate gym in more than 10 years, and the other day I tried to do a high kick and only succeeded in looking totally ridiculous and landing flat on my tush! It hurt, and it was not attractive!
My instructor was the gentlest of souls, a man called Mwangi, and stood only up to my chest (when you are training, you tend to stand very close to your instructor so get your mind off the gutter). I was his best female student, and I suppose he would be really disappointed I wasted my talent.
I might not be so young and agile anymore, but I guess, if I started training again, I could save my smart phone.
Haiya!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
THE POOP STORY
A week ago, I started my little girl on solids as she is now six months; pumpkin. Pumpkins come highly recommended by both grandmothers and Google! It was a tense 3 days as I waited for her to poop – yes, that poop! If you are a mother, you will know what I am talking about, no?
You learn to study poop. Poop (one would think I have written enough ‘poops’ but no…) stops being some disgusting smelly mass. It becomes your tool of diagnosis. You know the health of your baby just by the look and smell of her poop.
Sometimes ago, my husband caught me closely studying baby’s soiled diaper and by the look he gave me, I could only guess what was running through his mind; the words ‘poop’ and ‘fetish’ come to mind, but I digress.
So yes, poop! For breast feeding babies, there are only two colors allowed for their poop; yellow (varies as mustard and orange) and green (yup!). The poop is meant to be loose, throw in a few pellets and your baby is fine. As for the smell, well, I simply could not describe it, but it certainly does not smell like some expensive designer perfume, that I can assure you.
It is a stinky journey, I tell you!
So, before I tell about my baby’s first solid food bottom product (I could just have written poop), let me take you on a short poop journey; first poop after birth is, to say the least, scary; it is tarry black. It even has a name, meconium! Thank goodness it is a one off.
Then you start with the yellow (or mustard, or orange, if you are into specifics). Sometimes it is multi colored. Yellow is proffered by both medics and mothers, as it means the baby is getting enough hind milk. For those without a clue, this means you have to breastfeed on one breast until it is empty, meaning it looks and feels like a sock! Green poop means baby is drinking too much foremilk (as opposed to hind-milk, of course) and missing on the more nutritious bottom layer that is the hind-milk. Green poop is no cause for alarm however.
I am beginning to think adults are the same, but there is no one willing to study their poop (eew!) in detail, but it reminds me of my friend who once had an appointment with the lab man. Problem was, she had had one too many bottles of Guinness the previous night – result? BLACK! Not good!
Now, the poop colors you do not want to see on your baby’s diaper are chalky white (means there is no bile to digest the food), tarry black, unless it is the first poop (indicates blood in the digestive tract) or bright red (for obvious reasons). Luckily, my baby has not had the bad poop!
You learn to study poop. Poop (one would think I have written enough ‘poops’ but no…) stops being some disgusting smelly mass. It becomes your tool of diagnosis. You know the health of your baby just by the look and smell of her poop.
Sometimes ago, my husband caught me closely studying baby’s soiled diaper and by the look he gave me, I could only guess what was running through his mind; the words ‘poop’ and ‘fetish’ come to mind, but I digress.
So yes, poop! For breast feeding babies, there are only two colors allowed for their poop; yellow (varies as mustard and orange) and green (yup!). The poop is meant to be loose, throw in a few pellets and your baby is fine. As for the smell, well, I simply could not describe it, but it certainly does not smell like some expensive designer perfume, that I can assure you.
It is a stinky journey, I tell you!
So, before I tell about my baby’s first solid food bottom product (I could just have written poop), let me take you on a short poop journey; first poop after birth is, to say the least, scary; it is tarry black. It even has a name, meconium! Thank goodness it is a one off.
Then you start with the yellow (or mustard, or orange, if you are into specifics). Sometimes it is multi colored. Yellow is proffered by both medics and mothers, as it means the baby is getting enough hind milk. For those without a clue, this means you have to breastfeed on one breast until it is empty, meaning it looks and feels like a sock! Green poop means baby is drinking too much foremilk (as opposed to hind-milk, of course) and missing on the more nutritious bottom layer that is the hind-milk. Green poop is no cause for alarm however.
I am beginning to think adults are the same, but there is no one willing to study their poop (eew!) in detail, but it reminds me of my friend who once had an appointment with the lab man. Problem was, she had had one too many bottles of Guinness the previous night – result? BLACK! Not good!
Now, the poop colors you do not want to see on your baby’s diaper are chalky white (means there is no bile to digest the food), tarry black, unless it is the first poop (indicates blood in the digestive tract) or bright red (for obvious reasons). Luckily, my baby has not had the bad poop!
Monday, March 8, 2010
WHAT'S WITH KENYANS AND COMPLAINING
In all my worldly travels (not that many if truth be told, but I do love to exaggerate), I have never met a people more fond of complaining than Kenyans. They do not like to be kept waiting, Kenyans don’t!
Waiter takes long, they complain. Queue too long in the bank, they complain. Matatu driven by a manic driver (which is more the norm rather than the exception), they complain. Only trouble is, Kenyans will complain to anyone within earshot – anyone but whomever they are complaining about!
The fact that I am a Kenyan and usually complain to the offending party probably puts me in the minority, and more often than not earns me rather strange looks from the people around me.
Recently, I have had two outstanding incidents in two different banks. One was during the festive season and the queues were long enough to drive one’s pressure to dangerous levels. Like a good citizen, I patiently queued, listening to other patrons complain about how long they had waited, how it wasn’t fair that there were 6 teller booths, but only two were occupied. I nodded and smiled sadly at the appropriate time, but truth be told, I was more interested in facebooking on my smart phone (but do I say) than listening to my fellow Kenyans complain!
Almost two hours later, I was third in line. I put my phone back in the bag and rummaged through my big bag for my bank papers. Out of nowhere (well, through the main door really), a sharp suited not-so-gentleman-ly man walked past everybody, straight to the teller without so much as a glance at the people in the queue. We looked at each other, but all everybody seemed to do was shrug – well, they would complain later, no? But not me!
So I say “Excuse me sir, there is a queue”. I mustered as much patience as possible under the circumstances, but I could hear my own voice shaking with adrenaline driven righteous indignation!
After giving me several once-overs, he said “I know…”
Oh no, he just didn’t! I thought as I felt my dark side taking over my whole being.
“So why did you not queue?” I demanded. I wanted to add something like ‘are you stupid’, but as I get older, I have learned to hold my tongue – for a while!
“What is your problem?” disdainfully, he wanted to know, turning to squarely face me, probably intending to intimidate me, but it only served to infuriate me further. I was past being afraid and not even his bully tactics were going to work on me.
We were not exactly whispering, and by this time the whole banking hall was at a standstill – even the tellers had stopped doing their job, probably not wanting to miss the ensuing action!
“You want to know my problem? Fine! My problem is I have been queuing for two hours, and you just walked in a minute ago and you want to be served before me. I demand to know why?”
By this time, the guards had moved closer to me, I don’t know why me and not the offender. He was the criminal in all this, in my opinion. Other patrons had moved away from me, probably not wanting to mess their clothes with my blood splutters in case the big bad man decided to shoot me! Thanks for the support people! NOT!
To cut a long story short, very unkind words were exchanged. He informed me some customers were more valued than others, I told him I didn’t care how much illegal money he deposited in the bank, it did not have an effect on my kitchen budget, which seemed to infuriate him (I wonder why). He said it didn’t matter what I thought, he would still be served before yours truly, that I could go to hell! The nerve!
The guards were telling me to keep it down (again, why me? He was just as loud and as colorful in language). I told the guards to shove off (actually, I might have used a word worse than shove), that they should go back to guarding the door. They looked offended – I wondered why! Why were people getting so easily offended today?
All this time, none of my fellow Kenyans had spoken for or against me. They seemed to be in a trance. Finally, the manager came, carefully took my hand (I must have had the eyes of a raving lunatic, he seemed very cautious!) and led me to his office. My eyes caught the sight of the man storming out in anger! Like I cared! I was dully served in the manager’s office, offered a cup of tea which I declined. I still wanted to know why that man walked to the head of the queue. Apparently, he had several millions in the bank! “I don’t care”, I repeated, probably for the 10th time in as many minutes.
I continued to lecture and advice the manager (I should bill the bank for consultancy), that if they had some customers more special than others, they should not rub it on our faces! Could they not have a special room where they didn’t have to remind us, we less special customers that we were several millions poorer? He seemed to agree with me, whether genuinely or just to appease me I do not know, but agree he did! I even told him I was a journalist, that I would expose his bank (really, I do not have that much clout as a journo, but he did not know that and I wasn’t going to tell him). He begged me not to, told me that every time I went to his bank, I should just walk straight to his office to be served. I said okay – ha! Where is the sharp suited twat now?
As I walked through the banking hall towards the door, fellow Kenyans were congratulating me, patting me on my back (thanks a lot for the support people, NOT!) Even the guards stood as I walked towards them, I could swear they were going to salute… I apologized to them for my rude behavior!
The other unfortunate incident involved less drama…but I sort of feel I have enough pro borno writing! I aint getting payed for this and I do not feel I should tire my not so delicate fingers with this … this… oh well, if you want to hear about the other incident, call me – and pay me – yup, I am behaving like the Kenyan I am!
Kenyans can really complain! TSK!
Waiter takes long, they complain. Queue too long in the bank, they complain. Matatu driven by a manic driver (which is more the norm rather than the exception), they complain. Only trouble is, Kenyans will complain to anyone within earshot – anyone but whomever they are complaining about!
The fact that I am a Kenyan and usually complain to the offending party probably puts me in the minority, and more often than not earns me rather strange looks from the people around me.
Recently, I have had two outstanding incidents in two different banks. One was during the festive season and the queues were long enough to drive one’s pressure to dangerous levels. Like a good citizen, I patiently queued, listening to other patrons complain about how long they had waited, how it wasn’t fair that there were 6 teller booths, but only two were occupied. I nodded and smiled sadly at the appropriate time, but truth be told, I was more interested in facebooking on my smart phone (but do I say) than listening to my fellow Kenyans complain!
Almost two hours later, I was third in line. I put my phone back in the bag and rummaged through my big bag for my bank papers. Out of nowhere (well, through the main door really), a sharp suited not-so-gentleman-ly man walked past everybody, straight to the teller without so much as a glance at the people in the queue. We looked at each other, but all everybody seemed to do was shrug – well, they would complain later, no? But not me!
So I say “Excuse me sir, there is a queue”. I mustered as much patience as possible under the circumstances, but I could hear my own voice shaking with adrenaline driven righteous indignation!
After giving me several once-overs, he said “I know…”
Oh no, he just didn’t! I thought as I felt my dark side taking over my whole being.
“So why did you not queue?” I demanded. I wanted to add something like ‘are you stupid’, but as I get older, I have learned to hold my tongue – for a while!
“What is your problem?” disdainfully, he wanted to know, turning to squarely face me, probably intending to intimidate me, but it only served to infuriate me further. I was past being afraid and not even his bully tactics were going to work on me.
We were not exactly whispering, and by this time the whole banking hall was at a standstill – even the tellers had stopped doing their job, probably not wanting to miss the ensuing action!
“You want to know my problem? Fine! My problem is I have been queuing for two hours, and you just walked in a minute ago and you want to be served before me. I demand to know why?”
By this time, the guards had moved closer to me, I don’t know why me and not the offender. He was the criminal in all this, in my opinion. Other patrons had moved away from me, probably not wanting to mess their clothes with my blood splutters in case the big bad man decided to shoot me! Thanks for the support people! NOT!
To cut a long story short, very unkind words were exchanged. He informed me some customers were more valued than others, I told him I didn’t care how much illegal money he deposited in the bank, it did not have an effect on my kitchen budget, which seemed to infuriate him (I wonder why). He said it didn’t matter what I thought, he would still be served before yours truly, that I could go to hell! The nerve!
The guards were telling me to keep it down (again, why me? He was just as loud and as colorful in language). I told the guards to shove off (actually, I might have used a word worse than shove), that they should go back to guarding the door. They looked offended – I wondered why! Why were people getting so easily offended today?
All this time, none of my fellow Kenyans had spoken for or against me. They seemed to be in a trance. Finally, the manager came, carefully took my hand (I must have had the eyes of a raving lunatic, he seemed very cautious!) and led me to his office. My eyes caught the sight of the man storming out in anger! Like I cared! I was dully served in the manager’s office, offered a cup of tea which I declined. I still wanted to know why that man walked to the head of the queue. Apparently, he had several millions in the bank! “I don’t care”, I repeated, probably for the 10th time in as many minutes.
I continued to lecture and advice the manager (I should bill the bank for consultancy), that if they had some customers more special than others, they should not rub it on our faces! Could they not have a special room where they didn’t have to remind us, we less special customers that we were several millions poorer? He seemed to agree with me, whether genuinely or just to appease me I do not know, but agree he did! I even told him I was a journalist, that I would expose his bank (really, I do not have that much clout as a journo, but he did not know that and I wasn’t going to tell him). He begged me not to, told me that every time I went to his bank, I should just walk straight to his office to be served. I said okay – ha! Where is the sharp suited twat now?
As I walked through the banking hall towards the door, fellow Kenyans were congratulating me, patting me on my back (thanks a lot for the support people, NOT!) Even the guards stood as I walked towards them, I could swear they were going to salute… I apologized to them for my rude behavior!
The other unfortunate incident involved less drama…but I sort of feel I have enough pro borno writing! I aint getting payed for this and I do not feel I should tire my not so delicate fingers with this … this… oh well, if you want to hear about the other incident, call me – and pay me – yup, I am behaving like the Kenyan I am!
Kenyans can really complain! TSK!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Four tired but happy months
So people, it has been 4 months and a week since I had a baby through CS! I could do without the scar, but it is a positive reminder of what a wonderful baby I have. It has been 4 months of never more than 4 hours of sleep (oh yeah, there is that night she did 8 hours and I panicked when I looked at the time, quickly checking her breathing!), 4 months of looking of studying her stool (who would have thought stool could be so interesting) because I have learned to look for abnormalities there, 4 months of watching her waking up with something new every day (there is that intense look she gives me and I think she knows exactly what I am thinking), 4 months of not being out of the house for more than 2 hours (and about 10 phone calls when I leave), 4 months of getting used to people referring to me as Mama Samora, as opposed to Ciku!
There has been so many things that have happened, I simply could not write them one by one, but a week ago, she was finally able to sit down for about 30 seconds without support! I was so gleeful, so was the daddy! Two days ago, she almost fell while trying to turn herself. From now on, everytime I give her to strangers to hold, I have to give a warning that she might fall.
I know this is getting ahead of myself, but I can now see myself holding her gentle tiny hand as we take a walk!
I cannot wait.
Look out for baby's developments!
There has been so many things that have happened, I simply could not write them one by one, but a week ago, she was finally able to sit down for about 30 seconds without support! I was so gleeful, so was the daddy! Two days ago, she almost fell while trying to turn herself. From now on, everytime I give her to strangers to hold, I have to give a warning that she might fall.
I know this is getting ahead of myself, but I can now see myself holding her gentle tiny hand as we take a walk!
I cannot wait.
Look out for baby's developments!
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