Moderation Please, Facebook Men

Have you ever wanted to fart so bad, but you were in public? You can feel your body trying to be natural enough, pushing to get you to pass that tormenting gas. So you sit there praying that no one will crack a joke or startle you because, heaven forbid, you will just spray them with a new scent. You pore over the possibilities of you farting. Will it be the stinky one? Or the very loud one? Or both? And just as you’re thinking these through, you sneeze. And out comes the fart.

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That is me and men on Facebook today. I have a serious problem with you. Sadly, this is a menace that’s also getting into females. But I am no man, so let me speak as a woman who has been affected by men. I have tried holding in this fart, but no. here it is. Loud and clear.

First of all, just because a girl accepts your friend request, it doesn’t mean she’s looking for dates or relationships or flings. It may happen, yes, but not in the nonsensical mathogothanio way you’re approaching today. “Thanks for accepting. I need a girlfriend in my life, and I believe it is you.” Shindwe. What happened to knowing people first?

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Secondly, tafadhali, if you reeeaally want to compliment a girl, compliment her. Do not scare her away or put the dread of Satan and purgatory in her veins. Complements are supposed to make one feel good, not question where their ancestors went wrong. “Hi. You look really good.” It is simple, and very okay. “Hi. You look gorgeous. What do you do other than being sexy?” Please, Jesus did not die for this. “Hey beibe, I love the photo. Can I photograph you sometime?” This is how serial killers on Criminal Minds start off.

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Then there are the conversations you want to try, but you try so hard it’s repelling. “What is your name?” sigh. You sent ME a friend request. My account has a real name. Whatchu mean what’s my name? “Hey. You are very pretty. Can we make love?” Shindwe kabisa. That will not be making love. It will be the Devil collecting rent, pension, fine, and all other monetary fees from your soul. “Twende whatsapp please. Sina messenger so we can’t talk well” is just a very lame excuse. Why embarrass your mother? “Unatumia number gani whatsapp?” do not get mad when someone replies “natumia yangu”.

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Number four, we love dates. You realize I’ve counted like a Kikuyu. Lol. We love dates. But ask us out like the emblems we are. Not the “uko wapi” syndrome or the very new “There’s a new coffee shop in town, I wanted to try. Si twende” I am not an uber. Go.

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Dear men, we love you. So please, choose good mannerisms. And respect. And cut off the mushy names. We don’t know you. We may want to know you. Do not ruin this for us and complain Kenyan women don’t pay attention to their men. Is it possible to coexist in peace, please? If she didn’t reply to your inbox, do not resend another hi. She saw it. And is ignoring you, bruh.

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My dear man who had the faith to tell me “I am becoming your fan” I shed tears for you. Not crocodile tears. Real tears. You had so much potential. I am neither a musician nor a famous actress. And Nairobi is too cold. Fans are unacceptable.

Photos: Courtesy



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For some very legit reason, I thought about omena today. I love food. I have no evidence of being a hog, but oh well, it will pay off someday. Hopefully. Campus can make you hate food. No? Picture yourself continually eating badly cooked chapattis and you’re a chapatti lover. Trust me, my friend, chapatti drops on your food list.
Omena, like sossi, happens to be one of those meals you can hate or love by the first taste. Heaven knows it took losing a bet to eat sossi for a second time. However, thanks to the cook of the day, my good friend Esther, I was able to eat sossi again. She made it so well I wondered what the unga-tasting thing I’d taken in the name of sossi was.
Almost all my friends hate omena. Jeez. Walk through some hostels in my beloved university and you will never visit the lakeside. The foul smell from badly made omena is just a turn off. I remember my mother (and Google) coaching me on how to make good omena, so when I come across omena that makes stomachs churn, oh well. Sigh.
Isn’t it the same with men? It is all about the washing and sieving, careful preparation and meticulous cooking. You will never get a perfect end product, but there will be just the right one. Right in more aspects than just the way he texts. So as you cook that omena and it is staring back at you, this “mboga” must be something you will sit back and enjoy eating. What you tolerate and let pass through that sieve, will be what you will ingest.
In case you were wondering, omena gave me a fetish for lakeside men. I’m happy to be receiving good feedback. Okay. Bye.