This Chic: Opening up conversations with debate conditioned Kenyans.

 I watched a TV Talkshow last week about 'Why the modern woman cannot seem to find love'

The poll question wanted the audience to text back and say who they thought was responsible for failed relationships. Men or women?

Yeah.

They asked that.

Anyway.

I watched the show, on youtube because one of the guests is a girl from my village, Nyambura Mundia.

This girl, I met when I was probably in class seven and she was in class four and someone pointed out to her as the girl who had beat my cousin at Poetry Recitals. Or it was something impressive like that because my cousin was a boy and taking all the public speaking and recital medals home.

When I saw her the next time, I remember taking a really good look at her. I had not seen anything like that in the whole of Endarasha. 

The self-confidence. 

She walked like the whole world was waiting on her to arrive. Step by step like she had bodyguards around her. Like she had an important mission and it didn't matter that she was a woman, she was the only one commissioned to deliver it.

I should say I had goosebumps but I didn't, I was just intrigued. It was my first time to observe a person in a Zen state. To make it more interesting, she was a dark child. And in Endarasha, you were beautiful only if you were light-skinned. Yet, unless your genes came from very strong brown-skinned people, the frost in my village bit your skin until you were a nice shade of dark blue. So of course, any light-skinned person was actually, yellow yellow not just earth brown.

But I could tell that this girl had no such whims.

I met this girl, later on, 100 years later, in my estate. She had the same walk. We had never been introduced so, I just let her walk past and later on Facebook suggested her as a friend and I accepted.

She is the Host of Swaiba Podcast, an open space for women to discuss issues that matter.

As the TV show proceeded, I kept thinking to myself. Is anyone listening to this woman? Can't they follow her flow of thought and realise that she is simply opening up the conversation?

My friend once commented that Kenyans lack conversation skills and I wondered 'ai, what do you mean? Kenyan's love to talk.'

Yes, Kenyans love to talk and hear their own voices, but it's rare to find a Kenyan who listens.

I guess that is why we have a had time discussing issues like mental health, relationships, violence, career and even finances.

Every topic is turned into a debate.

 Every idea is contended.

Very few people are willing to just have a discussion and let the conversation take any direction.

"I must win."

Is probably what some are thinking whenever a topic arises.

Why can't we just, have conversations? Where if you are right it's okay, if you are wrong it's okay but let's keep talking.

But if we continue to base every chat on our past beliefs and experiences, we lose out on so much because the dialogue is blocked.

As an infp personality type, I crave deep conversations and connecting with people on a mental, emotional and intellectual level. An achievement of that is at the top of my Maslow Hierarchy pyramid.

I wish Mwari wa Mundia all the best in her next session, may you remain as calm as you have.

You are welcome to join in the random tea chats I have on Instagram from time to time. 

CLICK HERE

or  HERE

Milk dairy mumblings- Mũthenya wa mbeca cia iria

Endarasha is a dairy cattle area where milk is the cash crop since the colonial era when it was part of the white highlands. A few centuries back, there was a big time milk production plant that would export milk powdered milk  and other milk products. But that and pyrethrum is only for our history books now.

Having dairy cattle as a business means we get up and think milk and before we go to sleep the last though is, has the left over milk been boiled?

In between the day, the most important utensils that should be clean and drying on the rack  are the strainer, the small sufurias which the calves drink from, the buckets and the milk delivery containers.

the most important equipment in a dairy farmer's life

We get up at 3.00a.m to tread in ankle deep mud to milk in time for the 4.00am milk collecting truck and every so often we have to make a quick call to the vet to come over and check out why  Nyameni’s tongue is swelling.

But that is all forgotten when a very special day arrives- The day of money for milk-

When we were growing up, there was no specific day for payment. We kept our ears open each time we delivered the milk. The man that ticked off the cards would not say anything to us. He would fill up the last card and get back into the front of the lorry and just when the lorry was driving off he would shout.

Ũmũũthĩ mũũhige! (become clever today)

We went back home and told our mothers and fathers- mwerũo mũũhige.

 At twelve the farmers milked the second time and when we delivered it to the pick up point, the farmers would take a quick shower and put on their cream overcoat, the women wore their pleated flower viscose cotton skirts with a cream cut off blouse with a just a bit of detail around the v-collar and head off kwa ngũkũ.

At plot 65, we collected firewood enough to cook food for a whole week, we made up songs and had a full bath even though it was just Friday and full baths were left for Sundays.

 Just before dark, granny would totter in her basket full of all sorts of packages. Beef, of course, Oranges, fresh broadways bread which I wonder how she carried it in the basket, it would still be firm and in good shape.

Sometimes a sweater for one of us. We ate the scones, sitting by her feet. She would ask for tea to eat with hers. Then uncle would come and eat bread with tea. It was like a small family picnic, really special.

I came to relate the day of money for milk with beef. Any other time we ate chicken, lamb or pork sausages when granny went to Rware, the other bigger town. But once a month, there would be beef. 

If the day fell on a school day, granny sent a message to the market women. ‘if you see my little girl, tell her to find me -ha nyina Kũi- Mother of Kũi had a clothes boutique and also sold Omo, granny was a regular customer.

She would ask me to choose a dress, or shoes, then we would go to a butchery where she would have pre-ordered tumbukiza (Meat, potatoes, onions, nyanya and a bit of pepper boiled together.)

I was just a stupid adolescent who didn’t appreciate simple things, I would tell her her I would have preferred tea and mandazi or something childish as such.

But that was not the point really. It was not about eating what you liked or preferred or thought was the high life. It was about getting us things that would avoid bringing shame on ourselves.

My theory is, she didn’t want us to feel deprived, or feel like somethings were out of reach from us.

 People around us had fathers and proper families and their fathers brought home meat and took them out to eat nyama choma on Christmas day. As we grew older, we mingled with people who were used to eating sausage and buttered toast for breakfast. It was nothing alien. Equalise us, so we’d never be greedy for things that we imagined were beyond  our reach, especially food, and meat which people seem to have an inordinate desire for, at least in the African set up.

- You can lack anything else but don’t lack food, don’t talk about food- I once heard someone say.

One time, my little cousin was showing a great interest in bread. He was about six. And granny says to him.

-If you can finish one loaf I will let you eat another by yourself.-

And I we laughed.

He was done in a few minutes

-You really have a big stomach- she exclaimed.-You will eat your own bread every day until school opens.-

He got bored eventually.

Our parents and guardians, though not experts at parenting, somehow knew how to make  things special.  I grew up and realized I didn’t know how to make things special for me. Always in a bit of rush, cup of tea in one hand mop in another. Or, phone in one hand, while eating the  hot mandazi I just made.

 I have been grasping myself in a firm grip, making conscious effort to sit down , enjoy a cup of tea or orange juice arranged proper with fresh flowers on the tray and no gadgets in sight. We’ll see how far that goes.

Project; slow down sista Ciss

The day of money for milk was scrapped when the farmer’s society decided to register their members at Taifa Sacco, where your monthly earnings reflect on your account. If you ask me, that kind of stern business approach is good, to some extent but the old fashioned cash payments had a human touch to them. If you ask me too I also think the farmers co-operative takes advantage of its loyal customers, making decisions for them without enough consultation and everyone should just sign up with Brookside. Don’t ask me, I’ve never owned a cow.

kwa ngũkũ- Our shopping centre is called kwa ngũkũ, after the white settler that owned that land-  His name was Cook.