As long as the belly is full……

I don’t cook. Out of choice. Meaning that if my life depended on it, I could whip up a perfectly decent meal, but I haven’t in years and I’m not intending on breaking the record any time soon.

I used to fancy myself as something of a gourmet cook, until my ex-Zulu girl put me in my place by declaring: “Phuti (gentleman) Your food was okay, but it was never great or anything. Now your homeboy Kim , he is an outstanding cook.” Ouch. Bitch.

That did more than just hurt kiasi…Well it shattered my massive Kao ego. But I still ventured into the kitchen ever so often, and then Nosipho, the girl next door rid me of that little ego left by always suggesting how I could “better” my skills every time she came to my flat for a meal . So I realized that instead of making my loved ones suffer any further, I would simply stop pretending to be a great chef and do away with cooking altogether.
So what do I eat? Delis are my great enemies. I never visit a fast food joint although there are tons of places to choose from. Pap (ugali) and beef from Pick N Pay chain Stores are simply my favourite. My local Pick N Pay is within walking distance of my local liquor store which is also a walking distance from my flat, and I try to support the liquor joint as well, for all that it’s damaging my kidneys, but I do try to drink very little, and make it worth it when I do.

This is where my relationship with the ladies at the Pick N Pay Kitchen section comes into play. Those ladies can cook, and God bless every single one of them, because ever so often I really do appreciate a delicious meal cooked by someone I know by name, and not by brand. They now know me well. I come in with stories of how the Kenyan Pap (ugali) is superior in quality and mass compared to what they have in SA. I Keep on suggesting how we can work together to improve the SA Pap , The vibe goes on and on vile ati I will offer them free Ugali spinning lessons taken somewhere in my flat.

But So far none has shown interest in visiting my flat. Tough lack.

Today being Friday, the thigh rush is on- God don’t lead me into temptations …just deliver me from this winter - am going back Pick N Pay, to those ladies, with a story of how am an accomplished gourmet cook, how I would unleash a four dish meal were it not for my tight work schedule. How I can do a mean Jack Daniels chicken, and my unique southern style grits and fried chicken are like nothing they’ve ever had. I just pray that eventually nitaangukia some nice Xhosa ass to warm my winter blues

Honestly, my idea of cooking eggs is to stick them in a bowl, season with salt and pepper and microwave for about a minute or simply deep fry them. Don’t judge , it tastes fine to me.
If really trying to impress some SA girl(ladies home are smarter), I just heat the ready-made garlic bread in the oven before hand for the place to smell like cooking. The true measure of a wonderful host is providing great food and company. Whose pot that food comes from is irrelevant. As long as the belly is full, who cares?

And just before you think I’m a serious degenerate, which may or may not be true, just consider that I’m not alone in this. As I was typing this, a lady friend in Cape town emailed a service here that will provide you with an affordable daily meal at a cost of R200 per week (five days). For R400 you get two meals per day. Drum roll. Here’s the best bit - they’ll deliver it to your door!
God is there after all!

KENYAN MEN NEED EXCUSES TOO

There are hundreds of brilliant male scientists in beautiful Kenya most of whom do their jobs quite well. But just like our politicians, they’ve failed to fulfill their duty to fellow Kenyan men. They haven’t come up with scientific reasons for certain types of Kenyan male behavior. They haven’t given us adequate excuses for habits like leaving the toilet seat up, refusing to ask for directions and getting too intimate with the remote control.Kenyan Women, it seems, have a monopoly on the excuses. An example of this occurred some months ago in Mombasa. As reported by a reliable source, Amina Nuru, 23, was trying to turn her car right somewhere in Pembe za Ndovu (Moi Avenue) when a male driver behind honked and finally drove around her.Amina and the man exchanged obscene gestures. When they met again at a nearby gas station, she called the man “mwanaharamu” (Bastard) and then slapped him after they argued. Police cited her for disorderly conduct. Amina pleaded that she was pregnant. Her pregnancy had evidently caused her body to produce a surplus of a hormone called SMH (Slap Men Hormone).

She told a police officer that “when a female is pregnant, they are more emotional than normal.” This is why it’s always a good idea to wear body armour when visiting the maternity ward. You could get attacked from all directions.

Pregnant women are eager to slap men, because men never have to go through labour. This resentment probably goes back to the Garden of Eden: Adam was too busy inventing rules for football to attend the meeting where God handed out childbirth duties. Even the feminists haven’t figured out a way to share this burden with men.

But I hear Kenyan women have turned pregnancy into an advantage of sorts. A pregnant woman can get away with just about anything: turning baby daddy into an errand boy, consuming Kenchic delicacy for breakfast and ice cream for lunch, eating as if she’s giving birth to a whale.

Kenyan mamas who aren’t pregnant can also get away with pretty much anything, as long as the timing is right. Picture this courtroom exchange:

Judge: “Lucy wa Kibaki, the court has found you guilty of battering your  husband , get crashing in a Smart casual(dress code)Diplomats bash while dressed in yellow pajamas and holding hostages members of the fourth Estate, all in one night. Do you have anything to say?”

Lucy wa Kibaki: “Nyeeeee! Kwani you don’t know, it was that time of the month.”

Judge: “Case dismissed!”

If the insanity defense works, it won’t be long before our sisters invoke the PMS defense. There’s nothing that can’t be explained by PMS, which stands for either Perilous Mood Swings or Potential Male Slap. PMS usually lasts just a few days, but like a soccer game, can go into overtime. Of course, there’s a lot of scientific evidence to confirm the effects of PMS. Men can’t understand it all, but as with religion, we just have to believe.

If Kenyan male scientists would get their act together, maybe they’d discover a few afflictions for us. This would help us get some much-needed sympathy and ease all that guilt we feel.

Men who hate to ask for directions probably suffer from something like GCM (Going in Circles Mania). When pestered by his wife to stop at a, Supermarket, a brother could say,

“Sorry honey, Ngai! That darned GCM is acting up again.”

Men who forget to lower the toilet seat suffer from TED (Toilet Etiquette Deficiency).
“Baby haki pole, the doctor says it’s incurable.”

Men who skip church to watch soccer suffer from PDS (Priority Disorder Syndrome).
“You wouldn’t understand it, love. It’s a guy thing.”

Men who scratch themselves private places and in public suffer from PMI (Primitive Male Itch).
“Sorry honey, I can’t help it. It’s genetic.”

Men who caress the remote more than their women suffer from BPO (Button Pushing Obsession).
“Sorry honey, I don’t know which buttons to push with you. Do you have one for ‘mute’?”

Come on brother Arthur Obel, we need this a lot more than we need Kemron

YOU MEN EXCLUDED, ME INCLUDED

She has done it to Kamau, She has done it to Alan,
she has come up with a good plan.

And she’ll be doing it to You too,
sending You out into the BT.

“PILATO ONLY” she’ll proudly say,
and it doesn’t matter if you’re gay.

You’re not supposed to go in there,
no matter what kind of earrings you wear.

Leave her alone, give her some space;
don’t force me to use my Mace

She wants to be away from your kind

She want to be away from men who move in too tight;
she want to be away from men who pinch with delight.

She want to be away from men who like to leer;
away from men who stare at her blessed rear.

She want to be away from men who are big flirts;
away from maniacs who stare down her shirt.

She want to be away from men who are always teasing;
She want to be away from men who can’t help squeezing.

She want to be away from men who love to grope;
away from men who don’t understand ‘nope.’

She want to be away from men who think she’s trash;
She want to be away from men who are eager to flash.

She want to be away from men who like to lean;
She want to be away from men who act fifteen.

She want to be away from men who are always crude;
She want to be away from men who picture her nude.

She want to be away from Kamau, Alan and You;
She want to be away from YOU GUYS, not Me.

<strong>She’ll put up with me

She’ll put up with me — I’m as harmless as a tree;
the worst thing I’ve done is sing off-key.

She’ll put up with me when I’m always snoring;
she’ll put up with me when I’m always boring.

She’ll put up with me when I have nothing to say;
she’ll put up with me when I have tooth decay.

She’ll put up with me when I never buy a ticket;
she’ll put up with me when I talk about cricket.

She’ll put up with me when I never get off the phone;
she’ll put up with me when I wear bad cologne.

She’ll put up with me when I’m in Disease;
she’ll put up with me when I smell of beer and cheese.

She’ll put up with me when I pray non-stop;
She’ll put up with me when I listen to hip-hop.

She’ll put up with Me — it’s Kamau, Alan and You she can’t stand;
all because of You three, I now have to deal with ‘no man’s land.’

<

XENOPHOBIC VIOLENCE:WHO IS TO BLAME?

One Good Friday I found myself praying for the souls of the many bigots and blinkered South Africans suffering from xenophobic tendencies. Like a charitable nice boy brought up in a Christian family, I prayed only that the Creator should remove their bigotry and rid them of their ingrained denialism and tit-for-tat nonsense.

Mark you, I very easily could have prayed that their warped and miserable souls should be damned forever, and that they must roast in the ovens of hell for all eternity. But, as I say, I am imbued with charitable values on which I was raised and, heaven willing, Satan will be deprived a lot of pieces of choice rump and fillet steaks to roast for millions of aeons, if my prayers do get answered!

Eish! The senseless xenophobic slaughter in Alexandra, Johannesburg could have been averted a very long time ago, had public representatives played an honest role and played open cards with citizens.

There are various reasons for the unprecedented influx of illegal immigrants into South Africa - from Eastern Europe, Israel, Pakistan, Yemen, Somalia, many parts of West Africa, and all over the SADC countries. Some have fled because of political unease, religious tension, starvation and the search for the proverbial greener pastures.

The ANC government allowed millions of foreigners into the country, especially from the African continent. The rationale was that many African countries had given South African exiles succour during the times of apartheid tyranny. So, in effect, the new government was paying back these countries.

But the new government was also supposed to contend with more immediate and pressing matters at home: past wrongs had to be redressed, infrastructure had to be strengthened and extended to those the apartheid regime had deliberately marginalised, the housing and health sectors had to be improved, and more and better sanitation and water facilities had to be provided. Electricity had to be supplied to millions of new households.

Such a mammoth infrastructural upgrade, taking in large communities across the country, could not cope at the best of times; with countless millions of immigrants, for whom zero provision had been made, there just was no way in which the country would cope.

Adding to the malaise, the immigrants brought along with them some unsavoury and unacceptable practices: many were drug pushers, thieves and fraudsters (read many Nigerians), and Pakistanis, in particular, “married” local women fraudulently, with the active connivance and co-operation of corrupt officials of the local home affairs department.

The newcomers, in most instances, were better educated than the average black South African. Many had entrepreneurial skills, which the locals  simply lacked, and the relative ease with which they appeared to start small and medium-sized businesses was bound to leave the sour taste of jealousy in the mouth.

In many poorer and less sophisticated communities - such as the North West villages of Mafikeng, Sannieshof, Delareyville, Ditsobotla and Mooidorpie - Pakistanis and Somalis, mainly, took over non-performing shops and displaced the original owners. That was viewed in a very dim light by the affected communities, and latent xenophobia was stoked to the surface.

Last  week’s Alexandra uprisings were just a further manifestation of the simmering hatred. The foreigners are being accused of stealing jobs from locals and contributing to the high prices of food and other commodities.

The government’s abject failure to address the uncontrolled entry into South Africa is chiefly to blame, and the arrogance of many foreigners doesn’t help either.

The way things look, it may be wishful thinking to imagine that somehow the phenomenon of uncontrolled immigration can be capped.

 

BAR SCENE

My head’s been a little fuzzy lately, for reasons I’d rather not detail (though they are not illegal), so I thought I’d bring you a really obscure material.

I’ll admit right off, I’m not a bar guy. Never have been, probably never will. I just don’t have the self-confidence it requires to get shot down that much and yet keep trying.

As a wannabe writer, though, I’m supposed to observe humanity, so I recently went to a bar, staked out a table next to some attractive women, and took a good look at the circus parade of human male freakdom that hit on them.

My favourite person of the night was Mr. Freudian-subtext. He stroked his oversized beer bottle like a penis, shaking it to make white foam come out. Cute. And what latencies were we observing when he then put it in his mouth and drank from it? Hmmm? There was also Mr. I’m-too-sexy-for-my-shirt, so named because he had it open so far. Yes, those mediocre pecs and five chest hairs were extremely impressive.

But overall each guy, as he passed, was pretty much like a car salesman, trying the sales pitch and moving on, braving rejection on a scale I could never face.

Then the three good looking women opposite me started talking about sex putting emphasis on how long it’s been since they had it. These working class girls were talking in terms of days and weeks. Me, I’m talking in terms of terms… presidential terms.

Then one pipes up and says “I really need to have sex.” The other two chime in with “Me too. I need to have sex too.”

It was finally too much to bear. I motioned them close. “Ladies, you may not know this,” I said. “It’s really a closely guarded secret, but… now keep this under your hats… I have a penis. Not only that, it’s but a mere part of a complete and fully functioning set of male genitalia. But wait… male genitalia? My goodness, that must have been mean ! But what was I to do?..Someone tell me please

OF MEN AND BIG BOOBS…

 I’m going to come out on a very important subject and many men will disagree with me. I am decidedly against big breasts.

Now I’m not talking about ordinary, naturally-occurring big boobs, though they are a problem. I’m talking about the super-gargantuan man-made breasts. When I see these silicone-reinforced strippers and adult film stars on talk shows, discussing what it’s like to have a 58LL bra size, that’s when I say “that’s a little wazimu.”

There comes a point where you really have to wonder. Who are these Jamaas who can look at a breast bigger than the head of the woman  and find it attractive? One would assume that not only weren’t these men breast or bottle fed as babies, they actually had to suck milk from a wet rag.

Some people say it’s the novelty factor, the freak factor, that it’s more just the fact that something is way out of proportion to regular people that makes us interested. Yeah, right. I’ve never seen a man pay a Ksh 480 cover charge to look at a woman with really big ugly  feet. I’ve never seen a man pick up a National Geographic and say “would you look at the humongous earlobes on that babe? Now that’s sexy.” But show them a picture of  Pamela Anderson or Cesi Mutungi…

And the worst part is the hypocrisy. We men feel no guilt for leering at a mama with really large breasts, then turn around and not only want, but often need women to tell us that size doesn’t matter. “It’s what you do with it that counts.” As a society, we create pressure for women to shave, pluck, wax, dye, paint, pierce, and surgically enhance themselves, then we want them to love us for who we are. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this picture? Am I the only one who fears that with advances in penile enhancement surgery, the tables could get turned?

Thus I am taking a stand against big man-made breasts. whether I like them or not, big breasts have got to go.

MEN ARE FROM HIGH SCHOOL, WOMEN ARE FROM COLLEGE

What do “chanukad jamaas” say is an important quality in a She? Intelligence. Well, I have recently realized that we are deluded. Forget Mars. Forget Venus. Men are from high school and women are from college. Why do I say this? Is it something having to do with perceived differences in maturity levels? Not in the slightest. It all has to do with the simple fact that women are smarter than men.

Think about it Jamaas. How do you make your muscles stronger? Exercise them . Our brains are the same way. But when it comes to so many things in life, men’s brains are warming the bench while women’s brains are getting a full cardiovascular workout.

Men have ONE shoe size. Ask one Archer, he wears size 13. Simple. And his She?… well it depends. Am sure she is  like an astrologer doing a natal chart on the shoe. Where was it made? Who made it? Was it made in the winter or spring? What was the geographic elevation of the shoe factory? Was the leather from a happy or a sad cow? Eventually she finds some imported  stilettos at Sunbeam and the shoe-shopping mission has been completed.

Modoathii  what’s your trouser size? You’ll say 32:30 or 34:32 or something simple, basically the waist and inseam. But ask your She… “I’m a size 5 on the eighth day of every third month when it’s not raining. Eish these women!

And let’s not even get into colours. We men are not unfamiliar with the fact that there are multiple shades and can probably tell 4-5 different ones in each main colour group. But women make us look like simpletons. They carry portable physics labs with them and can apparently discern a variation of one hertz in the spectrum of visible light. What’s the difference between eggshell white and bone white? Hell if I know, but my She does.

Think of certain words you’d probably never have heard if not for women.  taupe, mauve, lavender These are not words that come naturally to the dudes  vocabulary. They are inserted there after associating with women, sort of like the medical terms you know from watching “ER.” Sure, you can say them and sound cool, but damned if you know what they actually mean.

And don’t get me started on purses. Go ahead, ask any woman why men don’t carry purses. She’ll turn into a Naomi Campbell mad at her maid. “You want a purse? You want a purse? You can’t handle a purse!” And you know what? She’s right. We can barely handle briefcases. That’s why every article of our clothing has a pocket. But still, even with just a couple of pockets, like if you’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt, you will at some time or another become an amateur cop. Just observe yourself the next time you can’t find your keys. As you start looking around the room, you’ll do a pat-down search. Essentially, you’re frisking yourself.

But a woman just throws every item she comes across during her day into her purse. My mama used to have this huge purse when I was a kid. I stared into that black hole once. There were receipts, business cards,  a five-year supply of peremende… I just figured that Mom was God in training. She was collecting matter until she had enough for another big bang and then she was going to start her own universe.

In fact, the bigger her purse, the smarter a woman is. That’s why most women don’t start carrying the really big purses until they’re married, because they don’t want to scare off any easily manipulated Jamaa until they’ve got him. Bomseh,  do you have ladies with big purses there in the BT? Hell No, unless she is planning to shuka the BT for a night in  some lucky Jamaa’s crib. Inside the  big purse would probably be a  bra and a thong to change the next morning before she panda the BT again.

So the next time one of you BT dudes says an important quality in a woman is intelligence, just face it… if she can dress herself with a modicum of class and colour coordination, and she carries a purse , she’s not only intelligent, she’s smarter than you. And if you should somehow end up getting the impression she’s not intelligent enough… that just means she doesn’t like you.

THE OPTIMISTIC STORY

I’m an optimist, a relentless, uncorruptable  and incorrigible optimist. If I were married to Nini Wacera, that Nawty TV girl, I’d say, “Well, at least I’m not married to the hard partying  hot- panted Paris Hilton .” If I were married to Paris Hilton , I’d say, “Well, at least I’m not married to a Zulu .” If I were married to a Zulu , I’d say, “Well, at least I’m not dead.”

Yes, I have a very positive outlook on life. Sometimes I just look in the mirror and smile, for I know that although I’m not half as handsome as Brad Pitt , I’m twice as handsome as Osama bin Laden. Life is good!

Optimism keeps my spirits up, even when things aren’t going my way. Tomorrow will be better, I tell myself. My Feature story will sell tomorrow; my Heaven floodgates will open tomorrow; True love will come knocking tomorrow.Perhaps I’m lying to myself, but I’d rather do a little bit of lying than a lot of crying.

Not only can optimism make you more successful, it can make you healthier. For example, a new study indicates that optimists are far less likely to develop heart disease than pessimists.

A pessimistic rich boy  would say, “Five cars. I can’t believe I have only five cars.” An optimistic fighter would say, “Five scars. I can’t believe I have only five scars.”

Optimists tend to be more successful than pessimists, because they don’t let failures get them down. They keep trying until they achieve their goals or qualify for retirement.

In my high school days, I really wanted to play in the School’s basketball team but the only problem was I was very short  and schoolmates would call me kibwengu- Coastal lingo for a dwarf- and others would shout whenever they saw me ” mfupi kama rungu ya Moi“

But I never gave up.Deep inside  I knew  That slam dunks were not in my league of dreams but then I could try dribbling. So together with my high school She, we embarked on a serious dribbling and 3 point shooting lessons, and when my tomorrow came, I was the best dribbler and three point shooter in school and man of the match during the schools district championships. My training partner who came from humble beginnings got a chance to play professionally in the States…

Of course, being over optimistic can be disastrous. An over optimistic driver may neglect to wear a safety belt, an over optimistic presidential candidate may forget to campaign in his constituency, and an over optimistic mother may rely on
her husband to keep an eye on the baby during the world cup rugby  game. “Honey, the good news is my team won. The bad news is I sat on the baby.

Some folks say they are neither optimists  nor pessimists. They call themselves realists. But what exactly is reality? Was it realistic for Nelson Mandela, serving 27 years in the Boer run  Robben Island, to imagine himself as president?

Here are two scenarios to illustrate the importance of
optimism:

SCENARIO ONE: Your Girlfriend has just left you for another man.
Realist: “It’s the end of my love.”
Pessimist: “It’s the end of my life.”
Optimist: “It’s the end of my credit card bills.”

SCENARIO TWO: After an accident, you lose your sense of
hearing.
Realist: “I may never hear again.”
Pessimist: “I may never communicate again.”
Optimist: “I may never listen to Beyonce   again.”

If that doesn’t sell you on optimism, I don’t know what
will.

Why all these optimism story. Me want to resign from work tomorrow morning but thats all a story of tomorrow but one.

Right now  Pilato  got rush  church for evening service and then sit back laters and watch Springboks devour the Pumas in the Rugby World cup.

Wish you an optimistic week.

FOUR STAGES OF FINDING A SHE/HE

 My She  and I have just completed two  years off the BT , but no one’s offering us a degree not even a diploma. I might get in trouble for saying this, but I’m not sure which is harder: two years off BT  or four years of college. At least in college, if you fail a test, you don’t have to sleep outside with the dog.
But don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to have someone I can count on for love, affection, and, whenever needed, a wag of the tail.
Best of all, I can smile whenever I see a soul trying to get off the BT, knowing that I survived that stage of my life.

There are actually four stages — and I almost went through all of them.

CAREFREE STAGE:
This stage occurs in your late teens and early twenties, usually in high school  or Colle. There are so many attractive people around, you can’t decide which
ones to stare at. Playing “hard to get” seems like a good strategy, even if no one is trying to get you. Everyone seems available, and if they’re not, just wait a minute or two, they will come running to you

HOPEFUL STAGE:
This stage occurs in your mid to late twenties. You’re hoping to run into Mr. or Miss. Right at your workplace, but in case that doesn’t happen, you’re keeping your eyes open at the local . There are so many attractive people there, especially late at night, after your fourth Tusker.
If you’re a woman, you’re enjoying loads of attention. One jamaa buys you a drink, while another while swinging car keys charms you with a clever pick-up line: “Hey sweetheart, wanna have my children?”
If you’re a man, you’re trying your best to make a connection with the hot waitress in the skimpy outfit. She might be your soul mate, for all you know, so what if she has a tattoo on her backside that says, “Ali Makwere was here.”

CONCERNED STAGE: You’re starting to get worried, wondering if the person you were meant to be with, the person whom fate intended for you, lives in a grass hut in Loitokitok. For the first time in your life, you’re considering enrolling in a seminary or Convent.
Depending on your background and culture, you find yourself reading matrimonial ads, personal ads, or toilet ads. “you want to feel good all over, call Johnny,” one toilet ad reads,and you wonder if Johnny is a doctor.
You even start to go on blind dates. As soon as you see the person your friends have set you up with, you close your eyes and pretend to be blind.

DESPERATE STAGE:
You don’t want to seem desperate, but the idea of an arranged marriage is beginning to grow on you .If you’re a She, you’re relieved that there are still a few good catches in your age group, never mind that they all live in Kitui. You wonder if it’s better to be “single and stomach full” or “married and hungry.”
You convince yourself that you’re not lowering your standards -you’re just focusing on the positive aspects of men you meet. “He doesn’t have a job,” you say, “but he does have most of his teeth and a friend between his legs.”
If you’re a man, you’ve started saving money for marriage expenses, though you haven’t quite decided on a bride. They all look beautiful, especially the ones on the front of the catalogue. Your search for a She comes down to two important decisions:  Regular or Chips funga.

I don’t know how far blogger riding the BT has gone but thank God, me got a She to call gachungwa.

HELP…MAN CAN’T COOK

Hungry and wasted the other day, I tiptoed into the kitchen and tried to fix myself some hard thing  .That was a big mistake, because I wasn’t alone. My flatmate, Natomb-something, was watching me closely — like that bellicious afande at the driver’s license center - waiting for me to do something incredibly stupid.She didn’t have to wait long.

“Why are you using dried maize and beans when we
have so many fresh vegetables?”

“ai we always use dried maize and beans back  home.”

“Don’t you know that fresh vegetables are more nutritious  than dried maize and beans?”

“I … well … uh …asi..yebo”

I felt like an accused murderer who had just been declared a bongo lala(read insane).

I could already  envisage her going on a character assassination mode spreading udaku to her best friend whom I had unaccomplished mission with.

Flatmate: “Hi,  Veliswa,This Kenyan guy is definitely
bonkers. He used maize and beans to make a
hard thing. Do you need any more proof that the guy is not worth a shot?”

Friend: “No dear, you’ve proved your case well. It’s
too bad I can’t  give it  to a guy who’s clueless in the
kitchen.”

Flatmate: “Trust me, my dear, that’s not the only
room he’s clueless in.”

I don’t know why my flatmate brought up nutrition. Had she ever seen me snacking on onion bulbs? Had I ever eaten a cucumber for dessert? In my world, such foods barely exist. I hurry past them in the grocery store as though they’re carrying something contagious.

Needless to say, my flat mate took over the cooking, tossing all sorts of fresh veggies into boiling water and probably wishing she could toss me in there too.

 Let this be a warning to all men: If you live with a woman, the kitchen is dangerous territory. You’d be safer in Mamba Village, wrestling with crocodiles. At least when they snap at you, it won’t hurt your pride or deflate your ego.

Just look at all the tools and gadgets in the kitchen and admit to yourself that you have no idea what some of them do. Don’t even bother with all the seasonings and spices. How can men be expected to understand coriander, cumin, oregano and periperi, when we’re still trying to figure out Salt and pepper? My flatmate has so many spices in so many bottles, I’m beginning to think she’s a collector . She has got not only garlic powder,but also garlic salt, and soon she’ll be getting I don’t know garlic what.

And what about the refrigerator? . Aside from occasionally fishing out  bottles of  Viceroy, I’m afraid to look through our freezer. It has far too many UFOs (unidentified frozen objects). Some have been frozen since Easter.

I am thinking of  moving flats, but then I am only good at  boiling githeri and maybe deep frying some eggs… I can’t stand my power-hungry flat mate but then I don’t want to starve to death..its a terrible way to die with an empty stomach.

This man can’t cook. What to do what to do?