Citius, Altius, Fortius

I love the Olympics. It gives Kenya a chance to stand up and showcase their long- and middle-distance athletes who at the same time scare the wits out of other similar distance runners. The Olympics give Kenyans a chance to be proud of their flag and their national anthem.

That is until you consider the London Olympics.

It was not so much that we did not believe we had a great team. Heck, we all rallied behind and believed the Sports minister when he said that he expected our team to bring home thirty-six medals, with at least twelve gold medals in track.

We knew we would have Ethiopia, Morocco, and Algeria breathing down our necks, but that was not a problem. Our runners are good. No, cross out that. Our runners are the best. They had consistently won gold—silver, by default—in other pre-Olympics competitions and previous Olympic Games. It was a given that in London, we would have a few podium shut-outs, cinching the first three positions with saunter-in-the-park ease.

But alas! Alas! How our pride fizzled with the falls! We were haplessly disqualified in the first 400-meter relay heat after accomplishing a double feat of falling and managing to drag down with us the South Africans, who, mercifully, were redeemed after they appealed.

Brimin Kipruto, our homegrown, 3000m steeplechase gold material, fell, came in fifth, and what would you know, our supremacy on the steeplechase podium went flying out through the window thanks to a once-obscure, pesky Frenchman with an endless name, who snagged our silver medal—again! A repeat of Beijing in 2008.

And Kenya wept.

What could be more ironic? Mahiédine Mekhissi-Benabbab, the Frenchman, beat us by studying how we strategically run, what Rift Valley altitude? What plateaux? What something-in-the-water? It would also seem that Russia—Russia!—learnt a thing or two from watching our running techniques. They beat us soundly right on our turf in the women’s 800m race, oh, our dismay! Oh, the sorrow!

And Kenya wept some more.

I am not sure which is worse: losing to nations that in the history of athletics are not known for dominating in the long- and middle-distance track events, or watching formerly-Kenyan athletes running under a foreign flag. It is at first disconcerting watching these athletes run: they look like Kenyans, run like Kenyans, talk like Kenyans but have very un-Kenyan running vests and names. What heartens my soul with delightful malice—serves them right!—is when they lose. Miserably. Unlike Kenyans. That is until you consider the London Olympics, if you have been keeping up with me.

I, apparently, have not been the only Kenyan smirking in my Diasporan corner. Kenyans all over have had these cat’s-got-the-cream smirks on their faces for so many years that athletic gods decided to rain down their disapproval over a particular week in August 2012 in London.

Kenyan athletes not only hit one rough, un-Kenyan plateau but also took the Olympic Creed to heart: the most important thing was not to win but to take part, not to triumph but to struggle … and not make the podium if really lucky, or end up disqualified if really unlucky.

The Algerian who took the gold medal in  the men’s 1500m race (our race!) got himself almost barred by the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) for—wait for it—showing “poor sportsmanship and a lack of effort” during a previous race, the 800m.  In the 1500m dash (when compared to the 10 000m jog, you see), he whizzed past our Kenyan runners who got nary a medal, and who I wish had shown a “lack of effort” too.

We are used to losing—what a painful word!—our first place to Ethiopia and Morocco and once in a while, we will cede our track prowess turf to Algeria and Tunisia and Uganda. But Turkey? Russia? The Czech Republic? Puerto Rico? France? Oh please! Bring me sackcloth and cover me in ashes. We Kenyans in particular and Africa in general no longer have the monopoly over our races. Can we blame this on the El Nino? Less snow on the peaks of Mt. Kenya? Desertification in the Sahara? A severe allergy to metals, namely gold, silver, and bronze?

Kenya took home eleven medals in London, only two of which were gold. Solid gold.

David Rudisha not only won the 800m gold but also set a new world record, running and finishing the race inside one minute and 41 seconds. 

Ezekiel Kemboi, the men’s 3000m steeplechase finalist, had French sports commentators waxing eloquent over him when once he had won the race, jumped into the arms of silver medalist, Mahiédine Bekhissi-Benabbab, swapped running vests with the French runner, and then ran the lap of honour wearing Bekhissi-Benabbab’s vest and holding high the Kenyan flag. This was a glimpse of the spirit of Pierre de Coubertin’s Olympics: nations coming together to compete well and honourably. The scene was brief, did not end the mother of all wars, but for a few minutes, it made spectators forget their differences and left a warm glow in our hearts.

So we may have not finished our races, we may have fallen, been disqualified, lost a race or two, struggled, watched the medals race past us, but proudly Kenyan, we will rise again.

Rio 2016: watch this space. We’ll be back, faster, higher, and stronger yet.

Policeman Slapped with a Croissant Fine

Maybe he had had a late night with a new girlfriend. Maybe he suffers from wretched insomnia. Maybe he was caught in a stunning, Nairobi-like traffic jam. Maybe the explanation is more mundane: his alarm clock didn’t go off. Whatever the case, here he is at the bakery, with a contrite demeanour and flanked by two grim colleagues with no-nonsense body language. This seems to be some kind of perp walk, without the media. The baker, packing lots and lots of croissants into paper bags, is also trying to understand what is going on. “C’est pour un anniversaire?” he ventures tentatively. Are the croissants for a birthday party? Grim-faced female cop barks (kind of): “Non. Il est arrivé en retard.” No, he reported to work late.

Ah.

The perhaps insomnia-suffering or alarm-clock failure or new-girlfriend’s-fault cop bows his head (kind of) and has the decency to look embarrassed. I catch his sheepish eye, incredulous. “Ah bon?” Really? “Nooon!” the baker echoes, also with incredulity. We are gratified with an acquiescence of the head, accompanied by a smile. This perp walk cannot be too bad. In a few weeks’ time, he will probably be one of the Grim Flankers, but today, it’s his day to look bashful. The other flanker, male, turns to me. “Late-comers must pay for their tardiness.” He sounds like he is giving orders. “No excuses.” An implacable face. No smile.

Sheesh!

Perp-walk cop pays for the twenty-and-more croissants. Grim Flankers help him carry the four white paper bags. The three walk out of the bakery and disappear round the corner. The baker and I share a mirthful laugh.

Now when I think about it, I suspect we were not the ones who laughed last and loudest. If one had followed the three cops to the station, one would probably have heard of the tale of this baker and one customer with the disbelieving looks and open mouths. Non! Ah bon? We really got them, didn’t we?

(Weaving alongside Wambui Mwangi)

To Die For

Your weekend’s almost over and you want to head off Monday morning blues with an all-the-rage, no-stress remedy? Here’s how.

What: Slunch with a twist

Where: Ours

When: This coming Sunday

Time: 5.00pm onwards

Dress: Casual chic (as usual)

Ambiance: chill-out

Brunch is not démodé. This is its alternative! Looking forward to seeing you all, chéris!

Start with the sweet and work your way backwards. The theme, because themes are always such fun, is to raise awareness.

The sweet.  To whet your appetites, mes chéris, to whet your appetites!

Red Velvet Gateau.

Isn’t it a marvel?

The extra dark chocolate.

The deep strawberry-red.

What a delight! How original!

And the buttercream.

Simply melts in your mouth!

We thought the cake should be shaped like a torso. A woman’s torso! And, yes, why not a Black African woman’s torso, for this dark, ugly thing happens down there—in Dark Africa! Were you aware of it?

Yes, mmmm.

The cake is absolutely delicious!

So moist,

So luscious,

To die for.

And the chocolate!

So dark, so bitter.

Perfect.

No words to describe

The buttercream!

So sinfully rich.

Exquisite?

For the savoury, we hesitated between tripe—we have a great tripe-cooked-in-cider recipe—and pasta, didn’t we, chéri? We settled for

Spaghettini bolognese,

Finesse oblige.

Also

Crudités,

With accompanying dips.

Of course you can have

A bit

Of everything.

Spaghettini makes you think of hair strands? Well.... Why not? Actually, how clever, ma chérie, how clever! That’s ... umm ... so much in line with our awareness theme. Lovely.

Of course we didn’t forget—the wine!

Burgundy red.

Organic.

Dry and lean.

Tart.

Prickling the palate.

Piquant.

Bolognese sauce. We love it hot and spicy. You do, too? Oh lovely! Goes well with the wine, doesn’t it? A burgundy, smooth as velvet.

Zaz found it rather harsh. Angular, she said it was. It lacked finesse, had an unpleasant finish. She also read too much into the dessert. It’s only cake, for heaven’s sake! Amazing how someone so with-it can display such flashes of ignorance!

Ah, Zaz! There you are, chérie! We were just talking about the mar-vellous wine! Did you know that it is organic? It is also rated very highly by the Consumer’s Guide to Fine Wines.

Listen up, everyone!

The dips are home-made—

No preservatives,

No artificial colouring,

All natural!

Guacamole,

Chilli cream cheese,

and

Hummus!

Don’t be put off by the dip here.

It’s only tapenade.

Black olives,

Capers and

Lemon juice—

For the tang!

I know the colour—so black!—is not that appealing. But tapenade is so français!  Give it a try, mes chéris. You’ll love it, I’m sure. It has a touch of brandy, too! But if you prefer, there are

Stuffed olives.

Pickled too,

For the bite!

They are nice.

Round.

Firm.

The flavours burst in your mouth!

Oh! What’s going on? He’s choking over a stuffed olive. Slap him on the back! He can’t breathe. Heimlich manoeuvre! He’s gasping for breath. Chéri! Chéri! Call 112.

Choking over a stuffed olive?

What a shame.

Can hardly breathe?

Shame.

Eat me.

And do not resuscitate.

(Weaving alongside P. Muthoni and W. Mwangi)

Women's Voices: When Gender Comes to Visit

Warning and Disclaimer: If you take life at face value, if you think there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, if you think the sky will fall on your head at any time, if you never leave the house without an umbrella, do not read this. All unnamed names in this post are not fictitious, and any resemblance to any actual, living person is not at all purely coincidental. This voice is neither WeavingKenya 2012's (Weaving Women's group) spokesman nor representative.  The unnamed names have every right to sue This voice, keeping in mind these two conditions: - that they remember that they will be the very same unnamed names who will post her bail; - if this voice is imprisoned for slander, defamation, sky-is-falling fallacies, the unnamed names will  visit her every Sunday and bring her oranges.

It all started with a simple question: Are we allowed to invite men to Weave?

The last time the Weaving Women had thrashed it out—not in the pulling-each-other’s-weaves-out-and-scratching-each-other’s-faces-with-painted-finger-nails sense, but in an intellectual fencing sense—it was over a Man out there who had played very loosely with the word “tribal.”

In an essay of less than 750 words, the journalist accomplished the feat of using the “T” word to ad nauseam, to qualify the words tremor, violence, rivalries, and divisions in Kenya. Only once did the “T” word stand up all tribal by itself, and only once did it use an –ism as a crutch to lean on.

This time round, the “T” word is not the issue. The issue is Man, or to put it in NGO-speak, Gender.

The first couple of replies to the simple question were sweet three or so liners from MM and JT: Yes, let’s! They said. The writers used words like “outstanding” and “strong voice” to refer to Man. One of them went as far as saying that Man would be an “outstanding thread in our weaving.” Whoooaaaaa.

Then, like Lazarus, up rose MM II from her sick-with-flu-bed. Yes, yes, I know that Lazarus rose from the grave, but that is beside the point. MM II gave Warhol’s 15 minutes (of fame) a New and Improved 21^st-century twist, the artist would have been impressed.

In her 15 minutes of  quote allocated time online unquote, she managed to prove that she did not live in Three-liner County, by writing a slam dunk of  a dissertation on why Man could not, should not be allowed to Weave. Her argument was not that “Man” and “Weave” do not rhyme. We will get to her argument later for she is the one who got the (basket) ball rolling. What is worthy to note is that for someone down with the flu, she had one very clear head. Is that what Gender does to women with the flu?

The Man Aye-ayers waxed eloquent over Man’s qualities: fabulous, intelligent, sensitive, writes beautifully, clever, the best, sweet, gorgeous, funny, silly, big heart, outstanding, excellent, amazing, knowledgeable, strong voice, brilliantest (no, this was not a grammatical faux pas for all you pedantic readers. Today, the word means “beyond brilliant”). The Aye-ayers must have been quite breathless at the end of the exercise.

Man’s qualities made him more than right, more than ideal, more than perfect. They made him SuperMan. For the record, we don’t do Prince Charming in Africa; we neither have castles, nor do we build them on the ground or in the air. For the record, Africa is still not a country. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I know. That, too, is beside the point.

One Aye-ayer went on to affirm that she “shamelessly want[ed] to and [did] hang around with intelligent, articulate people.” Man aka SuperMan, being knowledgeable and writing beautifully, could obviously string a few words together to structure a complex sentence with capital letters, commas, and full stops in all the right places. That, apparently, made him articulate.

The Nayers had their arguments, too, but without the Aye-ayers qualifying adjectives. So what if this Man was Mr. Oh-So-Gender-Sensitive Perfect? Why, there must be “so many great gender-sensitive men out there,” SN argued, “So???”

MWG was not impressed either. Let Man aka “that Kenyan prof/poet,” a Mortal, in WeavingKenya’s midst! Look what happens when “one man is let into the room.” Can you imagine the distraction?

This voice could imagine the distraction. It would be like setting a bull loose in a china shop. Literally, not figuratively. Forget the broken cups and saucers. Imagine the commotion. The wary get-me-outta-here! Or even the mesmerised look-at-that!

Everyone would forget what they came to do in the china shop; the bull (with all due respect to Man aka SuperMan aka That mortal Kenyan prof/poet) would become the Object of Attention. This voice is not even saying that the Aye-ayers would behave like Johnny Depp fans, or whichever Man-actor is flavour of the month, and swoon at the sight of distracting SuperMan, because we don’t do swoon in Africa. We faint.

This voice cannot imagine men being distracted in quite the same way if one of them were to ask a similar question: do we allow women into our group? Their criteria would need very few adjectival props, depending on their global location.

Criteria for Northern Hemisphere men: Tall, blue-eyed, blonde or Mediterranean look.
36-24-36.

Criteria for African men: Buxom. Skinny/slender/slim beanpoles need not apply.

Criteria for both categories: Curvy. Sexy. Number of brain cells.

Letting a “single man in our midst” MWG thought, would mean that we could not call/address ourselves as “Weaver Women” or “Sister Weavers.” She had a good point there, says This voice. Ever seen Man Weaving? Quilting? Knitting? Would WeavingKenya become “WeavingTitansKenya” or “ShujaaWeaversKenya” for that oomph factor? Would we address each other as “Amazons-Spartans Weavers”  or “WonderWomen-SuperMen Weavers” for gender equality’s sake?

The Nayers accurately observed that there were “too few places” for women “to meet together – in mind” (DF) and that women-only intellectual spaces were “valuable and so few and far between” (WKR).

It is true that WeavingKenya is a “young, tender shoot” to “protect and nurture” (JT); a cherished sacred space for women, an inner sanctum (NG/WKR), a “special space” (CS), a place where women can express their “soulful creativity and innermost feelings” (MWG). Let a single man in our midst? The dynamics would inevitably shift, while “some of us [were] still finding our voices, sharing, experimenting, playing” (NG).

MM II—remember her? The one with a very clear flu-head?—proposed that the Weaving Women could and should intermingle with Man “out there,” for surely we were not going to resemble a Gentlewomen’s Country Club without the club chairs, port, and cigars, were we? Heck no! A chorus of voices rose among the Nayers—can you catch clear flu-head from a distance?—who heartily agreed with the Out There Principle. Yes, yes, “we could re-post their comments, engage them in discussion, just from over there as opposed to over here,” cried NG enthusiastically. Fair enough. Anyone in their right mind would, out of respect, have to agree with Any Woman with a very clear flu-head.

The Out There would be “a space, not the inner sanctum, where our brothers could meet us at the fence to talk and share” (WKR), for Man is not Weaving Women’s adversary. However, to get to the inner sanctum, the holy of holies, Man would have to work very hard at going past the outer court, past the brazen altar, past the veil. The Nayers had very exacting standards. No brill! Fab! Fun! Intel! Excel! jargon for them.

With One Voice, the Nayers and Aye-ayers agreed on this one point: “sexy hulk” would not be and was not part of their criteria, thank you very much.

Stima. Light, electric light. “I have stima!” WM jubilantly wrote, after days of power cuts. She went on ahead to respond to and to tie together in a nice bow all Our Voices above. Thanks to stima that came through for WM, This voice found a no-nonsense open-ended conclusion to All of The Above.

Since the Weaving Women are neither—watch the adjectives line up like toy soldiers— shrinking violets nor “a simpering gaggle of weak-willed women” (WM), since the Weaving Women are outstanding, intelligent, and all the other breathless adjectives, since each Voice belonging to the Weaving Women is unique, powerful,  and cannot be easily dismissed, the way This voice sees it is that we are searching ourselves to see how best to welcome Gender, who’s come to town, without being all encompassing or all exclusive or all loving or all dissenting. No one can be all things to all (wo)men.

In questioning Man’s presence in our midst, we are also questioning how we see ourselves and how we occupy and own our intellectual space. Almost like searching for the Holy Grail. It must be somewhere, no? Don’t see the connection between Holy Grail and Intellectual Space? Oh. Okay.

Memo to MM II, the one who gave Warhol’s 15 minutes a new twist: you might want to write up a ten-thousand-word choric performance on the enlightening benefits of stima (Ode to Stima) in your next quote flu-allocated time online unquote.

After all that hard work of cogitation and of stringing so many words together, This voice, exhausted to the bone, will lie down for a while to rest. Or is she coming down with a clear flu-head?

[Weaving alongside P. Muthoni and "at the fence" with Man (6th of April, 2012 post entry: Weaving)]

When Women Get Angry

When women get angry

They will build schools,

They will plant trees;

They will establish communities,

They will march in the street.

                                                                              The world might sit up,

                                                                              The world might notice,

                                                                              The world will go on.

When women get angry 

They will destroy each other,

They will restore each other;

They will burn their homes,

They will immolate themselves.

                                                                              The world will sit up.

                                                                              The world will notice.

                                                                              The world will forget.

When women get angry

They will not be silenced,

They will bare their chests;

They will dare to interrupt,

They will shock the world.

                                                                              The world will sit up,

                                                                              The world will notice,

                                                                              The world will scold,

                                                                             “And how dare you!”

The question is not                                                                                                          

How could they,                                                                

How could you                                                                  

Speak out?                                                                         

With such vehemence?                                                    

Such violence?                                                                  

Such ire?                                                                             

Such fury?                                                                          

                 The question is,

                 Why did we,

                 Why did you

                 Speak out?

                 With such pain?

                 Such intensity?

                 Such passion?

                 Such molten lava?

(Woven alongside M. Mwangola News to Note: Loud Enough to Hear Ourselves and continuing the "Women in Leadership" conversation with Margaretta WaGacheru)

Erosion

She walks with sophistication

On these foreign streets,

The world at her fingertips.

She fell into good hands,

Kind arms,

Equipped for a life

Of destiny and choice.

She remembers

Watching her sit under the shade

Of the old Mugumo tree.

She remembers.

Amina

Who reclaimed her independence

And took back her life

By saying No!

To old beliefs, customs, and moral codes.

She knows

She could have been one

Of the silenced voices

With limited choices,

Doing what they thought was best,

For their child’s legitimate honour,

Caressing

Practices that framed their own lives;

Practices that promised ephemeral wealth;

Practices that whispered frail security.

She understands

Traditions that grant that fertile guarantee

To an older male,

Perceived protector, guardian,

Master and lord.

She understands,

She knows,

She remembers,

Her moral charge.

(Woven alongside S. Namwalie Dreams of a Real Man; N. Githongo

A Dedication to the Girls of Aitong Boarding School; M. Mohammedali A Song for Amina; M. Mwangola News to Note: Loud Enough to Hear Ourselves)