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The Self-fulfilled Lady

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Someone somewhere has miraculously resurrected an almost extinct species of women: the Self Fulfilled Lady. That mysterious lady who goes wherever she wills as herself and only herself. The lady who does not raise tantrums just to get attention, but who won’t hesitate to shove some shoulders whenever her dignity is insulted. She is indeed a unique creature of creation. She won’t endeavor to harm her backbone by balancing her body on six inch hills on the ruggedly concrete jungle of Moi Avenue Street. She won’t suffocate her hips with tight gripping high-knee minis just to break the sweaty necks or blind the roving eyes of ordinary Nairobi hustlers, sufferers and perverts. She won’t walk around swaying her assets like a cypress tree wrestling with the wind on a chilly Monday morning just to flare up jealousy from the flock of casually dressed hardworking women who routinely manage and maintain the bulging economy of the CBD. Yet this lady will dress nicely. She will wear whatever she feels like wearing based on where she is going, who she is meeting and whatever clad is clean in her closet. She doesn’t have thirty pairs of shoes or 20 pairs of skirt suits but she will never lack something classy to wear when she steps out on a date, interview or walk in the city park.

This self-fulfilled lady won’t bulldoze people to get to the front of the camera; she is cool, calm and content like a serene waterhole in the hot shrub-manifested Savannah. Nonetheless, she will neither sink back in her seat nor shy away when the reporters’ questions and microphones come beckoning at her. She doesn’t torture her mind with unending information about the latest movies, fashion stalls, pizza joints, iPhone gadgets or alcohol brands in the market but neither is she ignorant of what’s happening around. She is the kind of lady that will chat freely with the makanga, gladly give you her phone digits if you ask nicely lakini ukijifanya bale ya unga ama eti wewe ndo ‘big kahuna’, huyu msupa atakusuka na kale kanamba ka yule mganga wa kutoka arusha. This lady is like an oasis in the desert that is modern day digital TV’s mentally-corrupted females. She is not one to measure her value based on fancy Filipino weaves, un-artistic tattoos and nose rings, ‘rangi ya thao’ bleached skin, glossy bloody-red lips or accentuated curvy hips. However, when she decides to, she will dress to kill. She is her own MVP.

The self-fulfilled lady is natural; not natural in that she wears raffia reeds or drinks milk straight from a goat’s udder or flaunts an unkempt dusty Afro, but in the sense that she is always herself. She is real. She is an undecorated walking package of peace; self-peace, self-worth, self-dignity, self-fulfilled girl. Maybe if you pray hard enough, the Most High may mercifully allow your path to cross with a member of this self-fulfilled species.

__uThanDiLe©2015

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Posted by on January 19, 2015 in Culture, random thoughts

 

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*Tha Tube*

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this lying tube got our eyes glued
as if we’ve been charmed by voodoo.
it confuses u
cant even tell tha difference
btwn truth n bull.
too many souls actin lyk fools coz
them convinced its tha new cool.
2 many little queens overdressed in nothings
fanatically twerkin n swimmin in dirty nasty practice
thinkin its tha real life lovin.
young kings paintin tha streets with red ink
convinced tha bling n a piece is tha realist thing
that gives one supreme identity.
this screen got lil kids blivin its cool 2 hav flings,
jumpin 4rm tree 2 tree lyk a vervet monkeys.
got our byutiFULL queens thinkin
they too big 4 their own skin
n losin some meat will somehow lift
their malnourished self esteem.
got evry girl blivin that slim body barbie
long silk blonde hair blue eyes lighter than
a stick chick is tha ideal.
bleach creams n diet pills bcomin more popular
than them dixie chicks.
this tube got the youth an illusion of tha streets
being cool ba speakin ill, killin spleas,
blazin weed n livin on xtacy.
the enemy is within
tha real beast is in ur livin room.

_uThanDiLe©2014

 
 

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Lady Mystique__Part3

“Excuse me Miss, you’ve got some grass on your hair” I said calmly.

Outwardly, my body looked confidently cool, calm and composed. Inwardly, all the regular body operations dragged, jerked and shouted “System Overload!”  Nonetheless, the first part of my plan had taken root successfully. ‘Lady mystique’ slowly attempted to clean the imaginary ‘mess’ that she thought lay embarrassingly on her thick dark afro.

“Has it all come off?” she innocently asked.

“Just a little more on the left; don’t worry I’ll get it out for you” I sneakily replied.

I skillfully began to stroke her hair softly; first on the right side and then artistically proceeded to the left. I could not risk reshaping the one sculpture that every lady spends most of her time and money on: hair.  Before I could complete the honorary task of ‘de-grassing’ the natural crown of ‘lady mystique’, the forbidden occurred. Our eyes met. I knew I had overstepped the zone of no return. It happened so fast that my mind experienced a terrifying short-circuit. The glitch sparked off a spiritual tsunami, which generated an electromagnetic reaction that in turn ignited an emotional overdose! In simple terms, I collapsed.

To say the truth, it happened like a three-punch technical knockout; what boxers call a TKO. When my eyes and those of ‘lady mystique’ met, a strange red light sucked my mind into a ghostly trance.  Next, I heard Grandma’s cautionary words; they begun as a whisper then grew into an ungodly high-pitch sound which ruthlessly tore my eardrums igniting a mental trauma. Finally, my eyes slowly opened just before I head-butted the concrete floor and blacked out. The rest is difficult to disclose. I remember very little about the events of that mysterious Monday when I met ‘lady mystique’. All I Can say is I have never touched a girl’s hair since that day…

 
 

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Lady Mystique__Part2

My grandma often warned me never to touch a girl’s hair.  Any African in his right mind would not dare confront, let alone question an elderly woman’s instruction pertaining to maters of lineage or tradition. For reasons known only to our elderly, ‘our ways’ vehemently stipulated I keep my rough manly hands miles away from the black keratin serenating the soft scalp of a member of the opposite sex; that is, a woman’s hair. Grandma’s words, just like my father’s, God rest his soul, somehow never connected with my intuitive brain. Their words often reminded me of those boring mathematical formulas which students repeatedly recited with priestly devotion but rarely applied them correctly when solving examination questions.

Curiosity to approach the mystique lady gripped my mind harder than a hyena’s deadly bite. So vicious is a hyena’s bite that once this laughing creature clutches its prey’s flesh, its ‘steel jaws’ naturally lock only to open after it rips off a massive chunk of meat from the helpless moaning animal.  The spell now cast, emotions somehow overriding all logic, my feet begun marching forward meticulously, merging perfectly with the rhythm of my heartbeat. It felt like I was walking on a tight-rope with a blindfold tied tightly around the eyes and handcuffs solidly securing my arms behind my back. Oshun, Orisha of Love, must have felt pity on my foolish self that she swiftly birthed an idea in my mind just as I sat down beside ‘lady mystique’……………..

 
 

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Lady Mystique_Part 1

She entered the room silently, in low heels, shaking curly hair, no Indonesian weave or synthetic strings, just a unique dome-shaped half-combed afro. Everything about her was un-classic, yet something about her appearance magnetized my eyeballs. No mascara on her face or piercings through her ears. Her soft caramel skin slightly exposed on her arms and shoulders; no strange patterns or tattoos, just tiny dark spots reflecting the merciless thirst of highland mosquitoes. Slowly she sat down, barely wiping the dust lying lazily over the brown thatch Maasai mat. There was something electric about her glance; somewhat jolly somewhat cautious. My papa used to tell me never to approach a girl whose facial gesture were difficult to unravel; his advice rarely found an iota of wax in my ears willing to take heed of his wise words.

Every rebellious cell swimming foolishly within my bloodstream decided to make a move on a girl whose mannerisms were more confusing than a set of identical biracial twins. It really does not take much insight to realize that my species, also known as gentlemen, impeccably exemplify a breed of indifferent idiots rushing toward the ‘battlefield of flirtation’ without optimal training, quality weapons or strategic thought. That said, I consider myself a relatively intelligent and highly intuitive young man. Not once have I subscribed to or exhibited the kind of reckless behavior vividly described above, at least not until my brain partly processed and sparsely internalized the subtle image of this remarkable dark-skinned female species displaying an outlook unbecoming of mainstream ideas of a ‘classy’ woman…..

 
 

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