This I must know if I Were a Woman for a Day

By tickler

Son of the Unquenched

The conundrum

As I write this, I’m driven by an urge of curiosity. Attempts to satisfy this curiosity has in many instances proven futile. I realized I was dealing with an elusive creature that is a conundrum of what constitutes and makes a woman.

I have come to understand nature than I do women. I mean, it’s easier to put bits and pieces together to conclusively tell what the wild needs and wants than humans in the form of female species. I have come to realize that even wild animals communicate easily and with all ease in their own terms and gesture expressing their desires openly without compromise. The language of the wild and the animal kingdom is what I’m yet to establish. I assume it’s gibberish but that’s beside the point.

               

Science has tried its level best in uncovering what surely makes a woman. Science tells of a tale of great intellectuals with ability to multitask, grasp and think better than their male species. Science also believes that she endures pain than he. A man wouldn’t endure pain but confront it. A man will not endure pain without responding to the epicenter of the entire aggression thus easily predictable. That aside, my point of focus is the puzzle that torments my mind and arouses lots of curiosity. What really constitutes a woman? I’m therefore tempted to assume her nature for a day and uncover my most sought answers to points of interest.

How thick is the line between moods?

I need to know why it is too hard to put a smile upon thy face and yet so easy to irk thee. The woman I know at dawn isn’t the same as the one I meet at tea break. At lunch hour you seem to regain your form back only to assume another at dusk. What is that switch that dims and brightens your mood? Is it located somewhere behind your brain, in the ventricles of your hearts, under your skin or is it just the way I look or what I do and say at any moment in time? I need an imaginary thickness of the boundary between mood swings so that I can measure how many yards to the positive electrode before you burn and sulk. I don’t want to burn the switch. This I would establish if I were a woman in a day.

Looking good and beautiful, for whom?

I don’t wear makeup for anybody, you say. You insist you’ve to wear that skimpy skirt for this and that occasion. I tell you it’s revealing too much and you tell me it’s for your esteem and you want to look curvy for me. I have agreed to your sentiments but I don’t know why it feels so tormenting when this other man stares at your backside with intent. Is it because I’m jealous or you want me to? My cleavage is meant for you to see. I have heard this over and over again. Why do I find you excited when other men peep into it yet you say it is not for them? I need to know whom do you look good and beautiful for. I can only tell if I were you for a day.

Why does it take you five minutes to bathe and an hour and half to get ready?

Before you get into the bath tub you already had sampled and ironed what you intend to wear. You’ve tried the same dress severally and instead have decided to prepare another one. You’ve had it every day and wore it often even a week ago, clad it on many occasions. Is it because you’ve become a gigantic monster overnight that it can no longer fit you or is it lacking the attention it had? Is it that you’ve just noticed flaws of your body that you don’t want noticed or perhaps you’ve noticed your breasts have dilated overnight and want to shrink them in a single session while I still remain patient waiting for you? Your bosom and bums have always been yours and I haven’t seen them grow instantaneously. Is it the acne or that little pimple at your forehead that needs urgent diagnostic attention? Have you discovered it today when we are about to miss that important appointment or just trying to annoy me? I’m thinking these are some of the things that take all the time. I need to confirm what’s keeping me waiting for an hour and half while you “prepare” yourself. In a day I must know.

Could “Yes” be a “No” or otherwise?

I must say your YES sometimes if not most times is not convincing. Why does it sound like a NO especially when it’s my turn to seek financial aid from you? Your YES seems near NO. Your NO on the other hand seemingly sounds like a YES in some instances especially at times when you play hide and seek with me. I must confess it takes intellectual acumen to see it as a YES otherwise I would starve of lack of conjugation. I’m managing quiet well so far. I need to know when a NO is actually NO and when YES is a definite YES. Near NO is what you posses and perhaps I could distinctively segregate them if I were a woman for a day.

What would I prefer between a skirt and a pair of trousers?

I presume a skirt is adequately air conditioned and well ventilated considering it’s openness above the knees. However, if so, why does it seem like you no longer prefer a skirt and opt for a pair of pants most times. Is it because the skirt guts in too much air that you can’t handle? Is it because the skirt could expose your secretive interiors unannounced or it can’t let you sit carelessly as you do in a pair of pants? Doesn’t the trouser hurt and squeeze? Considering your body anatomy below thy belt, I find the trouser a bit disturbing. Doesn’t it squeeze you and perhaps blister you private quarters? This I must know if I were you in a day dear.

How does it feel to orgasm?

In a day, I must engage in a sexual adventure. I would love to feel the phenomena and uncover the mystery behind orgasm. You look electrifying and yet electrocuted when you say you’re climaxing. It seems like bordering on pain and pleasure. Is it a combination of both? If it’s a combination of both, then it sure is a winning and whining combination on the face of it and the response that I get. The way you moan and grab my body with your sharp nails like a sprinting tigress, tells and says aloud that the moment is phenomenon. Why then does it look like you loathe me at that particular moment and at the same time express how you love me? I need to peel off the skin behind the mystery in a day.

When are you faking orgasm?

Do you really cum every time we make love? Do you fake it at times and how often? You could easily fool me alright. Unlike me, there isn’t evidence to ascertain if it’s genuine or a big fuss. You could easily get away with it you know. Does it feel equally pleasurable even when I’m soaked in mud after a drinking spree and I stink of booze stench? Do you really cum when I forced you into it without you wanting while you cite fatigue? I really I’m curious of knowing this in a single day.

Where does it feel pleasurable to be touched?

Besides the mysterious spot that you talk about often and which I imagine I touch, I notice you also are interested of touch in some other stimulating points. My hands have been cluttering all over blindly. They are just trying to locate the magical spots that seemingly please you. Please don’t mind their carelessness. If I only knew where you would want me to touch, then I would gladly comply and focus there without having to meander all over. Is it your bosom, bums, feet, face, thighs or perhaps some other place? I’m in a waterloo. Only being you for a day would solve this mystery.

Between wealth and the man, where is your love?

You say you love me and would go all the way with me regardless. Alright, I believe you. However, from what I gather, my wealth too has to be where I am with you. Please pardon me if you sincerely can hang for my love. It’s only that what your friends are doing scares me out of my skin. Why is there so much disquiet when I say I’m broke and could go bankrupt? I’m willing to make a prenuptial agreement but I have seen marriages break in a fortnight while a prenuptial is written. Could you do the same to me? When I was penny less, you denied me but when I became wealthy, you said you sought your heart and found love. I’m but cautious. In a day perhaps I would find out where love reigns,

How do you keep such secrets?

I understand and I have been told you are the most secretive species of the humans. Science says you can easily multitask without much ado. What’s that secret you dread telling me? How do you manage to conceal it that long without being caught? I have tried to multitask with other members of your flock but you nabbed me before cock’s crow. I spy on you often but my efforts have proved fruitless every time I snitch on you. Could you be multitasking with one of my close members of my flock without my knowledge? I’m worried of how many you’ve got in the sack. By the look of things, several are in it. If I were you for a day, perhaps I would learn how to and how you do it.

Submission

The aforesaid ten aspects are my curious points of focus in understanding what women really want and feel. Perhaps we could treat them appropriately if we knew certain things like the ones highlighted and probably becoming one in a day would solve the mystery behind the female gender. My curiosity is not limited to these. I confess there are so may not put down on paper.

I wouldn’t want to remain a woman beyond a day though, not long enough to make me pregnant. I have so much adventure while on this other side of human species. I fathom better the devil I know than the angel that is elusive and I barely know. Considering the challenges I hear and some that I have come to understand about women, I’m enjoying being a man hitherto. Twenty four hours would be sacrifice.

©Copyright       

Sex now has a referee!

Interesting times these we’re living in fellow humans. We continue to amaze and shock the Great Supernatural out of His skin. At the pace we’re moving at, nothing can possibly stop us except the man above us himself pulling a Sodom and Gomorrah stunt upon doomed us! Like I always say, speaking about what seems to be neglected and considered a taboo among us African species of humans is my delicacy and I cringe not. I’m the minority. It is one of qualities, speaking where the majorities mark their territory and despite the tantrums thrown at me, I always feel satisfied having had my say amongst those wanting to have their way. It’s okay to be of the dissenting opinion as long as it is for the good.

This is why I dive into the murky pool of this sensational topic that we humans love to dine in, in confides of our bedrooms or otherwise in whatever caves we want to hide in to partake of this rite as long as nobody sees us. Again, this is how it should be. Sex is not a discussion about how to salvage ourselves from the economic challenges that plague our country or how to liberalize ourselves from political immaturity that we have to discuss in our national radio stations early in the morning as we report to our places of work. Yes! I’m talking about the juicy and sensationalized discussions that our Kenyan radio stations have to serve us early in the morning as other breakfast. Tune in into most of these FM stations in the morning and there you will have a battle of titans sort of, radio presenters jostling for the ultimate position of a champion on who’s better in matters of extramarital sex.

I’m in no way suggesting that people shouldn’t discuss sex, but the forum, timing and execution of this topic is where these FM station presenters and whoever allows them, in the name of media err. Sex is no longer sacred folks! It’s now who gets it in all sizes and shapes. Apparently, the ideal Kenyan FM station has assumed the role of a referee and continues to break the rules of the game without consequence either from patrons or principals. As if the wound is not paining enough, the public service vehicles have turned advocates and only a few of them have their radios tuned to something else besides sex, who’s cheating on who, who conquered the best, whose wife has kids with another man besides her husband, whose husband performs better in bed than the other and all that jibe.

In the evening and at rush hour, the story repeats itself and my ears are about to collapse over this. Critics of my message will say, I should find something else to do or go and hang but I shall continue to drum the message as long as the mountain remains still. Our future generations, our little kids, while they board the public service transport, gradually continue to be intoxicated with these messages while the referee continues to run the game regardless. “Where are the ears that don’t want to hear evil, the hearts that want to do good and the mouths that want to spread it?” are lines of a certain artiste which resonate well to this message. Although people are actually becoming immoral by the day and I dare not deny the fact that we are no saints, I believe the discussion should not be about who did what or is doing what with whose husband or wife behind whose back but how to salvage our once mannered approach to morality. The FM stations should seize this practice of blowing the whistle for the bad ill mannered game to begin but practice being advocates of resolutions, ambassadors of promoting family values and society norms. Until then, Kenyan FM Stations are officially the new referees of an immoral game baptized by city slangs from lungula to sekete, from kachipo to kalollipop and whatever! What the heck! Who are we people?! I don’t know us anymore!

Compiled by tickler

Son of ‘the unquenched’

murungikevin@yahoo.com

Rights Reserved

Forever to the World Cup

I speak football, soccer, whatever you want to call it. But we stand on a common ground about this one thing. It is opium of the masses that enjoys massive uptake of what it stands for. Then there is the climax of it, the boiling point of the partakers of this noble sport played by gentlemen and followed by hooligans. It is the coveted moment that defines whose opium is more dope than others. The clash of the titans, when the mighty crashers in the form of men in small pants with hems above their knee cups regardless of their ages and sizes, meet for the battle of men against the boys, all of their eyes set on the golden trophy. Well, you ask how I know about all this. I’m refraining myself, in fact I’m inclined to calling you dumb at this juncture, but then, I’m couth. I know manners. It’s because I too partake of this good opium. That does not mean I’m anything near a hooligan. I won’t say what team of boys I support but I hear people wag their tongues cursing them for not winning a trophy for like immemorial. I already gave a hint. It’s upon you finding out.

If you’re a partaker of this opium, then you know what I speak of. For thee that pretend soccer is your worst event that life had to offer, I shall disclose that I speak of the World Cup. Then you pop the question, what a monster in the name of a cup. For a football fan, the World Cup is the ultimate moment. It comes every four years according to federation’s calendar and finally, the ultimate icing in the cake, year 2014! This year we’re headed to Brazil, the home of soccer. It is the epicenter, the arena of dreams upon their dreamers, where the men shall sieve out the boys. For those of us who only know the boundaries of where we live and call the extremities of our own country, Diaspora, we shall step into Brazil in style. Like kings who own it; the trophy. Oh! Hell yeah! Step into Brazilian soil, into the arena and thrive in the moment. Yes! On my television set, that’s how! This time not the Jabulani, but chasing the Brazuca, left, right, centre all the way into the net until the fat lady ululates.

But then, cometh the lunatics, them who ingested too much opium in form of soccer, an overdose of it! Those who eat, spit, sleep with boots on whenever their team wins, who can go any length in defending their team including hanging on a sheet upon their necks, or jumping from a skyscraper. They hoist flags embodied by their team’s colors in the homesteads. Those that keep mementos and other accessories associated with the game such as the famous vuvuzela in their rooms. Those with bed covers striped with the colors of their favorite teams. They forfeit sex with their wives for the love of the game. Those who ape what their big stars do in the pitch including naming their sons and daughters after the wizards in the pitch. Of my friend’s and neighbor Mwaura’s ilk.

I can’t imagine how life would have turned out to be without people similar to Mwaura crowning it. It would’ve been one vast hell, jungle. I’ve been around for a while. At least I have seen decades culminate to the age that is upon me today. I’m that old. I have also been around the capital city for a while too. You know, in search of greener pastures and such ironies of life, found me adding to the capital city’s list of least woes. I have therefore known Mwaura for as long as I have been in Nairobi walking on the face of it. World Cups have also come and gone, at least a sizeable number to know Mwaura has forever been saving to his way to the World Cup. He dreams big, setting his foot into an arena where the coveted trophy would find its way to the podium up for grabs for the men to have their way. He has had enough of sitting at the front couch, his eyes fixated to the small screen that we call television.

Mwaura was headed for the World Cup in South Africa. That’s according to the words of the hoarse. He had set a date of departure. How better would it have been having the tournament closer home than ever before than South Africa?  He had saved money. A lot of money! So he said. I however doubt how much money is a lot according to Mwaura’s version. Please note. He’s a truck driver within and without Nairobi and earns what he likes calling ‘jugu’ or peanuts in English. I’m not saying truck drivers are money deficient, but this particular driver? To add to his woes, besides having to part with a thousand shillings for a full week’s household consumption to his beloved Wangeci, which he thinks it’s too much while his wife thinks otherwise, he also has a dozen of children enough to make a volleyball team on rotation. Wangeci, his wife, hails from a county that boasts of women tigresses who purr and devour men who do not yield. I need not tell you who’s the head of the house in Mwaura’s family unit and who’s tail.

On the auspicious moment, on the eve of ‘departure’, when the D day was neigh for this noble man to realize his dream, hell hath no such fury. His wife had marked the calendar for a D day in her own making. Mwaura staggered out of Mama Pima’s shrine with bragging rights up his chest having spent every dime of his week’s earnings on an illegal hard drink served by Mama Pima herself. He as usual, ‘parked’ at his doorstep upon reaching his house after the spree. Let me explain what I mean by ‘he parked” for I mean not a car. He literally dims and leans upon his door before snoring hard to prompt his wife to literally drag him into the house before setting him up against the bathroom walls and running cold water upon him consistently drenching the man on tap’s gush as a way of neutralizing whatever it is in his blood in the name of alcohol. On this particular day, it was the eve of his voyage to the south and I bet he dreamed of the coveted trophy as he snored away his blood oozing of alcohol.

He didn’t make it to the World Cup I tell you. On going, he erred, and still it remains a dream. He was right about one thing alright. The World Cup had never been closer home than ever because his wife for sure had made arrangements to bring it live in their house. Talk of being fried and turned over and over in deep bubbling frying oil then scooped by a tined spoon. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned, and Wangeci testified to this upon her husband’s entire body anatomy. By the time she was through with him, Mwaura had no money for the World Cup voyage. It was ‘depleted’! I do not know how, but his savings had diminished in a flash. I can only speculate what happened on that fateful day that saw Mwaura’s dream thwarted by his beloved wife of many children. He had made her, mother again by scoring goals in other quarters other than the net.

The pain of being called a mother one too many times didn’t auger well with Wangeci this time around. She was pregnant again, a circus. For the umpteenth time, Mwaura had done it again. Perhaps, Mama Pima had told a lie that her ‘kanyauji’ aka drink had the ability to substitute what family planning pills do in taming the number of issues in a family and perhaps, Mwaura and wife bought the idea. A flop it is! Considering that they were ‘proud’ parents of many and that at any one given time they either have a national examination candidate in either primary or secondary levels, in the education cycle, Mwaura’s wife had it up to here! You know, to her throat. Mwaura had chewed more than he could swallow this time altogether. Technically, Mwaura’s dream had come to pass, though he may never discover in his lifetime. The arena was set in the house and the trophy was upon him in the form of another pregnancy for his liking. He however insists this time, it’s for real, all the way to Rio de Janeiro. I want to discourage him by telling him to lower the bar a little bit and not to set his hopes too high but then I remember Lupita’s line about valid dreams. I also remember that he’s not alone in this quest. Our national football team Harambee Stars is with him hand by hand. I dare not tell him also, when the trophy made a tour around the world and happened to pass by, I had a ticket invitation to attend a photo shoot beside it, which I declined to attend. He would turn all his misery towards poor me. Meanwhile if you own a pub or a khat kiosk like mine, embrace yourself for the derby because you will smile all the way to the bank when the tourney begins. Just make sure you have a television set for them who are forever headed for the World Cup like Mwaura and our national team. Forever to the World Cup!

Compiled by tickler,

Son of ‘the unquenched’

Kevin Murungi

©Rights Reserved

murungikevin@yahoo.com

'Butt' Almighty

Life is lovely and in diversity, we are all unique in our own way. It is this diversity of life that identifies what’s special for each one of us. By special, I’m also considering unique aspects of the Homo sapiens man that exists today.  If you believe in evolution and the fallacy that we’re descendants of one ugly creature that looks ages, the so called Chimpanzee, then it’s your own belief. I think you’re supposed to be known as an atheist in civilized English. As for me, I shall not be likened to a gorilla of sorts and I chose to believe in the unseen. It is the reason why I believe there is a superior being greater and older than the evolution theory that you believe in whom I call the Great Supernatural aka God.

My argument is simple and goes like this. If you believe we evolved then evolution started from somewhere.  I believe the superior being behind that evolution theory of yours is one eternal man above us. He is responsible for the diversity and made us look different and think divergent in our own unique individual way including the appearance of our bodies. You call it evolution, I call it creation. The Great Supernatural must have taken all the time at His disposal to create anatomy that He called man. Unlike the rest of His creation which was brought forth by mere proclamation ‘let there be’ , the Great Supernatural made us with His own palms, upon the fingertips like a potter would squeeze clay to mould a urn with keenness and precision and behold, mankind that we are.

However, evolution thrives in all that is artificial including human lifestyle. Obliviously, we call it change. Consider anything man made and find out if it still looks how it used to in eons and you will discover evolution has created change and a new form is gives prominence. Consider the natural thereafter, the eternal, like mankind. You will discover we too change but our form still remains intact. We grow, age and die but we forever remain bipeds, with two arms, same number of fingers, eyes and all that constitutes human anatomy. One of the aspects of human kind that I have witnessed evolves or changes as you may want to call it, is fashion. I have seen them all, the bell bottomed pants and blockbuster kind of shoes, from the famous North Star sneakers of the nineties to Moccasins, from Savco jeans that never worn out to khaki pants and so on. Name them and then look around and see what now exists around you. They say the only constant in life is change and I dare not query.

I have said too much of nothing already. I’m not here to speak about change of grooming but of the ideal body. While I’m at it, I shall be biased to my opposite gender, the other mankind called a woman, the womankind. I’m a very chalant being who loves observing my surroundings. Simply, I make use of my eyes to the maximum. I have been observing the change of the ideal fashion of an ideal woman body size. When I was younger, I thought, at least I was made to think and believe that the ideal body size of a woman was akin to a telephone mast. I heard this was fashionable and passed modeling, the skinny but with a glowing face and long hair. Before I could get myself one of those, another womankind was on offer. The so called “Coca Cola” bottle shaped breed, the size eight I heard. The ideal size eight was supposed to be meaty around her torso, the breast area adopting the “Coca Cola” bottle shape proceeding downwards suddenly adding more meat around her bottom appearing plumper in this vital area. This defined the size eight. Again I thought and was made to believe I should drool for this one but change made evolution and didn’t give me a chance. I thought the womankind had accepted being size eight until I turned on my television the other day.

I watch a lot of television. It’s like my library. I consume of it and one day while I was flipping to and fro, channel to channel, I stumbled upon something interesting, well, on a channel I stumbled upon. It is a channel that I would ordinarily not be watching because I eat not of its content. It doesn’t auger well with my television diet so my appetite for it on this day was erroneous. Note that I used the word ‘stumbled’ but being a man, what I saw aroused my curiosity and suddenly an appetite for the content was rife. What I stumbled upon made me think and realized the womankind has evolved further and is now on a ledge while the man, the male kind was still in the ages of the atheists.

 Besides the fact that the ideal African woman has been eroded by an urge if not obsession that defeats African sense, is now adopting a foreign culture which commands her to turn her dark and beautiful color of an ideal African woman to something that now seems alien to me, right into the murky culture of the white woman. The African woman is under the influence, in fact drunk, of the western culture and has now decided to paint herself with an undercoat, a primer and a main course of alienation over her original skin. I see them with colored faces. By colored, I mean any other color besides her original color of black and beautiful. I look and analyze her closely and discover that her elbows, knuckles, ankles and wrists have denied her the ‘privilege’ of truly converting herself to a white womankind.

Now, going back to what I stumbled upon, on this channel that I shall not name because I do not want to annoy anybody who subscribes to it, a program dubbed ‘Ten over Ten’ was on air. On this ‘auspicious’ occasion, what was being ranked were a collection of top Kenyan celebrities of the womankind species with super drum size buttocks aka bottoms alias butts. I had no idea that having much of your body weight upon your waist and appearing meaty with a protruding mass of bum meant something if at all you belonged to the species of womankind. I hear, well, just hearsay, not that I know, bums are now the ‘assets’ that make the ideal womankind tick and thus how mammoth a size, the better. Again, I hear, not that I know, some celebrity of womankind have an insurance cover for their precious bums. They say, not only are their bums precious in attracting their other half in the name of man, the male kind,  into their lair but also are a source of livelihood prompting an insurance cover earmarked upon them. I halt and engage my mind into thought to crack the puzzle on how these ‘assets’ earn a livelihood for the carrier. I thought if I knew how, I could make a side hustle with my own bum. I thought too could use my butt to make a few bucks for myself and buy an insurance policy for them until I cracked the puzzle.

Amidst deep thought, then I discovered for one, my butt could not pass an insurance valuation for the simple reason mine is minuet and handful. Secondly, and the most important, I realized I belong to a different species other than the womankind. I discovered I’m the male kind. Thirdly, I realized that in all insurance policies, a risk is involved and I failed to come up with a risk that my butt would possibly encounter in my lifetime. I couldn’t pinpoint any. I therefore concluded that my bum was too useless for an insurance cover and I realized it cannot fetch even a single nickel for self.  I also concluded that my bum had only two applications since time immemorial. One of them is sitting and the other is alimentary related.

I’m told, so I hear, that bums of a womankind have a price tag upon them to appear in one of those lewd music videos which showcase themselves in the same channel that I had stumbled upon. I agree, without iota of doubt in my mind because the music videos that followed after the ‘Ten over Ten’ program was over, were awash of super drum size, semi groomed bums all of the origin of womankind and largely of the African descent while the men, the male kind clad fully in designer suits with the best of the best of designer labels.

I’m also told, so I hear, that men are after these plus size bums during these trying times. This is enough evidence of the devil dinning with us. It is enough proof that Lucifer walks on this planet we domicile and bequeathed to us in good order and sanity by the Great Supernatural. I’m also told so I hear,  the demand  for super drum size bums of womankind origin is so overwhelming that entrepreneurs are cashing in on artificial bums in form of huge spongy soft pads that are supposed to be stuffed beneath the pants of these mega ‘butts’. I then suddenly realized the mega super drum  ‘butts’ I see gait in the streets of Nairobi might actually be fake, only stuffed with something that substitutes what is real. Suddenly, everything now makes sense and it’s now clear a new idol is in town, Butt Almighty! If I said I was not worried about the current breed of African womankind, I would be lying. I’m so worried! In fact, I shiver of worry!

Compiled by tickler

Son of ‘the unquenched’

Kevin Murungi

murungikevin@yahoo.com

©Rights Reserved