Emotional Trauma and the Truth That It Never Really "Goes Away"

Emotional Trauma & "Surviving Abuse"

“A person who experienced any six or more of the categories” of childhood trauma, Dr Felitti tells me, “was 4600 percent more likely to become an IV [injecting] drug user later in life than a person who experienced none of them.” He adds: “I remember the epidemologists at the CDC told me those were numbers a magnitude of which they see once in a career. You read the latest cancer scare of the week in the newspaper and something causes an increase of 30 percent in breast or prostate cancer and everybody goes nuts – and here, we’re talking 4600 percent.”

It wasn’t until I read this article - attached to the end of this short read -  that so many situations became clarified in my mind. This reading also triggered me like a sandbag hitting my head because in poured those memories of where I had been intolerant of myself, but more so of my own TribesPeople including fam and friends – the whole entire group of us who have suffered at the hands of an abuser. I’m writing this not only to apologize but to also share the article because of it’s implications to us all.

Many of us became TribesPeople because of how we had been raised by dastardly parents; by trauma which happened to us as children; and those same parents who in their colonized and ugly and unknowing ignorance shoved down their children’s throats the white man's rules of behavior and all it’s subliminal hatred of anything that’s melanated.

Ha! My own life was a mess of trying to be ‘African&Proud’, and anything I did well was praised with smiles and jubilation with words like ‘uhana muthuungu’ [I act ‘white’] and all I did wrong was scoffed off as, “lord have mercy, how disgustingly ‘African’ can you get?” and ehh! often these judges of character would use the word, ‘meero’ which in itself was a dirty word, so dirty you’d immediately take off in a fast Kenyan sprint to shed off traces of it - how our athletes run!! They don't run like Meero's no! He's international!   Meero was worse than being called Nigga – infact, being called a Nigga was to strut in pride [imagine that sad state of affairs]. In my childhood I could not comprehend this because I loved my colour, I did. I was inherently PROUD of it [and thought Grace Jones was the most magnificent woman ever] but over and over again being African meant being little more than nothing – even Elephants and Lions and Ethopians had more magnificence than the African person. Now  – add that nasty mix to many answers found in the article link below, and basically I was one #Woke but utterly #repressed individual – and sadly, I was #Woke at a generation where many were sheeple.

Later on I strode out in magnificence of “ME” and gave ALL my children names that had not an iota of ‘English’ in them. Let me tell you about that – this was in the early 1990’s – and I put my foot down. I wasn’t going to call anything grown out from my proud African womb a ‘mzungu’ name. Banish the thought!! HOW? It’s a part of me, I can’t label it something that’s not ME..

Little did I know about The HEADACHES, The QUESTIONS and the sheer weight of NASTINESS of that single decision.

Any institution. eg :the hospital:

Nurse or Admin: ’so, what’s your child’s name?’

Me.: Holding my gorgeous beautiful fat baby in my arms “Noni”

>>> long stare at me like I’m thick headed – then:

                  “……..what’s her ENGLISH name?”

Me: “She doesn’t have an English name, she’s African”

Nurse: >>>> >>> long stare at me like I’m thick headed – then:

                  “You must be black American…” [warms up a lot – suddenly I feel heat like she’s on fire and her smile is dazzling bright. I blink] So that’s her first name? She's sooo beautiful....

Me: Yes. Noni [I bask in the heat..]

Warm Nurse: Ok [Scribbles and speaks at the same time…..] Muthoni  who?

Me: No. Not “Muthoni”…… en ohhh ennn eye. NONI (I spell the letters out slowly and kiss my baby on the forehead)

Nurse getting re-annoyed: Noni who?

I give a name which begins with an O. It’s AFRICAN. It’s not Mzungu or ‘Black American’.

Nurse looks up from writing:

“What?”

I repeat..

Ice enters the room. She becomes the Snow Queen….

………………………………..

I had defied the norm with a capital T and N,  and that wasn’t on. I was attacked on every single level for that simple decision. You know, Life is tough in a Sheeple dominated world: It became worse when Noni had to go to school – they’d ask for a ‘baptism certificate’ to prove that she’s ‘baptized’ – wtf?? And without this proof of baptism, a child could not go to school - she had been – that’s another story of fighting over a name – and a ‘condition’ of ‘indoctrination’  but the point is, calling a child an “African name” got me into a few million problems – there was even the pastor who told me my child won’t go to heaven. …

I went through FUNK…

… and I’m sure you have too.

But… Pause.

because, 

… I’m going to switch the tables here real quick and say that those of us who have been raised by sheeple in a sheeple dominated world have a life view which is stamped as ‘diseased’ by the sheeples. They give us psycho titles that we willingly accept and grab [we’d do anything to feel normal – whatever that is] and in feeble attempts to morph into their world, because yes, this world didn’t belong to us – the mental, the tribes-people, the mad, the insane, the bi-polar, the depressive, the un-natural, the eccentric – the one’s who don’t do things according to the book but instead dance to their own tune. ‘Ametupa mbao!’ is the explanation for going mad with grief… for mad we become because we grieve;- if you have been traumatized from by any type of abuse –

you grieve the loss of

                  your joy

                  innocence

                  trust..

and you cry internally because where ever you are you’re holding back, you’re automatically suspicious, you ‘see things’ where you didn’t before because now you know… you know the behavior patterns of abusers… and you run….

….you lock down emotionally - internally - but the pain is still in there, unaccepted by everyone including you. Then the flashbacks happen.

I hate them; that sick moment where I’m frozen in terror, the stomach rising, heart thumping like it’s going to lurch itself right out of my chest like an alien horror movie, the dizziness, the shaking knees, the sweaty hands and sweatier forehead? And I’m supposed to say it’s OKAY? No wonder the fear and the drugs and the ah ah ah alcohol behavior – this is expected and NORMAL. But what the abuser doesn’t want you to know is that you’re normal and considering what you went through, your behavior is ACCEPTED BEHAVIOR. If you put a hole in a canoe for fuck sakes it will sink! But emotionally abused people are in so much pain, and hurting so much, they barely can think for others let alone themselves. Which means when they hear, “oh, this will be good for you” they automatically accept it. We turn right round and reject ourselves and call ourselves as ‘abnormal’ when inside we’re fighting and saying “NOOOOOOOooooo!!! This isn’t NORMAL!!”

To TribesPeople and all 1stBorns:

[because 1st born children are often raised as ‘experiments..’…]

Forgive me when I say that your behavior is NORMAL.

Forgive for the times that even I, in this same Tribe, ever alluded to or said words to the effect, “...... get.over it” because we don’t. We never ever get ‘over it’ in the sense that we’re fine and walking around like we’re scar less. And We DO get broken. And Shattered into fragments. And bloody traumatized to hell and back.

To conclude is this post I had put up on another medium:-

A long word:
Sooooo...the truth is that there really is no "recovery" for survivors of Physical Abuse. Or DMV. Or Adultery. Or Rape. Or having stupid parents - Child Abuse, Rape, Neglect - all and any Emotional Trauma - there is NO Recovery.

Most people think and expect that "recovery" means moving on like the trauma didn't happen. That's insane thinking. Of course it happened and the person is emotionally scarred for life. Just like if you have an operation...you will have the scar for life -sometimes you forget it's there, other times it hurts and you feel it constantly. Now get this; WHAT people do after their emotional trauma and HOW they live thereafter is THEIR personal LIFE experience.. we can only look, listen and LOVE. Repeat. It’s their battle. It’s a miracle that they even get up in the morning and function…

ONLY IF we are ASKED PERSONALLY can we give advice and even then it's not a must that it is taken. We are all different and we all behave DIFFERENT. There is NEVER anything like "its my way or the frickin' highway!" In other words, just give the traumatized person - love; acceptance and a bag load of THEIR OWN TIME - to grieve the loss of their joy and trust; give also - hugs, smiles, good wholesome food, sweets and sweet foods, sleep, rest, laughter, hugs and tissues for crying jags. Never use the word STOP on a person.. da fuck!... give love and tissues and laughter. Nobody, but nobody, will ever respond the exact same way to any TRAUMA (unless they're Twins and even then ...) Our Creator didn't make us the Same.  Give LOVE. GIVE LOVE to any Traumatized person.

Finally. To abusive parents who hit their kids and shout at them or did, to husbands and wives who hit their spouses. To Teachers who are abusive to their students. To Rapists - all of you.
On the same note: That spouse you beat repeatedly. That person you raped. That person you emotionally abused. They will never "recover". Ever. You have damaged a Human Being and as much as they try to "forget" , they WILL NOT. There are flashbacks and triggers and the shit returns... that's LIFE. I've sat with women who are the same age as I am and they still have deep issues with things their TEACHERS said to them over 40 years ago! Listen, memories can be covered up and balmed over with ‘ointments’ and ‘medications’ and psycho analyzed to shit...but THAT SHIT YOU did - it remains.  Just think about THAT. You are an abuser. You DID it... it CANNOT BE ERASED.you broke.and.scarred.a.human.being.forever.  And You have to Live with That Abuser Title.
Forever. Karma is a bitch.
Spread Love like free air and Blueband on Bread. Never Hate. Never
Ever
Ever
Raise a Hand To Hit.

Fellow Tribes People. Don’t be tagged and put in a coffin world of pills and more pills and mental institutions! Wake up, Point out the TRUTH, and scream and shout and tell it as it is! Otherwise, THE ABUSER gets away scot-free.

            This then, is society

                  today.

Click to Read:>>  Factors that make people 4600% more susceptible to Drugs& Alcohol

 XpenSieve Report© 2017

[Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to xPenSieve© with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.]

Make That Move Right Now Baby!

A Super Solo Move

I was crying.

Tears streamed down my face as I drove at speeds exceeding the speed limit – the landscape whizzing past through Sweet Dudu’s windscreen was phenomenal – green fields and hills, a sky so clear and blue that it shamed the name of the colour ‘blue’ – and a mountain called Kenya in the distance, slowly growing and morphing larger and larger and dominating the horizon and sky to my right with a magnificent presence that awed my beating heart – because beating it was, as fast and furious as the tears that poured down my face. I said I would and here I was… moving.

Sweet Dudu [the name of my motogari] was packed full of my belongings, so packed full and so many things did I have, that I’d tied the passenger seat belt around two of those plastic picnic basket cartons that couldn’t and refused to fit in the backseat and boot – and my other house-hold goods – all that I possessed – were in a truck that was about 3 hours behind me despite them leaving Nairobi long before I did.

I had.

I said I would.

I did.

I left Nairobi on an entirely solo move and there I was -  hurtling at speeds not allowed [hush] - towards my destination town at the foothills, at the very bottom of Mount Kenya and smack bang on the Equator, and I cried – girl did I cry alone in that car - tears of joy, emotions leaking, fear, excitement…. Damn – I had done it, a totally solo move. The Truckers asked me: haiya, you’re going alone? Duh. Yes. Sometimes in life you can’t wait for others.

I had dreamt it and thought it and planned it and then in frustration I stopped planning and just went with the flow because you know, you plan things and they go wrong, utterly w r o n g – so I stopped ‘planning’ and just did. Jumped in – flowed – and here I was – hurtling eagerly through space and time towards an unknown destination, an unknown and unchartered life.  And when I got to the end of my journey, guess what- even the ka-house ‘agent’ wasn’t there, well, it was just the 3^rd day of a spanking new year – yet it tells a tall tale of hii Kenya yetu – ati ‘wait, I’m coming’ – after me driving solo for 4 hours – the young man who’s office is in the neighbour-hood asked for me to give him a sec [He later told me he’s vying for an MCA seat and I suddenly understood… politicians are all talk and zero action] << on that note, if your dad is a politician, just ask your mom who your real papa is…. hahahahahahaaa…… runs…!!

So I welcomed myself into this space that was clearly, just for me and opened the rusty old gate into the beautifully wooded space for myself.

How does one do this? I don’t have family here. I never have had. I don’t know anybody here. My weak attempts at talking to people ‘from Nanyuki’ proved fatal – the conversations died before they began and I left them there because clearly I wasn’t supposed to deal with death – I’m too full of life. So I put on my solo armor and softened my heart – most people will say harden your hearts – lakini I say no, please don’t look for a means of an early death. Instead my advice would be to Soften your heart. Make it soft and pliable and yielding to and for yourself. Not others. Yourself. Hmm. And listen to your heart. Give it nourishment that keeps it beating – laughter and smiles and good food and sweet things like fruits and candy and those yummy Indian sweets – give your heart hope and fill it with love – pour hugs and smiles and warmth and sunlight and all the lovely things that will make your heart happy – and follow those things that make your heart soft and yummy…

I did.

I’m 53.

I cried. Because I have the strength, the joy de vivré, the sheer determination and courage and magnificent drive to do this alone and build a future for myself even if I have one foot in the grave as many look at me askance and say, gaii… you’re old, but hey, I’m still alive and Inshallah will be around for a longer while…!! I came alone to live at the foothills of a place that I think is magical and magnificent. I came alone for this magic and magnificence that it may fill me so that I too, can partake of this daily.  This then was the adventure – carrying it through and nursing it at the younger ages of it’s creation – the dreaming; the birthing and nurturing of it – not abandoning the “burden” of my dream. <<< We often do just that, don’t we? >>> Abandoning our dreams and leaving them to die on a road in the middle of

      know where?

… what’s your story? What is your dream?

Not hers.

Not his.

Your dream? It may be to be President. Or live in Lamu by the sea. It may be to be an astronaut .. or a fantastic cook. It may be to just be happy and content.

… build it, work it, nourish it, love it tenderly.

People ask strange questions – like ‘what will you do’ or ‘how will you do…’ or ‘where will you do…’ or ‘who will you do…’   eff that nonsense. Kabisa. Don’t even!

Seriously! Don’t be side-tracked – the purpose of most people is to cut trees and place those logs on your road to success and; once you stop – because you can’t drive over the logs – they ambush you and steal your joy, leaving you with broken dreams as well as stuck in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night. You get to dislike that road and that route, you stop driving on that road of your dreams, you go and huddle with a bunch of human beings for security sake and decide that your dream is just too scary. And when someone else goes down that same road and beats the thugs, you get mad and wonder why you never had the courage to…

Note that siku hizi ata ukilia aje – ain’t nobody coming to help you with your problems – so don’t go announcing your dreams.

Be Nike.

Just do it.

I’m telling you my story so that you can learn and do the same for yourself – look long at the banner of ‘xPenSieve’ and the purpose of this blog. Yes…. Scroll back up and read it again…

Scroll….

Get it?

To use that beauty phrase that’s been turned into a political slogan – Tuko Pamoja?

Listen…

I once spoke aloud and sent out into the universe the dream that; “..my bliss would be to write from a cabin in the woods on some mountain, surrounded by the wind whispering through the trees, birdsong, sounds of nature and wild animal calls”. That’s MY dream. At a pals house a while back while watching TV [I gave away my TV – I call it a propaganda box…] I saw a young man being interviewed in a ‘House-hunting’ series in the US of A – and he asked for a town house. The dumb ass agent took him to view a house in the suburbs chatting all the way about how the apartment was in a nice quiet area with big windows and a view of …. The young man cut her off and refused, totally, to enter the house. “I said I want a Town house – an apartment in the middle of the CITY ..” he snapped and told her off,  “… with street noises and traffic and cabbies hooting, with shops downstairs and lotsa people.. didn’t you hear me when I said I wanted a townhouse – I DO NOT WANT TO LIVE IN THE SUBURBS!”  and he strode off… I laughed for a good 5 minutes….

Do you get it now? It’s YOUR DREAM. What’s YOUR Dream?

I have arthritis - violently painful and sometimes crippling arthritis that’s due to the metal rod that’s attached to my spinal cord in my back. I’ve lived through nightmare pain during my teens because of that operation to put in the rod -  that kept me looking at a hospital ceiling for 4 months – aki, there’s nothing as boring as a hospital ceiling, nothing. A Hospital ceiling has NO screen  -  sigh   do you know how boring that is?? That’s why patients in hospital keep ringing the bell for the nurse. Drrrriiiinnngggggggggggg   Drrrriiiinnngggggggggggg, Drrrriiiinnngggggggggggg – kills boredom, hahahahaaa…. But,

What are your “problems” as put forward by a dream-thief? Really? What? Disease? Illness? Mental disorder? Finances? What?? Why are you not stepping up and out? Why are you weeping and gnashing your teeth and camping on your misery?

All Dreams are Valid; Yours included. Even something as material as owning a luxury car – be it a Benz or a LandRover. It.Is.All.Valid.All.Dreams.Are.Valid.Period

Is it Kool & The Gang that sung that song with those beautiful lyrics?

Make that move, right now baby!

If you’re a She’ro reading this and maybe wondering what the heck - I want to assure you that you CAN do it and you’re not dependent on any one other than yourself – and I’m not talking feminism here and neither am I negating the role of the MAN in your life, no, and please, neither should you. Man is made as you are – a beautiful divine creature.   I’m talking to the Melanated female and asking her to listen to a truth that’s been hidden from her in these modern days, in the 9^th and 10^th and 11^th way up to the  19^th and 20^th centuries, a truth covered up in lies, buried DEEP in the ground and our subconscious and stamped on and built over with more lies – listen - we’re strong. We’re beautifully emotionally and physically ‘nurturing’ such that we can alone, look after 6 or more children, raise them, feed them, go to work, clean them, educate them and still have time to laugh and be realest with our girlfriends. Give a man 6 toddlers and watch him crumble – no lie – they’re good at stuff, but we Melanated females have that nurture game going on naturally in us. Our dreams are possible. That is the fear. That if we Dream it, we can do it – and somewhere along the line many Melanated Women feed into the lie that we’re useless-and-hopeless-and we can do nothing by or for ourselves. Rubbish, we can and we have been doing stuff for years and we shall continue to… so this post is for you if at some point you’ve been taken off your track and she-napped and lied to that your dreams aren’t valid.

They are.

Go on, make 2017 the year that you stamped and validated your dream!

Hums song….”…Ain’t no stopping us now….”.. 

 

In conclusion, be brave and turn your world upside down and laugh as you do - like I’ve put my kids in a really weird position that’s totally upside down about what ‘shags’ is, and what ‘shags’ isn’t. ‘Shags’ and ‘oshaago’ is where your parents were brought up, grew and lived in before they got’s married and hitched…right? So, my parents shags is in Nai short for Nairobi. Now, I grew up in …. Ya…. Pap, Nairobi Suburbs. And my parents still live in that Nairobi Suburb. And they own land in that Nairobi Suburb…..  Gff – Nai is my shags and whenever I take my kids to visit their guks and shosh – I take them to…. Yap, Nai.

So, because I’ve shifted my base to living at the base of Mount Kenya, my kids will be going to visit their grand-parents – where? in Ooshaago…, so…. Hahahahaaa….. during “Christmasi”,  when you’all are all driving to your ‘shags’ upcountry, I’ll be driving to my shags in Nai….

Hahahahahaaaaa!!!

Happy New laughter filled year y’all and make sure you Validate Your Dreams. Make that move, right now baby!

The XpenSieve Report© 2017

[Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from xPenSieve© blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to xPenSieve© with appropriate and specific direction including LINKS to the original content.]

Being in LOVE with Alone Ness

I’m home alone today and I’m in bliss…

This moment in time is for all females out there and to males who belong to The Tribe – the Journey Women and Men, the ones who >>> walking into a busy Nakumatt/Tusky’s/ Naivas or any mall - is a total nightmare.

.... being alone....

 I was up long before the crack of dawn – wait - why would one call it that <<<< by the way? Crack of dawn? The first dawn yes, probably began with a tremendously L.O.U.D shattering crack of brilliant g.l.a.r.i.n.g. light that split open the darkness in an astonishing wave of brilliant LIGHT Waves that spread piercingly across the galaxy –  wave after wave of pure intensely penetrating light that poured forth and moved forward in a massive wave throughout the first day… yes – that would be a ‘crack of dawn’  - but I didn’t write English… I just pen it… and dawn is not so cracking now  but -

..back to my awakening moments… and to the point of this bliss –

 .. I was up early this morning if “waking up” is even a word to describe my so-called ‘sleep’ as I could hear my 16 year old son roaming and wandering through the apartment in an endless bid to keep sleep away – or is it that he couldn’t find sleep?? Hmm – but his nocturnal prowling was very audible to me as I tossed and turned in the heat of the night and eventually stumbled out of bed, worn and fatigued, and straight into a lukewarm shower to accelerate my body into a semi-wake up mode – and in that #woke state I made Son a hearty meal to prepare him for his road trip - which he had already began in his mind because at some point he asked me – so what time will we get there? … and my answer was ‘way after 9pm’… and I was being nice - road trips to Dar are murder-on-time if I’m not driving – you’all know how I drive hahahahaa…. I fold Time -  really. I Time Travel – you’see, I passed Physics a long time ago back in-the-days of  B4844  - and THAT was the age of Live & Let Die  - if it was your time to die – you died hmmmm - if I die like I drive then it will be  Fast, Furious and a totally exhilarating blockbuster Hahaha…  

So with the promise to my son that most likely watafika Dar kitu 15 hours from commencement of trip In’Shallah,  I made sure both shildrens ; who are in reality small adults, were comfortably ensconced in the belly of the the Super.Cozy wifi- in. KE.Only .1 storeyHigh.Wheeler.Coach.Bus and got into my personal wheeled chariot to zoom out of the noisy, loud, dirty, irritating mess that is downtown Nairobi on any given day in Kenya –  they don’t ever tell you that do they? About Downtown? Well, it’s a mess. If you can find a clean ‘Bus-Station bathroom’ please let me know. Downtown on ‘Christmas morn’ at 5 am was a darn cold 9˚C , a mess of drunk old men tottering home; teens high on ?? somethings dawa  out to cause trouble; beggars with no-where to go; angry askaris & turnboys asking for ‘krismassi’ handouts and pissed when they don’t get any [shauri yako, wee kaa tu bila kunipea… shauri yako] << is it a must to give? Moving on… no seats for waiting travelers – sit on your suitcase anyway – it’s safer -  ma3’s overlapping, hooting & duh, causing a jam; salon cars with fam and relas being dropped - hug hug - kiss on cheek - we're a touchy touchy huggy huggy breed, us Kenyans -  or relas and fam and friends being picked with same hug hug kiss kiss and excited shouts; small salon cars backing up and making illegal u-turns;  passengers getting into and out of hooting mats; smoke from somewhere;  Huge Overland Buses revving to leave, other buses arriving from long trips and vomiting weary cold, hungry journeymen and women out of their huge bellies – babies crying;  drunks stumbling in the dark morning and weaving across cracked grimy pavements;  peeps spitting and blowing their noses; every other ma3 playing it’s particular radio vernacular station louder than the other  -

Waarrh… overloaded senses-

I shot of there like a bat shooting out of hell –

.. to go back home  -

…  through a stunning dawn morn… this dawn…

It was a symphony…

I saw music notes…

Nairobi at 6am with NO TRAFFIC. Cold sweet air bila fumes in through my window -

No Hurry..

Serenity..

..sunrise in Nairobi 25th December 2016: Photo credit:  xPenSiev©

The sky was a deep dense blue-black with tiny wisps of light-gray ethereal clouds suspended in space, over there somewhere on the horizon the sky began to slowly, so slowly, spread dusty smoky colours of pale pinks & peaches, dusty grays & hues of dark raspberry blues, quietly,    oh     so  so quietly and majestically the colour from the sky lovingly caressed rooftops of buildings, quietly signaling the beginning of another day. 

Such serenity. I switched off the car lights…

I felt the world literary falling off my shoulders… and I stepped into Being SheLone..

It’s a small miracle for me when this happens, when I find myself totally – home alone – with nobody and nothing dependent on me for 24 hours or more, no visitors, no mboches, no time tables, no cooking schedules, no writing deadlines, no Twitter, #hashtags or Retweets…

… what ties you down girl? Long ago I’d do school runs and laundry piles taller than me… there was a time it was meetings in boardrooms with SouthAfrican Boers and the horror of it – I’m just NOT a boardroom person. Soon after that it was writing deadlines in a radio station…. Gosh my life – but what I’m tryin’ to say here is at each point of our life there’s a chain* tying us down.

- but it used to be a scary thought. Being alone. Scary because of this idea that’s actually a huge cultural lie and a mantrap that many of us have fallen into:-

“..woman!!

HARK!!

if thine ist alone,

thou art a failure…”

mancrap. Bullcrap!! HAHAHAHA…

Note, not she-crap. Nah… otherwise it would be known as cow-crap.

Skiza…

There is a strength which comes from being alone that is totally wicKed. Absolutely enthralling in it’s power, the magic of she-lone-ness weaves a spell around the “She-loner” that is scary to men… and other women..

Why the fear? 

 Because it’s only when we’re truly alone that we look deep into ourselves and ask questions like,

           ... what do I REALLY WANT in life? It’s when you’re alone Woman, that GOD speaks to you. When Nature speaks to you.. because you’re alone and you’ll listen. – coz we women are so good at listening…

… It’s when you’re alone and free of his schedules and their calendars that you can breathe for a while and think for yourself. It’s in the magic of being alone that your body makes little noises made up of creaks, groans and whispers and you have time to listen TO, and obey. If it hurts, attend to it immediately – because there is no-one else for you to attend to, but you. If you don’t feel like doing it, don’t – because there is only YOU to please at this time –  if there’s no one to wake you up to feed them or care for them – then wake up, feed and care for yourself….

Selfish? No. She-Loner.

Laying a foundation for the building. Pouring in the concrete and wetting it with your tears and striding out like #MinnieWalker – purposeful and ready for all of life’s fucks - some sweet, some bitter, some short, some long, some paid, some unpaid [hahahahahaa!] – but READY.

I love these rare times so I make the most my She-Lone times. I sleep deeply. I dream too – because women are fantastic creatures that can birth dreams and bring them into a beautiful reality that we can sustain because women are natural born nurturing machines, with thick arms to hold and big breasts that will feed that dream when it is birthed. A Women Alone can be very scary stuff to those who do not like strong women. You know… men are allowed to retreat into their man caves, but a woman alone… whoa! We’ve got to shoot down that idea dead as a dodo!

Gals, Look at yourself, and the magic you could dream and weave and spin into your life if you could eagerly grab at your ‘me-time’ – and shrug off and negate the people who say that being alone means you’re a failure.  When you sit aside and sort the chaff from the stupid stuff, when you clear your mind of clutter, when as a woman you gently probe and prod at your intuition until it’s purring and vibrating so good and strong – [mmmhhh…I love that feeling] .. when you’re in a state of complete She-LoneNess – and you come out of it with a fierce determination that won’t get you down in a hurry...that’s the magic of ShePower.

So forget the bull-crap of:

    ‘..singleness means you’re not worth it’ …. I can’t even begin to slaughter that stupidity – where do I start? Whether we’re extroverts or introverted as fuck, we ALL NEED that space where we’re completely HOME ALONE to recharge.  Negating alone times and believing in the LIE that being alone is ‘bad’ is not a good thing. At all.

“You’re alone because you’re unloveable”

“You didn’t have ANYONE to spend time with this Season…. Gosh… how sad…”

Don’t entertain those thoughts – ever ever. They’re meant to put you into a spin and detract you from the truths and magic of being SheLoner and sadly, those lines of thought go into the minds of Tribal People [Depressives] & Empaths [both male and female] with a devastating fury of a Force 15 magnitude hurricane or cyclone – so just stop those holding those lies in your mind, or tasting them with your tongue or vomiting them on others. Stop.

Humans were made to be social, yes, but more, they were made as entire little perfectly independent solo units. That’s why we’re mostly born in singles. And when we die, we die singly – my death doesn’t mean another will die. Your soul-mate is that person who, when they die before you do, your own life becomes a big stayfree pad wad of meaninglessness – but those are couples who have been together for ever and not in Nairobi – out there in shags maybe - yes – but aki – mainstream Kenya peeps are so hard-hearted that even the Drunk Driving Billboards warn you that if you drive drunk and die, your ka-wifi will soon-and-very-soon be married to your bhesti and your unborn child will be calling someone else papa….gaii.. That’s just cruel. Nawatu’wa giggle… sigh..

But we ARE in Kenya, TIK. RIGHT now. In 2016. And tings are tuff and a woman has to do what a woman has to do – which is bear the whole wide world on her shoulders and look devastatingly sexy as she does so… ok.. my eyes have rolled so far back in my head.. you know, Alhumdullilah for being a Hijabi. That is a huge debt burden that was negated and not by World Bank….This Hijab wow-  I got my sexy back and it belongs to just one man..

but that’s another story – 

Take a break girls, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not so, so long ago, less than just 250 years ago, our great-grand mothers as girls and women would have packed a bag to sling over their shoulders, a good strong walking stick, bows, arrows and short swords - and walk off into the mountains and bundu and stay away for like 3 years on an #adventure and nobody would say natin’ – infact – those same men and mama’s in the village - they’d give you messages to carry to other villages that you’d maybe pass through in your sojourn…

Now we’re all #Slaves and #Prisoners

In fancy boxes but still

Chained

And Hobbled with bleeding ankles

Chained to the fancy box

by #debt.

Shut up in a box;

a fancy coffin.

That’s Nailed Shut

With lies and imported beLIEfs

Take a fuckin’ break. Shove the ‘guilt’ away and just do it, go SheLoner Mode. Put the all kids in the Bus, Airplane  - whatever – to wherever - somewhere – and Hubby too – put your Fam on Hold, tell Friends to take a chill pill, switch your location off on your CELLphone so your enemies are distracted for a while [especially if you use Instagram] and take a

She-Break. 

Nobody is indispensable  to others but we are, to ourselves. If I break down it's me to fix me and it's me who knows where it hurts - it's me wearing the high heel shoe and if I break an ankle, then it's me wearing flats for G - not you. Nobody is indispensable to OTHERS - they will not DIE if you take a frickin' break. Just do it and watch!

Pray. Exercise. Sleep. Dream. Pray. Eat. Laugh. Walk. Swim. Write. Doodle. Eat sweet stuff. Fart. Watch a funny movie. Pray. Laugh. Cry. Wear perfume. Shower. Soak in a bath. Buy bath salts that smell like a dream. Treat yourself. Walk around the house in socks and shorts or in a khanga – and wear your favorite parfum. You’re HOME ALONE. Smell good. Feel good. Smile.

Talk to yourself.

Listen to yourself.

Love yourself. PAY yourself with delicious, edible amounts of gorgeous ATTENTION until you fall in love with yourself. Just DO IT. Happy Holidays were created for you, so use them. ~ "Some women fear the fire. Some women simply, become it"

The XpenSieve Report© 2016

[Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to xPenSieve© with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Headline banner design by NNMunyinyi]

The Male Privilege, Bewildered Boys & Team Mafisi

Exactly what is ‘Male Privilege’ ? In Kenya, it’s a lot Team Mafisi.

For all my wealth of ‘common’ sense and knowledge, I admit readily that I didn’t grasp it fully – or get enfolded in a back-breaking hug of understanding; until I read this Ebony* interview – where I really got-it. Male privilege is an inborn attitude and demeanor that NEEDS to be un-taught to our BOYS, and only when we as parents and guardians of the youth do that, only when we feed the honey and milk nourishment of behavior back into our boys, only then will our daughters and girls be truly free to walk our streets and roads in both daylight and darkness, only then will they stop being prey meals.

We took the stories away from women and mothers, sisters, girls and young ladies and told them that singing a sweet honey filled song will not help them, and when we stopped singing and the boys stopped hearing those lyrics, they tried to do the next best thing, which was to take the honey by force.

Male privilege is when a man knows that he can get his honey, as he pleases. He’s a Bear – a foreign thing that doesn’t live in Africa - looking for honey and eff the bees that depend on it for life - you know that swahili saying..?

Tafutua Asili, chunga Nyuki

Well if you watched Mwogli the Movie you gots to understand – a bear needs honey, needs honey and forget the fact that there are bees that may sting. He will use whichever monkey is available to get him that honey and that bear won’t bat an eyelid if the monkey is stung to death - 

or not.

The Male Privilege thinks that the Honey is there for his taking, any time. And if he can score more, well give me a high five! or knock-knuckles because, well – ‘she put out’ didn’t she?  In The Male Privilege  world, A No isn’t no, in-fact, many males don’t hear NO – Listen, this was a shocker for me, an intense hurt when I understood it, but instead of standing within the thorny bushes of the hurt, I struggled through it’s prickly patch to peer deeply at the real reason why men don’t hear anything when girls say NO.

They don’t hear it because it’s not a part of their life. Period.

How do you hear something that hasn’t been taught to you?

Male Privilege doesn’t, don’t and won’t hear NO. Even if the woman shouted it.

“what’s that?”

“say whaaaat?

“… you gotta be kidding me…”

The word NO has not been written into The Male Privilege database, so when you tell a man NO and he doesn’t hear it, the fault lies in the deeper ground of his up-bringing. Society, Education and yes -  Most importantly - PAPA. Not so long ago, girls would ask a boy where he’s from and then proceed and tell their Dad, ‘I met this guy, his famo is akina and so’… and the Dad would do some deeply intense sleuthing and detective work… to unearth and uncover the boy’s background – ama famo.  Why were they so darn personal and intrusive >> because they MADE time to. Which Dad has the time to do that today?  Msweeech – that sound that is something between a spit-and-a-sucking-in and collecting of the same spit  that old men & women make in their mouths, lips fused shut in a down-turned curl that looks like a dead fish –

……………….. Which Dad has the time for that nowadays? Which Dad, huh? No, he’s busy sponsoring and spanking and smacking some college girls butt – a girl who is probably younger than his daughter.  Shameless. And he wears her on his arm like a medal. So his son, tell me, his son - who is his son’s hero? The same Papa who’s sponsoring his best friends kid sister?  >> You see,  there’s that axiom about the fruit – it doesn’t fall far from the tree. This is true – sometimes – that we also get ‘black sheep’ – those rare beautiful souls raised in a white-sheep dominated pasture and are somehow, wondrously, so full of a beautiful blackness that they stand out  - in gentleness, in manners and in demeanor  - that it stuns a generation of white sheep to the point that the white sheep ask:  where did that magnificence of Black Sheep-ness come from?  So if you’re different and you’re well rounded and cannot fit-in the square box of life, wear your damn Black coat with honor and integrity. Honor. But sadly, many sons don’t. They slink after their fathers and copy them in ignorance. So, yes, it’s fine for a Dad to know where his daughters new boyfriends roots are, and it’s fine for all of us to talk about Honor and Shaming when it comes to families.  Shame for date-rape, shame for rape, shame for a

Forbidden

Use of

Carnal

Knowledge.

So if you have a young man who doesn’t know how to HEAR the word NO

If you have a young man who has an inbuilt sense of Male Privilege

When you have a young man who knows he can FUCK and walk away

When you have a young man who doesn’t know about Responsibility and caring and loving

If you have a young man who thinks only about himSELF and scoring

If you have a young man who is angry and in Defense mode – who if you walk behind him, and you prod his shoulder with your finger, he turns around and jumps you like a ninja fighter - kicking you on your chin with the full force of a Jackie Chan Foot in your teeth without the special effects – tell me, what do you have if as a society we have 37,340  or so young men with Male Privilege chanting and singing ‘I can do anthing, utaDo’  like these, what do you have if all these young men released onto our Kenyan streets?

That’s what we have.

They’re going to University this week,

and so are your daughters.

Let’s talk about the girls now.

Once upon a time, girls knew deep in their hearts and in their bones that the only place that they could lay down in completeness was within the woman’s world. Women loved women, loved that they were ‘she’  and that they had spaces where they could be

free,

to laugh,  to cry, to sing.

Women had a space where they could talk. And be heard.

Girls had a space where they could talk. And be heard.

Little tiny girls, barely toddlers, had a space where they could talk. And be heard.

Long before man stole it for themselves the ‘blood-bonds’ belonged to the sisters because they shared blood – sharing the Menses-Shelter – the Red Tent, the place where women would sit in pain, or not, the place where young mothers would give birth, and share stories. Women would spin stories of honey, delicious with each exhaled breath. Words were lyrical, full and bountiful, sexy and languid and rich. Words that gave life, words that breathed comfort, words that whispered encouragement and security… Women were confident in the knowledge that they were  the ones who nourished, that they were the healers, the consolers. Women still share recipes with their daughters today,  tell me, do they share health tips with sisters, do they help each other to give birth and raise babies? Do women still share songs of dance, beats to clap hands to, rhythms that make women jump up in joy, that make women shake and sway their wide hips in abandon? Do women still comfort each other in times of sadness? Because in this strength of SHARING, women used to hold women when women hurt. But if we don’t have those She-roots,

women can’t hold a woman when she hurts.

women can’t hold men, when men hurt.

When did females stop believing in she?

When did She stop listening to Her?

Do you know, that if She stops listening to Her, he does as well?

Look at Kenyans now, and what we have:

The Male Privilege with his entitlement,

and Women who say to the girl who is abused by Team Mafisi - ‘she deserves - it’.

What the eff kind of nonsense is that, especially when it comes from a woman? I look at these women and I shiver. I say I’m glad they shall never be my mother.  What kind of woman takes a sip of that bitter beverage, swirls it in her mouth and spits out those ugly cruel words at another woman, “she deserves it” ?  Msweeech – that sound that is something between a spit-and-a-sucking-in and collecting of the same spit that old men and women make in their mouths, lips fused shut in a downturned curl that looks like a dead fish – Look here. We all know what is behind The Male Privilege - it is being a member of a Boys Club - a ‘Team Mafisi’ like groupie where they defend themselves to the death. That’s right. That’s correct. A species must defend it’s own and never cannibalize itself otherwise it will eat itself to death – actually no – I lie, humans breed like a virus…but yes >> Boys are tight<< The Male Privilege.

Do this. Visit today’s Womens Club and you’ll find many not only clubbing each other behind their backs, but rolling their sleeves up so that they can get down & dirty, right down to holding another woman down for  men to rape them. And after-words, she’ll kill her with words and rejection. Because women, when hurt, will still run to another woman for comfort – but, the chain is broken. So they run to men. Your broken girl runs for comfort - they run to men who are inbred with The Male Privilege – they run to ‘Team Mafisi’ , or to the dad of Team Mafisi- The Sponsor – your husband and the father of your son.

And it shows through-out Kenyan society where women batter each other, pound on each other in all arenas, in family, in politics, in religion, in culture, in education, in tribe, in every single aspect you can think of, women in Kenya are so divided it’s INSANE. What kills me is the jealousy.

Mothers against daughters, mothers jealous of their daughters, mothers hating their daughters, mothers choosing-over their daughters. And the daughters, fed with hatred, replicate and duplicate and repeat on the hate. Again and again and again and again they spread the virulent hatred against themselves in Tertiary Institutions, in the workplace, in the neighborhoods, in schools, in politics – everywhere. Yes, women complain that as Kenyans focus too much on the girl-child and that we’ve advanced, I say, wait - it looks like we’ve made progress, but in reality? We haven’t. We haven’t. It looks good from far, it’s all glossed up and shiny like a brand new shiny Maserati, but in reality, this team ‘Kenyan Women’ is so ridiculously and ruthlessly far from good, it reeks to the core. She’s your Daughter. Your sister. Your mother. Your cousin.

Why are you pulling She down, dear Kenyan Woman – we were known as gentle women.

The Male Privilege

So Mama, what do you tell your daughter, who has passed her Form Four and is so excited, so excited, that she’s going to college this sem? Will you tell her to ‘Be careful’? and if she’s abused or misused will you scream ‘but you deserved it!!’ then send her off to a Rehab ran by the same members of the Boys Club when she becomes depressed; Oh the irony! Back to the same Team Mafisi that will sap her inner-sweet-honey essence by force. Leaving a shell behind. And yes, she will fall into a serious depression, because women have eliminated most of the safe spaces where they can talk as women.

She, what will you tell your kid sister? or best friend? as she packs to go to college? Will you tell her to say ‘No’  and scribble names of ‘who’s-who’ with fervent instructions to avoid those on the black-list? And what advice will you, Mr. Sponsor, give to your son who’s going to University this sem? Will you tetemeka from within and tell him to ‘keep off’ your girl? Or will you call her instead, your ‘sponsee’ and tell her, btw, that’s my son, keep off him or I’ll withdraw my sponsorship? So Papa is paying fees for his son and rent for his sponsee. And what do you think members of The Male Privilege Team Mafisi will tell his kid bro, or his ‘boy’? Fuck it and anything you want, take it and use it? Because after all, wataDo?

In conclusion:

Exactly what is ‘Male Privilege’ ? In Nai, it’s a lot Team Mafisi.

For all my wealth of ‘common’ sense and knowledge, I admit readily that I didn’t grasp it fully – or get enfolded in a back-breaking hug of understanding; until I read this Ebony interview * – where I really got-it. Male privilege is an inborn attitude and demeanor that NEEDS to be un-taught to our BOYS, and only when we as parents and guardians of the youth do that, only when we feed the honey and milk nourishment of behavior back into our boys , only then will our daughters and girls be truly free to walk our streets and roads in both daylight and darkness, only then will they stop being prey meals.

We took the stories away from women and mothers, sisters, girls and young ladies and told them that singing a sweet honey filled song will not help them, and when we stopped singing and the boys stopped hearing those lyrics, they tried to do the next best thing, which was to take the honey by force.

*Ebony Interview Link. << Please read that  now

Nyakio N. Munyinyi for the XpenSieve Report© 2016

[Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to xPenSieve© with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Headline banner design by NMunyinyi.]