A Muslim Mothers Fear

Disappearing Youth. A Muslim Mothers Fear.
It's real yo'all... it's real

I’ve never felt so vulnerable and afraid.

The corridor was dark. All the doors were closed shut. No light poured out from the slats above the door. It was dead quiet. I was inside the belly of #Kasarani Police Station. And that’s when I realized I was in deep trouble, and the voices in my head began to shout out real loud:-

“Girl, the Battle doesn’t belong to You, Give it over, give it over… “, and the duas and prayers began tumbling out of my mouth in silent, but urgent whispers.

My girl, my daughter, was in a cell, somewhere in Kasarani. I knew where, because she’d called me, screaming, “…come, come to Kasarani, they’re taking us to Kasarani..”,  she kept saying, until the phone went off.

So I got into my little bug, and drove, blindly, manically, wondering wtf, straight to Kasa. It was 7:33pm. I’d spoken to her earlier in the day and we had a dinner date, she was going to come home after her 7:20 lecture. Not many people know our private life, so I’m telling yo’all, I have RELATIONSHIPS with my adult offspring. We have dinner at least daily, to catch up and ‘bonga’, chit-chat, laugh and bond. Then I either drive her back to her hostel in USIU, or she takes a long moonlight walk…

So when she first called me at 6:58pm that Thursday, I honestly thought she was calling to confirm our dinner. It’s routine. It’s so fucking routine, that I simply hit the green accept button, and already had a smile on my face that was wiped out by the shriek which rent the air, “Mom come to my room now! The Cops are here, the same ones that took that guy, the Kasa Cops! They’ve come with GUNS, mom… cooommmeeeee!!!!”

I heard GUN and froze.

Then my brain went into warp speed and I put 2 n 2 together, and when it clicked, I became very very scared. The previous month, she’d reported what she thought was a strange act. On her way to class, she saw 2 men emptying the wallet of a student she knew was not of Kenyan Nationality. He was then forced into a car that drove off in yes - a cloud of dust. Terrified and concerned for the Student, she went to the USIU security and told them, hey, I’ve just seen a USIU student put in a car forcefully that then sped off. They were shocked, and knowing the caliber of students that study in USIU, told her to report to Head of Security. He wasn’t in [It was late, around 7pm..] so the Security team escorted her to Kasarani Police Station where they reported the occurrence and were given a number from the Occurrence Book.

Let me tell you something about that Occurrence Book.

That BOOK is deep. It’s a deep book that records FACTS. With an OB number, you’re KING. Or QUEEN. Because your statement has become FACT. If you DON’T have an OB number from a police station you may as well be writing fiction …. Your statement doesn’t hold a drop of water. Period.

So, the unknown person was reported as “unknown male forcefully put in car reg no. XXXXXXXX, TIME: PLACE: DATE”.

Thinking no more of it, she continued with her studious life.

I can see the cogs in your minds turning round about now….

Yap. Mine too. So I drove, prayers spilling silently from my mouth, phone in ear, dialing everyone I knew, I’m going to Kasa, they’ve taken my daughter, not sure what is going on, but she’s with her friends.

I got to Kasa at 8:06. Parked, rushed to the reception to find my daughter and 2 other girls being frisked by a surly, angry female plains-clothes. She kept hitting and pushing the 3 girls, shouting at them. The girls weren’t exactly silent either, shouting back in sailors language that would have made my ears pop but instead were replicated in my mind. WTF… Like really? I stared. Mute. One by one they were body-searched, cell-phones confiscated, shoved and pushed towards the cells. But my daughters’ wild eyes calmed down a little, in relief, when she saw me. Her eyes got wetter, she said, “Mom”, in a little girls voice, then turned to her friends and said, “It’s okay now, my Mom is here”.

Crap.

Me?

Sigh….

Shoved, pushed, woman-handled, the cop thrust them one by one through the door that led to the cells, then shut it with a clang. She came out to where we watus stood. I looked at the short sullen girl in front of me and asked, “..So … now what?“

She asked, “…what what? Go home… we’re keeping them for the night…”

“For what crime?” I asked.

“Mama, skiza… enda numbani. Rudi kesho. Hawa waStudents watalala hapa”.

“Fine. What’s the OB number…”

And she looked at me, ice-cold dark eyes; and a horrid slow smile spread on her mouth but that parody of smile didn’t get a foot near her eyes.

“Ask at the desk – there..” she pointed one way, and turned around, showed me her back, walked away in the opposite direction -  outside -  into the cool dark night.

Standing alone.

I turned towards The Desk.

I was scared as fuck. Alone in Kasa, asking for the OB number because my daughter and her 4 friends were in cell, and the cops on duty were stone-faced.

“Si sisi tuna-andika OB, that’s the arresting officer to do….,” I was told from behind bars at the Desk.

So, where were the arresting officers?

“That woman you were talking to”, I was told.

Crap.

I went outside.

She retorted rudely, “It’s not me, why are you talking to me, go talk to my boss.”

I went back to The Desk. Where’s her boss?

Cute male cop looks at me and vomits the words, “Office No. 3” and points to a corridor. I walk down that-away.

The corridor was dark. All the doors were closed shut. No light poured out from the slats above the door. It was dead quiet.

I was inside the belly of #Kasarani Police Station.

I couldn’t find The Boss.

OBVIOUS..

Yes, yes, I can hear you shouting it loudly in my head.

I knew I wouldn’t.

But how to fight the system?

I tried the lock. So they wouldn’t say he was inside in the dark. The.door.was.locked.

I walked back to The Desk. I asked them, politely, He’s not there. The door is shut. What do I do?

They pointed to a bench. “Kaa hapo. Subiri”

Did I have a choice?

Nope.

So I sat.

And sat.

And waited.

And waited.

Commotion. Drunks walking in. Cops with guns bringing in criminals. Matatu touts, pokoz… men shouting, cops shouting louder, nyamaza! Ingia hapo! metal doors clanging shut every few minutes, people reporting stuff at The Desk… voices, loud, commotion, incessant noise. A female cop comes and stands near me...”I’m looking down, her shoes are so bright and polished… “Mama… uko kwa line?” I shake my head.. “haya, songa hapo mwisho…” I get up and move to the end. The line gets shorter and shorter. Every man that passes, I ask the cop behind The Desk with my eyes… is that the boss? He shakes his head. And the answer is No.

No.

No.

The line gets shorter.

And shorter.

Miss Sullen Cop saunters past. I rush to her. Where is the boss? I asked. She sniggered… Mama, nilikwambia, enda nyumbani…

I shake my head and went back to the bench.

The line got even shorter.

Then I was the only one on the bench.

I was alone.

And I got very scared. So I called a ‘peoples’, do you have a ‘peoples?’ I do. You should. He makes stuff move & shake, so I called, and spoke a mothers words of fear down the line;

‘Asalaam Aleiykum… they’ve taken my daughter, but they haven’t recorded it, and they’re telling me to go home and come back tomorrow….”

“…. Sister, Don’t leave! Sit there. We’ll work on this…!!”

What happened was, a simple hash tag on Twitter was started.

#FreeNoni

And the calls began to flow in to my phone.

Where is she, where are you, why hasn’t she been booked in, don’t leave, demand your rights, you CAN’T LEAVE, we’re going live on air, where are you again? What’s her name, who are you…. 

Let me say this.

Boss showed up.

‘Wewe ndiyo mama wa huyo student USIU?’ he asked, standing infront of me but not giving me space to stand up. Intimidating tactics. No. It wasn’t going to work with me.

Yes. I stared up at him.

Njoo..

I followed him to his office. Some girl and a young chap behind me. I asked them, who are you, she replied, ‘Xxxxx’s cousin’.

“USIU?”

“Yes”.

Phew. Strength in numbers. Little did I realize they’d turn on me like a pack of hyenas.

We went into the office. The boss asked us.. who took this to the news? We looked at him blankly.

… So, we have to book them in, but you know, we didn’t have to… you could just have asked us what to do. They’re drunk and high…", The Boss man in a Kenyan-flag cap says.

Drunk? My mind screamed, DRUNK?? MY DAUGHTER DOESN’T DRINK!!

Alarm bells began to go off in my head.

My phone rang, I recognize the caller. Relief..

“…Nya, where are you? What’s happening…”

I walked out.

“… with the arresting officer…. He’s head of something…. “

“…where are The Five, people are asking….”

“…in a holding cell.” I replied.

“… which station?”

“Kasa”

“Chick. Are you sure? Because, no they’re not. We’ve been calling Kasa, and the answer is they are NOT there, they’re not in the OB, they’re not being held there.”

“…let me go back and listen to what the arresting officer is saying…. I’m IN Kasa, they’re here”.

I hung up.

Fuck.

My heart. In my throat.

This effin’ system.

No.

No.

They’re here. My daughter is in the holding cell. The Five cannot be just disappeared.

I went back to the Boss.

Found him shooing out the other two.

Wewe mama, uko kwa Social Media?

No, I took a phone-call. And my phone is almost dead. I’m not on Social media, I answered, politely, my friends yes, not me. Serene looking, mind in turmoil, I turned to TheCousin. What’s happening, I asked?

Dunno…

Nyinyi, rudi Front Desk! Tokeni hapo! We were shooed out to the front desk. Sat back on the bench. Time dragged. It was a hot night. I sweat under the hijab.

Commotion.

[My stomach growls]

My phone adhan goes off.

What, it’s already Isha? I felt like I’d been here for hours.

1% charge. Phone blinks irritatingly.

I begin to switch my Sim card from Phone Dying to Phone Spare.

Commotion.

“MOM!”

I look up, The Five are out.

“Stand here! Get in single file. March. To the office!” Sullen surly female cop is barking instructions.

I notice another man. Huge.

Cap on head. Looks like an aging overweight basketball player down to the jeans and upmarket sneaks.

In the commotion I slip in towards my daughter. She wants to cry, I tell her NO. She grapples for my hand, holds it tight.. “Mom, I’m scared…” she says, eyes wild. “shush” I soothe….

Heart in mouth.

Mouth in Heart.

Sullen and Surly, the female UC notices us holding hands, shoves my daughter. I tell her, hey, stop.

But apparently, contact with prisoners ‘…isn’t allowed’.

I let go.

They enter the bosses ‘office’. The door is shut on us. Wtf. I open it. Surly Cop, hostile: “Mama, ni nini?” I want to know is all, I said, I’m the mother. Cold annoyance in her eyes. Mama wa nani?

But I’ve TOLD HER.. sigh, I repeat and point “Her”

Sawa. Ingia. They relented. Then began taking fingerprints. Writing names in a book.

What are they doing??? I asked air....

“we’re TAKING FINGERPRINTS and writing the names in the OB..”

“What CRIME are you taking the fingerprints for…?”

“Mama… Una swali nyingi sana. Usijali. Si tumewashika? We’ll tell you later..”

“Umm…. No, please, tell me now”.

“Why? Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m the Mother… I have a right.”

“We have arrested them. These are BAD CHILDREN. We have a right to take them off the streets”.

Streets?

Warning bells go off in my head again…

“Streets?” I ask….baffled….”you went into my daughters ROOM in a hostel”.

“sasa Mama, fanya hivi. Wewe toka inje, tumalize hii kazi. You have too many questions, let us do our work….”

Out nii nja.

FUCK.

Back outside on corridor.

FUCK.

Phone rings.

I fumble, grope for it.

Unfamiliar number...

“Hello”

“Is this Nya?… my name is DUDE and I’m with THIS.ORG and I’ve just called KPStation and they have absolutely NO record of any USIU kids, I’m sorry, they’re not there…”

Let me say this, I had no clue who DUDE was. None. My brain was still in the office that I’d just been thrown out off, and here’s some DUDE from some ORG. telling me that my child is not in the station?

“I don’t know who the EFF you are but don’t tell me that MY DAUGHTER IS NOT HERE”, I shouted, pissed as hell, “ I’m IN Kasarani, INSIDE! INSIDE! and MY DAUGTER had been here SINCE 8:00PM! I’M GOING TO HANG UP NOW!”

..or something like that, it could have been worse, I dunno. I was livid.

I disconnected. Walked in the night air. Became calm.

I went back to The Bosses office. Opened the door. They’re fingerprinting The Five. Good. I keep quiet. Miss Sullen lady cop glares at me. I stand beside the door. I’m amazed I’m NOT tired. The Five are finger printed. The three cops begin joking and laughing.

Huh?

I whisper to them, don’t give up. It’s on Twitter, #FreeNoni is trending…

Sullen Lady Cop overhears, ‘..what nonsense is that, what is trending? Haha…stupid..mutalala hapa”

The Five wipe their fingers on a Skull cap [Marvin] that belongs to one of them. They’re escorted out.  You can go home now, Boss says to me, We’ve booked them.

For what? I ask.

Four counts.

What four, I ask?

Resisting arrest is one, and the other is they were caught with weed.

That’s two.

Fat guy hesitates….

We’ll add.

You’ll WHAT?

Mama, all this can go away.

I look at TheCousin. I look at FG [FatGuy]. I look at Boss. I don’t bother looking at SullenChickCop.

Boss looks at the ceiling, tilts back his chair. The office is quiet.

He speaks, authoritatively. “You know this is the Drugs& Narcotics  office. This is a severe crime. Very. If booked for possession, you can get up to 7 years in jail and the bond for possession is 200,000. It’s not good. If they go to court, they can be expelled from school. Not only that, but even if they get a degree, they will never be employed because they dealt drugs in University”.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.…. My mind.

Jeez.

Potato in throat.

Heart in throat.

“Is this about money, how much do you want?",  I ask, calmly.

We are going to be nice. If you give us cash now, we can release them quickly.

TheCousin asks, “Do we get a receipt?”.

My head whips to look at her.

Whips back to look at SullenCop.

FG speaks up.

“If you give us cash now you can go home with them”.

It’s a game.

I’m so in.

“Not 200, “ I interject, “… that’s not possible right now. ATM’s can give out up to 40k, but aki, tuko mwisho”.

They laugh.

Even SullenCop laughs.

I don’t crack a smile.

“100”

“50”.

“Minimum 20”

“I have 10”

“Sawa, you give us 10 you go home with her now.”

“Mpesa?”

“No. Cash”

“I meant, where can I find an Mpesa?”

“….across the road”.

“My phone needs charge..”

“Charge it here”.

I did. Right there on Bosses desk. While we were waiting for it to charge, they got chatty. Made jokes. The Boss said, “Mama, wewe ni mpole sana, why is your daughter so hostile?”

[Dumb fucks, you barge into her room with a gun and no warrant, you expect her to SMILE AT YOU and sing “Welcome Back” in Harmony with her bhestees? You slap her across her face with your big meaty hand and you want her to SMILE?] But I didn’t know this. Thank God.

So I just said, quietly, just know it’s impossible for my daughter to be drinking.

FG says with a smirk on his face, Apana, you parents don’t know your kids.. You leave them there and you don’t know the rubbish they do..

Warning Bells…

Migraine coming. I pray to it, wait…please, don’t hit now…Sweet Brown's gif repeats itself in my brain 'I don’t have time for this..'

These guys had NO IDEA who my daughter was. Thought she wasn't Kenyan, thought she drank, thought I'd leave her there, thought wrong, wrong WRONG...They had no idea what she had gone through, her battles in life, her gains, her wins, her beautiful grades, her relationships with peers, how others looked upon her as a heroine who’d won the war against alcohol and WON, her brilliant future, the fact that she comes home to mama every TUESDAY AND THURSDAY for Dinner…..

I kept quiet, and they spoke. Especially FG. He spoke shit about her. Lies. Placed her in places where it was impossible for her to be, because you see, he didn’t know I could see through the crap. I let him talk. And talk. When people throw shit you've gotta let it DRY. Then you flick it off. Don't go smearing that shit when it's wet. I guarded my heart, prayed inside. Refused to let his nasty talk sink in, I had work to do yet, I couldn’t, couldn’t break or snap, no, not yet. I kept repeating, when you get home…

My phone charged. Got to 16%.

Darling Readers, I went across-the-road. The MPESA transaction is on my phone. Withdrawn from a dingy little MPESA joint across-the-road from KPStation.  I cried. I was in a hijabi. It was late night. Drunk men shoving me, calling me Waria, slurring to me through rotten breath and peering through unfocused moist eyes, poking my shoulder with dirty grubby fingers that that had probably held their parts when they peeed..poking my shoulder, seemingly concerned - what was I doing out at this hour? -   Luckily I was with a friend of my daughter’s, a friend who’d come all the way to the police station from across Nairobi. Unlike the phone caller, he’d insisted and barged his way through the Front Desk and had found me in Room 3. So I had a male presence. Thanks be to God. I withdrew 10K. As I received it, I got a text message from a strange phone. Message said, [We’re in the office again. Signed by my Daughter.] I received it at 11:01 pm, March 31.

I told the friend, ..'they’re back in the small room'. We got into the car, dashed back to the station with the 10K.

I could smell, taste, breathe freedom. I could see her and me, free, out of there.

Back at the station, Winter had come. The Ice was everywhere.

Nobody was talking. Jokes had vanished, disappeared, gone, MIA. TheCousin was abrupt, she said, we were thrown out of the room but The Five are back in there.

I tried to get in. They were being fingerprinted. AGAIN. The Boss man looked at me cold and hard, no smile. “Mama, umefanya nini? Ngoja inje!”

I went outside, to the car park, there were people in the driveway. Oh my, PEOPLE, at this hour! I wasn’t alone, they could only be the parents or guardians. But my pleasure was short lived, for there I was told, this is ‘baba so and so’. Foolishly, when I said hello. I received ice. He was cold. So cold. You’re the social media woman, he barked.

What? My mind went blank.

I’ve spoken to the arresting officer in there, let me tell you, these kids should SPEND THE NIGHT in here. We come back on Saturday to remove them. Why were they drinking and making noise? I am a TEACHER, it’s so hard to teach these stupid kids nowadays. You know, they don’t care, we pay fees, we pay money, we save, take them to the best schools, they DON’T CARE!! Acha walale ndani…”

“Umm… they weren’t drinking…”, I tried to tell him. He moved away from me, his arms crossed tight across his chest. “Who are you, the POLICE say they were found with bhangi and drinking and making noise and having a fight…” he said as he walked away. Foolishly I followed…

“Nooo…!”

“Who are you?” He barked, louder, he turned his back on me and faced the other parents, closing the circle and keeping me out.

“They were in my daughters room, they weren’t dri…..”

“And HOW DO YOU KNOW? I tell you, I’m a teacher. NO! THEY were drinking. They should stay in THERE AND LEARN a LESSON! I HEAR THEY’RE ALL DRUNK…”

Wtf is this nonsense, like really? Shouldn’t men protect women? I’m a parent, why is he shouting and being so hostile to me. Gaii. 

LS

Life Sucks.

Then you die.

Don’t ever wait for applause when you do good. Don’t.…

….. Disheartened, I drifted away to the Station and noticed The Five being escorted back to the Holding Cell. I tried to talk to them but SullenCop and the FG stopped me from addressing them with a terse, “…rudi kwa offici”, So I went back, alone, to The Bosses office.

“I went to get money from Mpesa, I have it here,  who do I pay, where do I get a receipt?”, I stated, once inside, but his demeanor had frosted over.

Forget your money. What did you do? Who did you speak to?

Nobody. My phone died. I charged it on your desk so I could withdraw MPESA. Who do I give this 10K to, I want to take my daughter home.

Well, he said, Ice in his voice, you spoke to someone and this thing is ‘trending’ all over Twitter. And it’s gone to the top office. Your bad. “Your children”, he spat out bitterly, ‘… have been BOOKED! It’s YOUR FAULT that their fingerprints are now on RECORD for Cannabis. Shauri Yako! It’s your fault! You shouldn’t have gone on social media you stupid woman.. umefanya makosa sana mama, makosa kubwa sana..”

Umm… I hadn’t gone on social media, personally that is.

But all #KOT did was demand #FreeNoni. Or release her. Simple.

That’s it.

People may de-cry #KOT, but when and if you need action in a hurry, #KOT is the fastest engine in Kenya. Period. I had NO IDEA what was going down on Twitter, all I knew is, my peeps hadn’t let me down and that this story was ALIVE.My daughter wasn't going to disappear.

But, ask yourself, why is it a recurring habit in Kenya, that when our leaders, or people in leadership, men who are in charge of ‘things’ that ‘matter’, why is it that when some of these bullies and predators get Light shone on them, when they’re in the Spot-Light, why do they begin to say the problem is the person bearing the torch? It’s never their actions that get them in trouble, it’s always the whistleblowers fault? Why do they shout, Dim the lights like I’m driving down a highway at night with my headlights in full beam despite the oncoming cars? Why do bullies say, kwanini una ni mulika?

My phone rang. I picked it wearily. "Yes?"

"Go home now, we have the OB number, The Five have been booked. Go rest".

I walked out of that Room, and went back to the Front Desk, and the female cop there looked at me and said, “Hongera Mama kwa subri yako. Shukran. Sasa, enda nyumbani upumzike, rudi kesho mapema. Rudi na chai ya breakfast, na nguo zao”.  Mama, congratulations on your patience, go home, rest, come early tomorrow, bring them tea and their clothes.

I looked in her eyes and almost wept, she was sincere. She couldn’t tell me more, but for me it was clear, thank you for holding on, your Five are now safe, they won’t be spirited away to another place at night, you can go, you’ll find them here in the morning, not disappeared.

I walked out of the Police Station past Midnight, on the morning of All Fools Day, 1^st April, 2016.

I walked out the same way I had walked in over 4 hours earlier.

Alone.

It was going to be okay, for us.

But.

I cried, and cried and cried, all the way home, and I cried when I got home, for the countless mothers in this country, in NEP and other counties, who go to the Police Stations to report their missing sons or daughters and are told, ‘….we don’t know what you’re talking about’, And I cried, for the countless mothers who are later given their children’s remains, and told, ‘…. but, they were Al’shabaab.’ Because Al Shabaab means The Youth in Arabic. And yes, they die in Al Shabaab, in their Youth. That's a TRUTH. And we mothers cry and say yes, they died Al Shabaab. And I cried because of the men who can help us, but instead, they turn their backs on anything and everything Muslim, not realizing, the pain is Kenyan, the pain is human, the pain, is every PARENTS pain.

---------------------------------------------------------------

PostMortem: What I found out this past week:

When they were taken into Room No. 3 at 11:00pm, the Five were profiled. Height, Weight and Features taken. Down to size of nose and length of neck, nose, limbs. 

And also kept telling my girl, ‘you’re not Kenyan, you don’t look Kenyan’….

This is a young girl. Brilliant. In University. Being told by ADULTS IN AUTHORITY that she’s NOT KENYAN….

It’s sad. So sad.

 -------------------------------

• 1.     If you or anybody you know is arrested, it is your RIGHT as a citizen of Kenya to be told by the arresting officers WHAT you’re being arrested for, and an OB number is IMPERATIVE. Foreign Students are granted Temporary Citizenship for the period of their studies and can also apply for an ‘Alien ID’. They look the same as Kenyan ID’s but the Nationality of foreign student is marked on the card.
• 2.     The Arresting Officer must tell you his or her name if you ask.
• 3.     Have a number or numbers of people you can call immediately and tell them the name of the POLICE STATION you’re being taken to. Make sure they follow up instantly.
• 4.     If you pay out any money to the police, you must get a receipt. If you don’t get a receipt, that’s a bribe and whatever happens, happens. You cannot report it. [Caveat emptor].
• 5.     Note: In the past year, more USIU students have spent a night/nights in #Kasarani Police Station than any other students in Universities countrywide, combined. There is an average of 5 students ‘arrested’ and/or ‘incarcerated’ in the Kasarani Police Station, whether written in the OB book or not for ‘petty crimes’, per week. It’s the new ‘hazing/baptism’ for USIU students.
• 6.     Foreign students ‘caught’ with drugs are immediately deported back to their countries. The fear is real.
• 7.     Going through a Court Case while at USIU for a ‘Bhangi’ charge is time-consuming because of the current courts system. It's a slow wheel, which, even if it's efficient, it keeps students away from STUDYING/attending lectures. Telling a lecturer that you’re attending a ‘bhangi’ charge means risking dismissal from USIU.
• 8.     Every Thursday, without fail, there is an arrest of USIU students on some petty issue. Either ‘wrongful’ parking, ‘loitering’ or the all time favorite – you guessed it – ‘bhangi’.
• 9.     Student hostels are barged into at will any time of day or night. There is NO PRIVACY.  The ‘officers’ say that they were informed by ‘other students’, ‘the caretaker’, ‘the guards’. Nobody follows up, but in this case, we did. No such ‘report’ was issued by ‘other students, the caretaker, the manager of NLP’s hostel, or by the guards. When asked, they looked shocked.
• 10.  Plainclothes police around USIU dress in better clothing than some students.

See you’ll soon.

Keep Safe. Be aware. We’re in Kenya guys, we’re in Kenya.

Reposted with permission from A Running Commentary © April 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 A Running Commentary© with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.]

A Tribal Girl’s Journey through the Seasons of Depression

1. Alcoholic Tings

[My first Sober, if not somber, Christmas]

 

I quit drinking 754 days ago, on the 30th of November, 2013 to be exact. I joined AA 3 months later - It wasn’t a radical decision I made to actually quit drinking, no, rather – I did it because I had no choice due to an emergency under-the-knife operation and having to swallow antibiotics and other drugs for about a month for healing. When the doctor informed me about requiring the procedure about a week before this that November, I looked at him askance, and almost told him to go fuck himself - December without alcohol for an alcoholic?

Dude…

But I restrained myself from insulting him… [I WAS going to be out COLD under him in the very near future…] and told him instead to book the “Theatre” for the 2nd of December instead of the following day, murmuring excuses about I-don’t-know-what, I hobbled out of his clinic and into the nearest bar – nearest to my home that is, for minimum-staggering-distance.

And then the Depression hit.

That’s the thing about Depression and this Tribe of Depressives. You just don’t know when, or how, the Depression is going to take a hold of you. It doesn’t, to steal a line from a fellow Tribes-Girl, ‘..walk up to you looking all dark, tall, handsome and oozing sexy n deliciousness, lean down, nibble my ear, and murmur in a deep throaty tenor, “Hey girl, you’ve got gorgeous tits, can I fuck with you..?”

No. Depression does one of two things. It creeps in slow and slinky like a tide at sea, actually no - it’s more like a giant 7ft tall by 7ft wide garden snail, creeping in and leaving a trail of disgusting mucus behind it, squashing the life out of you, filling your heart and mind and limbs with the cold mucus, slobbering and slathering you in a numb helpless dismay where nothing is right, nothing.

Or, like that day in November, it just comes up to you and hits you on the head with a 100kg sack filled with rotten tomatoes and nasty smelly eggs. And snail slime.

The pain is unbearable. It’s pain in the head, pain in the heart, pain in the limbs. And there’s the weight. Heaviness of the head, heaviness in the heart, heaviness in the limbs. And it doesn’t go easy. Non-tribe people say, ‘…wish it away’. Fuck them… I wish.

So I drank. Alcohol eases the pain, oh yes it does! It makes the heavy numbness leave you and you believe that you CAN-Do-anything including Obama. Most Tribes people of this ‘Depressive Tribe’ are also quiet, shy and retreating, but Drugs & Alcohol give you an awesome sense of bouncing manic confidence, and voila, you’re sooner tap-dancing on tables and you’re the freaking party girl of the night and everyone thinks you’re the gutsy-est person ever. It’s better than Facial Foundation for black-head cover-up, no lie.

A few days later I realized that “this wasn’t going to work” after I had just called my favorite boda-boda-guy*1, and asked him for a home-delivery of a Litre of Whiskey – straight to my 4th Floor Penthouse apartment. In a panic I shot off an email to a gorgeous friend who lived out of Kenya and he promptly informed me he’d come for the entire month of December, to baby-sit me, kind of, after the Operation. I knew he would, where nobody else had even one second to spend on me, so horrid was I, always in and out of depression, moody and unstable, and now this looming procedure to have inner parts of mine removed. But BusomBuddy wanted to spend time in Nairobi as well, so I had a ‘home-nurse’, so to speak..

But before he confirmed, I got worse news. My X who in my mind I called The Devious Devil, [but aren’t they all? X spouses?] … sent me an email demanding that the kids must go over and stay with him for Christmas, brusquely pointing out that he wasn’t about to take NO for an answer. The entire month! 35 – 36 days! And he lives over 1000 kms away, well 917kms to be precise, a 13 hour road trip or an hours flight away, problem being the flight empties bank accounts. I had no heart or energy to argue and my blue funk sank even lower, Depression dug his talons into my spirit and soul ever harder. In retaliation I sent off a quick retort that X should ‘take-them-then’ before the Sunday when I was due to check-in to the hospital. “I’d rather they were away than here when I get home,” I lied, so upset was I. Yes, Tribes people have a habit of shooting themselves in the foot. Always. Depression lies and tells you that you’re good for nothing, that you’re stupid, daft and dense [a contradiction, as Tribe members are highly out-of-this-world-intelligent beings], Depression whispers and convinces us that we’re use-less, bad at everything we touch – the negative Midas touch belongs to us, we’re failures, ugly, a nuisance, too fat or too thin, never perfect at anything, lousy at work, lousy spouses, lousy parents, lousy to parents, disrespectful, not thankful enough and just plain rotten. Circles of depressive thoughts that run through our minds over and over again in horrid leery cycles.

And yet at the bottom of my broken bleeding heart, all I really wanted was my family around me as I recovered, but admitting that meant I was weak-minded and needy, sentiments I detested and loathed with my whole being, so I practically shoooed my kids off, dropping them off at the Silver Springs Hotel Impala Shuttle Stage on a freezing cold forlorn morning, so they could overland to KIA and take the 540flight to Dar-es-Salaam from there, asking them to check if they had their passports once, then twice, then thrice, fretting and making a motherly nuisance over them, then went back to the apartment I called home; and I remember wailing and crying like a baby in the lowest of depths, wandering around the emptiness and echo-ness and hollowness of teenage-less rooms and praying and asking God to not wake me up from the Operating table, so hurt was my heart.

Well I’m here aren’t I, He didn’t answer that one.

I’d drank like a loony that whole week before the operation, stopping only 2 days before, and knowing it was a ‘semi-stop’ or ‘pause’ for at least 30 days, but also knowing that maybe, if I hit 30 days, I could maybe do 31, then 32. But at the pit of my stomach was the unbearable question lurking like a dark specter in the shadows, how would I manage the PAIN? The Depression? A few months prior to this, at the end of October, I had just completed in it’s entirety a 3 month course on Life Counseling. I was equipped, I had been told, to handle the whole wide world, sober and fresh. And here I was, less than a month after graduation - thrown into this deep end of whole-wide-world, sober.

My Bosom Buddy answered my email when I was already back home after the Op, to say that he would arrive a few days before Christmas, but I was alright, drugged from my brain to my toes in pain medication and nicotine, watching Series day and night, curtains shut, on meals that were boiled and tasteless – post Op foods. Yuk. But so high was I that I got 2 fully SHADED tattoos done in the same afternoon as well as the horrid act of chopping off my 5 year old-gorgeous blond dreadlocks. Just before he arrived, Bosom Buddy reminded me that he couldn’t stand the smell of cigarettes and that in order to be considerate to him, for him to stay with me, I would have to stop smoking.

Fuck.

Desperation.

Well, I could stop for 2 weeks, yes? No? [bobs head Indian style].... the extent of things people of this Tribe do…. so for 3 weeks, I had no smokes, no alcohol. But I was still on those prescription painkillers, and let me tell you, those things give you a high that’s most definitely not legal. Still, somehow, that’s how I spent my first Christmas ever, SOBER. I won’t lie and tell you it was all rosy and gorgeous because it wasn’t. I was half out of my mind most of the time in a stupid depression that I covered with laughter and silliness. And that thing of being without the kids during Christmas? It was painful and heart-wrenching and I cried every single time I took a shower – showers disguise the sound of the soft wails and hiccups, and tears can flow and mingle with the stinging hot shower jets of water, when you can’t quite tell if it’s the shower water or tears on your face, and you can let rip, bang the shower walls with your clenched fists or slap the walls with the palm of your hand and sit in a forlorn wet puddle on the shower floor, naked, wet and dark inside.

They tell you that Alcohol is all about triggers, and avoiding triggers, and knowing your triggers. That’s all true. What I didn’t know was that my trigger was Depression, simple. I am a total Tribes-person. So every time I felt Depression knocking, I’d go running and looking for a happy cure – a good long sweet alcoholic drink, the higher the proof the better - it would numb the pain and horror of Depression. Fortunately, I’d been warned off Fucks – not giving, or receiving Fucks. Now that was one weird convo, but it’s a story and part of Chapter 2, also known as “I’m Leaving, On A Jet Plane, Don’t know When I’ll Be Back Again”- title copied from the song of the same by Peter, Paul and Mary in the year, 1967. Nice Song.

Yap, so since I’d been warned off fucks, I didn’t go down that path, but many do. As a Tribe, we’re prone to get low. Lower than normal people. And a quick solution is – a fuck. If it’s a good one and permanent, excellent. But sadly, due to Tribal temperaments, they are mostly non-permanent, kind of like a flying fuck, always drifting and gliding away silently; try and get that. We’re not like normal people period. So, we get low and we get lower than normal people. And when we go lower than our normal low, we usually panic and look for a pick-me-up. So let’s say normal people go low at -1. Tribes-people and Alcoholics can go as low as -10. Then they look for a drink. Or a high. Or a fuck. Whatever, who gives a fuck… and they’re up there in Cloud9 with everyone else for a time. But then, the high wears off, and where do they land?

Yap. -10.

Everyone else lands on -1.

That’s a huge problem. And you can’t tell by just looking who is Tribe or who is an Alcoholic always, which is why the happiest people commit suicide and you wonder how you couldn’t tell. Well, we can, sometimes, but sometimes we’re also so stuck in level -8 we can’t even help ourselves. Sometimes it’s easier to stay drunk. Sober is hard. Really hard. It’s the strongest that survive, because you get to take a long hard look at yourself and ask those nasty truthful hard-as-a-teenage-girls-tits questions. And those tits – sorry – questions - were up there in my face come January 2013, after BosomBuddy left for places out of Kenya. I waved him off then went home to ponder over how I felt – SOBER. I remember playing Pinks’ SOBER hit over and over again loudly, dancing by myself in a happy-ish manic glee. And I reminisced and decided on how to glue the pieces of my life back together, and in the process discovered that many were missing. Not only missing, but the question loomed, did I really want them back? And learning about circles and moods and that the trick is to know that Depression will always come calling [it’s a Tribe thing, remember that] and the aim is to make the repeat of time-circles bigger, the low-depths shallower, and the times in depression shorter.

So I went into a nice-ish mood, a good one, playing Naughts + Crosses with my life and coming up winning most of the time. I read many a book and prayed a lot too – to a distant GOD whom I knew loved me though I felt he was far-far away in a Peter Pan World, somewhere beyond the Third star and Jupiter and sometimes throwing Angel dust my way.

What a far cry from my former ‘religious days’ when I was a devout Church leader.

But my psyche had been severely eroded by a DMV relationship and it’s mishandling by probably well meaning but uneducated church members who would say I wasn’t ‘holy’ enough is why I got beat and depressed. Actually, in 20 years, I didn’t meet a single Tribe member. I remember once on a sunny lazy afternoon, with bees buzzing in and out of open windows of her cottage, confessing to a fellow woman church leader, reclining in her home on a deep burnt orange luxurious sofa, sipping sweet cups of Masala Tea and snacking on triangular pieces of crust-less bread slathered with real butter, ‘Honey, I need a psychiatrist or some such person to talk to, I need to look for a ‘detox’ or ‘rehab’, I feel like I’m going mental…..” and she looked at me and laughed for the longest time, while slapping in amusement, her meaty thigh with the flat palm of her hand, a dull thick sound, and gasping, ‘YOU? A REHAB? DEPRESSED? ALCOHOLIC…? NEVER. Go take a looong drive to Naivasha or to the Rift Valley, clear your head.. you’re fine….”, as she wiped the laughter tears off her eyes with her sleeve.

I also remember, once-upon-a-time in my university-hood, when I had locked myself up in my bedroom at my parents home for about a week, depressed, morose and not getting or feeling any better, I looked for and approached my mother [who never had patience for what she called my moods]… but in desperation I asked her please, could I pleeeeease see a psychiatrist or psychoanalyst? And the answer was a resounding NO. “You’re the luckiest girl in the whole world, you’re just plain SPOILT by your father..” and she fastened her lips together in a prim unyielding pucker that reminded me of prunes, and that was the end of the matter. Well I kind of carried that forward like a math equation, right into my church going-Bible-thumping Youth-Leader days when I believed that my moodiness and low-lows could be cured by ‘Positioning the Engine of Smile” in front of my thoughts and plastering said smile on my face. Add a bucketful of shitty violence in a 20 year marriage, and it’s a wonder I didn’t kill myself via alcohol.

So there I was, praying to an unseen god and looking for answers in the books and notes I’d made the previous year while this studying the phenomenon called “Life Counseling” and really sorting my bits out, I mean like …REALLY. I was happy. Content. Serene. Sober. Cigarette Free too! I was giving lectures and standing on podiums in front of hundreds of women proclaiming the goodness of ? that I had stopped drinking, smoking and all fuckery… and looking absolutely amazing to boot!

My son had began to fall in love with me again, I could see it in his eyes, that look that he’d give me when I walked into the apartment to see if I was sober. He’d come up to me, reaching my chin, and hug me, as well as unobtrusively sniffing at me and my clothes to see if I was ‘drunk’… but months passed, and nope, I didn’t touch the dreaded drink and his love grew and wound itself round me like pieces of gossamer thread, very there, but oh, so fragile!

And January and February came and went and there we were, at the end of March, and one cold morning I picked up my vibrating phone without caring to look at the caller.

As Tribes people we know how to avoid certain calls. Either you put a different ring tone, or if not, you look at the screen for a long couple of seconds before you decide to put it back down, face down. Face down stops the incessant ringing tone, thank the gods for that invention!, but yes, we avoid certain people with a merciless manic glee, knowing that if you pick that call, you will pay with hellfire. Well, that cold morning, I was still under-cover-of-blankets in my darling warm bed, feeling all gorgeous and sexy, warm and oh so sweet. So I stretched out lazily, gently pressed the green button on the smart phone screen and said Hello in a sultry tone, eyes still half closed. The voice froze my mind. Instant brain freeze. And I couldn’t hang up, or be quiet, or pretend that I hadn’t heard. Fear galloped through my veins, followed swiftly by a staggering desire for an alcoholic drink to stop the fear, to stand up to the fear, to get courage to stand up to the fear, to stop the numbness, the seeping cold that had somehow kept away from me for so long. This thing about Triggers is that they’re exactly that, Triggers. No warning, it’s like KABAOW! And you’re a stinking putrid diarrhoea mess.

I think I wandered about in the apartment for a bit, worried sick that I would give in to this desperate need for a drink, but I soon gave up and called the same boda-boda guy, who was so shocked at my request for a home-alcohol delivery, he actually hesitated. I heard it clearly in his soft gasp. I also asked him to come with a 12 pack carton of cigarettes. Immediately after that I called a person who I knew was a strong member of AA. And wailed like a baby. Gone was my confidence, gone was my self control, gone was my total understanding, gone was my graceful delightful spiritual self, gone were the days of calm, here was Fear with a big letter F, staring at me with a rock hard unyielding face and I was petrified. How could I face this particular fear – face to face – sober?

Well it turned out I didn’t have to. The AA member dropped everything she was doing and came to set up camp at my home, and she refused to leave. She allowed me the cigarettes, but gave the unopened Litre bottle of Whiskey that I’d been staring at on the kitchen counter top with a quiet frantic desperation - back to the boda-boda guy as a free gift. She sat with me, held me, spoke to me, and told me not to allow myself to be overcome with fear, cooked me food, covered me up in a blanket to stop my fear shakes. And I began to understand that I had to let go of past hurts and not sink in the miry clay pit of depression, or if I did, to know that there was a way out of this concentric circles of endless consuming Depression – and that I could get out of it, and away from the Alcohol. And that I needed to talk to others like me. Like me? I asked my friend who said I needed to go for an AA meeting, disbelief and the neediness and desire of the numbing pleasure of alcohol ruling my tongue for the taste; yes, she replied, like you. And the next morning, early, she called for a Taxi Cab, and took me to my first ever AA meeting where I said, with tears running down my face;

Hello, My name is Nyakio, and I’m an Alcoholic.

The Beginning.

*1 boda-boda-guy – motorbike rider, who can be hired at a fee to deliver home shopping; mostly for fast transport in urban areas, or out of way places where public transport is not accessible.

 

 

 

Nyakio, for the XpenSieve Report© December 2015

 

[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.]

Let's TALK About SEX........ Again.

Let’s talk about sex baby, let’s talk about you, and me…

But we stopped talking about sex a long time ago…

It is a dirty subject and like with all matters dirty, we tend to sweep them under a beautiful carpet and leave them down there, hidden and unseen - but whenever we shift, or step too hard on the carpet, the dirty rotten stuff under said carpet is begins to ooze out and stink the air.

FACT: There's a culture in Kenya that advocates for a strange and nasty silence about all matters sex or sexual.

As a growing girl, if I had ANY questions they were mostly silenced with a loud SHHHHHHHhhhhhh and a harsh reminder that , ' …….. good girls don't talk about such things……',and I was left feeling unhealthy and wrong, because as a teen with raging hormones, I FELT stuff and I wasn’t taught how to respond to all these feelings, do you give in to the physical feelings, or do you ignore them?  I was left utterly confused.

My vagina and a male penis were both ‘susus’. But, periods were a ‘curse’, so any reference to pain was responded with, ‘….but it’s a curse, you’re an eve, chin up!’   ----à me: *&^%^$£@. God does hate me.

How many girls have you heard crying out loud, ‘ I wish I was a boy!?’

As growing girls, we discussed all these sex matters amongst ourselves but at some point it automatically divided us into two distinct groups – the BAD girls discussed sex and all sexual matters, the GOOD GIRLS didn’t discuss sex AT ALL.

NOTE. If you discussed sex, you were a sinner and not a Christian.

This made no sense to me. At all.  Because how does the discussion of a subject that makes us so uniquely human automatically throw one out of a religious group?

Sigh…

HENCE, I am known as belligerent and a far-right liberal winger who defies rules.

But, whether you choose to agree or not, the following are facts:-

FACT:  We unconsciously believe that any woman who likes sex, or talks about wanting it, is WRONG. If a woman talks about wanting sex, liking the sexual act, or is desirous of sex, or horny, then SHE is automatically ---à loose, a slut, a tease, a whore or 'hoe' [as they call them in the US of A]. She's automatically thrown out of the "Warm Women’s Club" and rejected as a 'nice lady’. Immediately. Pap! Horrors, may a woman say she's horny, and for some strange reason in the eyes of all other woman, she has fallen from the grace of god, is a sinner, has sinful needs, and is an alien. She's also alienated, prayed for, told to look into herself, that she has problems, should see a psychiatrist, laid hands on, a KESHA is held on her behalf if she has money that the church needs; she's told what she needs to eat, what to drink, which vitamins to go on, which foods to stop eating, which exercises to start.... everything apart from what she needs....which is a simple “fucksercize”. Well maybe not so simple. Maybe a long satisfying fuck.

Will she get it?

Most probably not.

A man can be horny and it's alright. A man can say, 'wah, a week is too long without sex..', and he's immediately King of the Heap, with a Fan club and a cheering squad - all expecting him to find a fuck that week if he isn't in a relationship - wait - even IF he's in a relationship. The admired man is a playboy, popular, and known to pop in and out of vaginas, left right and center at least once a week. When this man who is at the King of the Heap gets married, he continues his game doesn't he? And quickly gets furious - highly indignant and murderous when he learns to his shock and despair, that his girls club will not be tolerated by his new WIFE. [the good girl who doesn’t talk about sex]

Guys, have you been told this by your wife: “I will NOT TOLERATE this type of behaviour in my house…”. After which you’re shamed and insulted in front of children.

Or wives, has your husband shamed you for having a higher libido than him?

Let’s talk about sex 2.

FACT: The advice that Kenyan women receive when they admit to being horny is infuriating, irritating and often, deeply hurtful and very harmful.  It leaves her feeling dirty, sick, ill and rejected. When all she felt before was simply horny, now she has a whole other basketful of rejected feelings. THIS MEANS, that every time she feels horny, she will associate horniness with: yes, that’s right: dirtyness, feelings of being sick and ill and rejection.

So she builds up a defence system. Husband touches her, she feels horny and WAH!! KNIVES ARE THROWN!!

‘How dare you touch me? Kwani you think I’m a WHORE?, WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? I’m the MOTHER of your CHILDREN!!”

…. I’m leaving that there….

FACT: Boyfriends and husbands are hidden from the horny woman, like she's some banshee who will suddenly attack all boyfriends with an insane manic rabid drive for sex. It's like she's become rabid, slobbering from the mouth and other orifices, hungering for sex from anyone, or anything.

So nasty is society to women, that men, in their pea-brained animal states, rape that particular woman, batter her, beat her, bite her, rip her clothes off, force her legs apart, thrust fingers and hands into her vagina, and rape her, saying, “…..ulisema unataka”.

Excuse me?

I weep.

And worse, WOMEN who look at the abused woman and also say, 'well, she deserved it, she brought it on to herself’.

At which point do we cover this woman with a blanket?

Cover her up and hug her and tell her it's NOT OKAY, that she has been violated and that's a horrid thing.

At which point will we be letting girls talk to us mothers frankly and openly, letting girls tell us how they FEEL in their bodies, without stepping back in horror? Like really, seriously, if you're reading this as a woman, tell me, in 2015, is it really WRONG, can you tell a 16 year old girl that it's a SIN to feel horny? To need a release from hormones that GOD put IN US in the first place? We're all beautifully and wonderfully made, we're not accidents [and the Bible tells me so] so at which point do you have permission to tell any woman that what she is feeling is WRONG?

2. How to isolate FEELING from DEED. Feeling horny does not equate giving in to the FEELING. Can we have discussions where it’s OKAY to feel ANNYOYED OR HUNGRY OR HORNY and to learn what to DO so we don’t feel ANNOYED, or HUNGRY or HORNY to the point of madness?

3. Kenyan women, in not telling their daughters what to expect about SEX, make a nasty mistake. Because the whole continent is way ahead of us, and girls in AFRICA, in UG, in Tz, in Ethopia, in Sudan, Masaai’s, damn, everywhere, are taught by their mothers how to please their husbands in the bed, sexually. But Kenyan girls?

hahahahahahaha.....

…They lag so far behind in this arena that it's beyond annoying, it's just dumb. We spend a lot of time with our spouses, more years with them having sex than not, yet it's one topic we don't pass in, and YES it's a huge cause of :-

RAPE.

Yes. Because Men are sexually stressed, and they're not taught about women, and women are sexually stressed and they're not taught about themselves, and...

we need to begin somewhere, it's getting worse.

LADIES: LET us begin to talk about sex openly, to our mothers, aunties, grandmothers, sisters, girlfriends and DAUGHTERS - ask questions as girls, youth, as young married women, talk about sex and sexual matters because sex matters.

GUYS: Begin to talk about sex openly, ask questions, to fathers, uncles, grandfathers, brothers, dude friends and SONS -  ask as YOUTH, as young married men, talk about sex and sexual matters, because sex matters.

If we don’t we shall become a sick nation that re acts with anger and aggression to our unspoken unhealthy sexual needs. Men rape, and females have NO WHERE to DISCUSS their fears, because there shall be and thee is currently on one to talk to.

Do you know that if you want to talk about anything sexual or sex, you’re provided with a COUNSELOR OR PSYCHIATRIST. Now, what does that imply? Really? tsk

“Oh dear, you want to ask a question about sex, no…. don’t ask your mom, go and see this lady counsellor…, or if you have sex needs, can I advice you to see this pastor so and so…?”

Sex Talk is problematic.

It’s a problem

Sex is a problem?

Does it not mean that if you want to discuss sexuality and sexual matters or learn about sex you must be perverse or something is wrong with you? Is something wrong with you because you’re reading this article? You have a sick mind? Oh, the author does?

We have become a judgemental perverse society that thinks all things sensual are evil, rotten, and NEVER to be spoken about or outside where it happens.

THIS background is what the male abuser and rapist relies upon, uses it and damages young girls with it, because, since girls are not allowed to talk about sex with their mothers, because it's a 'dirty thing', because we cannot, as good girls, talk about 'such dirty things', then it follows that if we do such 'dirty' things, then we belong to the group of 'dirty' people.

FACT: Girls who have been abused CANNOT TALK. They CANNOT. How? For years and years it has been ingrained into their brains that sex=dirty, and anyone who does sex is DIRTY.

I’ll also tell you something else:

FACT: Men who rape women continuously abuse the victim with talk such as,

“…‘you’re dirty’, it’s your fault, you deserve this, who do you think you are, I’ll fuck you because you’re dirty rotten thing, why are you bleeding, you’re a shit, you’re a whore, you cunt, you dirty little fuck, why did you wear that dress, why did you smile at that boy you whore, I hope this hurts you, you deserve this, who do you think you are, you’re nothing…., this is our secret, don’t tell anyone, they will hate you, don’t tell anyone, I love you, you will feel good, it’s sweet but don’t tell anyone, they will be annoyed with YOU, it’s wrong”

Please, re read that in your mother tongue. Please. I’m writing it in English, but, the above WORDS have NEVER been spoken, ever, in English, in KENYA. So, read the above and say it out-loud in your NATIVE TONGUE or SHENG.

… and you expect the ABUSED girl to REPEAT THIS?? In a LAW COURT?

What the fuck?

Don’t.

FACT: The CRIME of Rape is a vicious act of hatred.

The girl should NEVER be told to defend herself. Ever.

How do we expect a young girl to get 'courage' from some vacuum, and begin to simply 'talk' about it?

THIS is the reason why over 60% of girls who are sexuallyabused by an alcoholic adult run away from home and become drug addicts.

FACT: Women judge other women as well.

There are cases where when girls grow up all lovely and sexy – at about 13, 14, 15 – 17, girls are budding, gorgeous and downright ripe.

And there's a nasty crop of judgmental women who do NOT protect their daughters, right here, in Kenya. They sit and watch their daughters through slit eyes and brains full of jealous gasses. They give no good advice, instead, they curse: instead of ‘honey, dress with something that will cover your thighs but show off your legs, they drop negative language like; ‘you’ll get raped in that’.  When these words become truth, they sneer with statements like, ‘I told you so’, and offer no comfort. Stop it. Stop cursing a younger generation of beautiful Kenyan girls. Please.

And if these girls do get abused by their own fathers or teachers or neighbours or relative, the women protect THEIR ABUSER SPOUSE.  Case at present: the woman in majengo who is looking for a LAWYER for her husband to get out of jail for raping the daughter for 2 years. And said daughter is STILL living with the mother. I hate to think what she’s going through. I don’t know her, but someWOMAN does, someWOMAN is a neighbour, someWOMAN is a sister, SOMEWOMAN knows THIS FAMILY, WHAT are we as women in Kenya Raising??

Let me tell you all something, the moment a husband has sex, inserts his dick, touches your DAUGHTER SEXUALLY, THE MARRIAGE CONTRACT IS BROKEN and all that’s left, ALL THAT IS LEFT,  is the BLOOD BOND BETWEEN YOU ANDYOUR DAUGHTER.

HER HYMEN has been broken Mom. But you shed blood during her birth, honour that. Cover your daughter with that. She came first, through YOUR CERVIX.

Can we as a society adhere to this TRUTH?

FACT: The reason women protect their husbands is because we do not, as women, empower each other. IF YOUR PARTNER touches your SON OR DAUGHTER SEXUALLY, that CONTRACT BETWEEN YOU and spouse is broken IMMEDIATELY, and that is why it hurts a woman when a man abuses her daughter.

FACT: But, we are told BY neighbour, state and religious institution to forgive and forget.

By the way, in Kenya we need to open Paedophile files: It’s good to know our neighbours. And husbands-to-be.

There are cases where when women report sexual abuse cases to the church, that it’s kept in the ‘church’. How now? Seriously?

But this SILENCE is what the RAPIST and ABUSER counts on.

He will abuse your daughter, your cousin, your girlfriend, your sister, over and over again and again and again, knowing he will NEVER be NAMED or SHAMED, imprisoned or stopped. He will grow larger, will become hardened, will feel obligated..

Should I laugh?

RAPE is NASTY, horrid and it’s swept under a carpet, never to be discussed and we’re told to ‘deal with it’ somehow…

AND we expect the abused girl to go to a police station and discuss THIS to some sweaty, overweight, smelly COP who will simply nod then tell her to bring a witness?

We need to talk about sex. Again.

If we empower our children, they will know what is wrong, and what is right. Do not alienate your child, your son, your daughter. Do not tell your son that such things are DIRTY. HE WILL grow up thinking his wife is DIRTY for liking sex. He will hate himself for having and liking sex. He will have sex with a chicken, a goat or a cow.

No way…. : You scream?

Lmao. So, those young men out there reported on the news for bestiality, are they not your sons? Sons of Kenya? Born on this soil? Or whose sons are those? Brother mine, those are your sons. You refused to talk to them and they rape animals and girls and women.

DADS: talk about sex to your sons. Talk about your penises, talk about your horniness, talk about what stimulates and what doesn’t. Talk about masturbation and the myths, talk about SEX, the act, the do’s and don’ts. Don’t be mad, talk to your DUDE friends, ask THEM WHAT to discuss with your son, listen to the OLD MEN, what should you reveal, TALK TALK TALK, TALK TO YOUR SONS. If you don’t, SOMEONE WILL. AND that someone will tell YOUR SON stuff that you do not want your son to believe. And YOUR SON might RAPE  your daughter. Or your DAUGHTER’S friend. SO TALK TO YOUR SON. Tell him about EVERYTHING – because again, if you don’t, WHO WILL? Empower your son. DADS, talk to your wives too.

MOMS: yap, talk to your daughters. Talk about your boobs and your vaginas, talk about masturbation, talk about giving birth, buy or download THE RED TENT by Anita Diamant, TALK TALK TALK. Listen too. You have 2 ears, LISTEN to your daughter if she’s scared, or abused by a TEACHER, OR WORKER or NEIGHBOUR. TALK TALK TALK. TALK to other mothers, discuss Sex, talk to OLD WOMEN, give them space and listen to them, they have WISE WORDS.

We need to talk about sex. Again.

Don’t sweep the sex talk under the carpet. It will rot and begin to stink vibaya.

Nyakio J. Munyinyi for the XpenSieve Report© 2015

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