Losing You

There is the inevitable - the obvious things that are asking to be done. Then there is the sunshine and the hidden cobblestone streets, the palm leaves rustling in the ocean breeze, beckoning me to explore.

The sunlight kisses the yellow white beige color of the terrace, reflecting the aging color of the fort, Portuguese colonial traces in an islamic town that reaches way back to the Oman empire along the Swahili coast.

My mind strays - the question whether or not to go on a sailboat ride. The logistics seem so complicated. To trust or not trust that shady guy? Because last year we ended up going with someone else. He wanted an advance. I chose not to go but to work. I wonder about my priorities. My thoughts rush across the bay to the main land. There is G. and his smile. There is something about this boy, I can't tell. I remember losing you for good, and Solange was on rotation. You denied any softness after you had gotten so deep into my mind already. I was hooked and dangling like a fish on a fishing rod. You never gave in, not one single bit. It felt like running against a wall. It was the mystery of finding solace in desolation, somewhere, a secret code.
And then, with distance, it all seems a bit odd and strange and so very fortunate that it never worked out in a way that we could get even more entangled.

Usually, when I meet men, they either remind me, strangely, of one of my sisters. Not, that they resemble them, but I call them 'A' or 'J' types. G. is Emeralda type. I would introduce him to my Godmother.

That's what's up.

Losing you. Losing is good, sometimes.

This Life

There is times, that etch themselves into your being. Summer 2006 is one of those. 'It's all over now Baby Blue' by Bob Dylan on rotation. I know I've been writing about this before.

'The empty handed painter from your streets, is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets... the sky too, is folding over you... and it's all over now baby blue....'

See, times pass. The 60's are over. It is 2014 now, and it happens weekly that I look up from my routines and think 'this is it. I've been here, Nairobi 2014.' We are living history. We are shaping history. This music is transporting a myriad of meanings through space and time.

For a while I was at a loss to make sense of my years in Los Angeles. I wondered what the hell I had been doing there. If it had been a big mistake, leading me astray, delaying what really is important to me. And, as time passes, I realize that it is not so. Every little thing I have experienced, gone through, shaped is informing my very steps I am taking now that make me so happy, that are leading into deeper and deeper meanings. Nothing was futile. I can't deny that music plays a huge role in my life. I can't deny that the emotional landscapes I wandered through during those years are what I am working with now. I can't deny that this love I have known, so infused with all this music, was so insanely beautiful and meaningful. I can't shake it. This young man touched me so deeply, I can still feel it in every piece of my soul. My friends from that time continue to touch my life deeply. The things I learned about life, love, loss and art give substance to everything I am doing now.

A friend asked recently 'with all your years in Kenya - are you finally settling for a consistent career?'. I can't blame him - the strands of the things I have done seem so disparate, if not random. I have wondered a lot about my path, myself, I have doubted that what I did was right or whether I missed out on very important aspects - but I feel now so clearly, that it is all true. That it is all right. That it all comes together, in the end.

Who knows, if I can know this kind of love again. Who knows if I can leave the dead behind, and if they will stop following me. When I kissed you, I had a flash back and wondered how it was to kiss him. And I realized, I would never, never, never again kiss those lips I so dearly loved.

And that's ok. Because it's all over now Baby Blue. 

it's such a strange world we live in, ey?

Class seems to be a variable.

No matter whether in Santa Monica or in Loresho, there is a conversation that doesn't change. Or in South C Los Angeles or in South B Nairobi.

The world is changing but some things are not.

Jamming

I am angry at myself. Because I am sitting here trying to encourage some girls to join in the Jam Session at the Finissage of UN-known Spaces at Goethe Institute. And they don’t want to. The guys are free styling, and the girls are only comfortable with the songs they have practiced.

I remember this whole thing about running towards our fears and how our biggest joys are waiting for us there. It makes me angry like that stupid Rumi quote with that meadow beyond right and wrong where we can meet and stuff. When I was young, I went to an illegal jam session in Switzerland. It was in an abandoned freight wagon station at the outskirts of town. This is where the Colombian and I did things I can’t speak in public of. This is also where the bar tender told me I had to start drinking and smoking to get my act on. This American guy who was apparently extended family with TBone, the famous blues guitarist, had helped me pick my first electric guitar. A Fender Rhodes. The jam session confused me deeply. I wanted to die. I tried anyway because I was braver then than I am now. Girls (yes I am generalizing) are scared to go wrong and be judged and things and then they stop going to jam sessions and never learn how to do this really. 

It is sad.

There is nothing I can say actually because I have no right to encourage girls to free style and not have the balls myself to go up there and grab the guitar and just try my luck at it. Let’s start encouraging each other to do this. Screw perfection.

The Good Story.

When she is telling her story, sobbing, I get this creeping feeling that I know that guy. I ask her straight up is it 'Don Juan #2' (name changed by author :)? She stops dead in her track as she picks up her jaw from the floor and with a little hick-up in her now tiny voice she says 'yes. how did you know that?'

Because, I know the story.

And it is so good! Very appealing. I am afraid I am becoming one of these people who start seeing everything as marketing. The problem is really that there is no consumer society around here in the wild wild East of Africa that then can help you make claims to return something or get reimbursed. It is almost like Berlin! A self service store of sorts. If you buy a product with the entire package you also have to read the small print, and it almost always says 'you can't complain because we told you so'.

His story is great. Here is why: As a mzungu girl you have a lot of options in this town. It is sad, in a way, but also a fact. Perhaps it is true that I can't go around and judge the taste of people or the power of 'otherness' for our biologically informed decisions, but I can see the trend. Many times I will win over my beautiful Kenyan sister (eh, the ridiculously beautiful one who doesn't only look like a Goddess descended from the heavens but who also has charm, wits and a golden heart) because I am white. And I am saying that with an upsetness inside because I am really not the prettiest girl around the block. As an esthetic person I would say that I am an average good looking person. My whiteness is overriding that in this country. I am always impressed and relieved when that doesn't seem to be true, because me, too, I want it to be about people and personalities. Anyways, I digress. So, with these many options in town we hetero women run into different types of men. Some want our passports (and I love the ones who say that straight up into my face), some want the status upgrade that seems to come with having a white girlfriend (I disagree with history on this one but perhaps it is just biology trying to trick us into diversity and most probably it is about economics), some are just into white girls (and that's okay but leaves a lot of question marks in every direction) and others are not interested (that is usually very interesting) and really don't need you at all. Very appealing.

I remember, how in the beginning some guy friends of mine who see themselves as Kenyan middle class, were complaining about white girls falling for the rasta man in informal settlements - why? Because they want to, I don't know, satisfy their socio-romantic solidarity with the poor. Because artists cut across class and are wildly interesting. Because, reasons. Why doesn't she fall for me? Is it the middle class? Is it his personality? Maybe it is really just about people, and that would make me happy in the end. But let's be honest - dating and sex and all these things have never been just what we want to make them be. It has always been about a lot more factors than just obvious ones.

To go back to our question: his story is great because it takes us from the slums to self-empowered wealth. It is essentially like having a cake and eat it too. You have that phoenix story, sitting with a man who can treat you to an expensive dinner that in the back of your mind makes you feel guilty because you realize this is half of the salary of your housekeeper for a month. A man, who essentially doesn't need you. But who says, that he is tired of this Nairobi dating scene. That there must surely be more to life than this. That's when you get hooked. It is a triple success: Someone who has risen, who doesn't need you but declares he is tired of sleeping around.

We always want something different. If you fall for this story and you added ideas what this really is about and then don't get out what you expected it is quintessentially your own fault. Not to say that people shouldn't be transparent and so on, but let's face it: we want to believe the story and we don't want to read the small print or even better - contain our sprouting fantasies to see what is really going on. And, to be sure, it is not that the story was even a lie. It is what this person chooses to share and what you want to hear. It is a golden sunset and a hero riding on his horse into it.

Marketing: The Compassionate Heart

I can't help but cringe a little bit when she says 'oh, is it that woman around Yaya? I know her, she talks to me all the time.' He then pitches in 'I know her too... she has been around for a while.'

Why is it, that we feel tricked when we fall for a good story? In the end, did it really matter? An old woman conning people on the street should use any story that gets her money, if you think of it. It is in no way different from any other marketing out there. You sell the story that people need to hear to initiate a transaction. 'Don't feel bad' they say. 'Don't feel bad at all.' But I can't help it. I also feel bad when I get goosebumps by ads for Samsung or when I fall for one of Nairobi's Don Juans like every other white girl I meet afterwards. But that's a story for another time.

Yesterday night was the moment that was the straw that broke the camel's back. I had overdosed on sugar and my giddiness spilled over into the street. With swinging steps I made my way back home because I am one of those wazungu who proudly declare that they don't care and still walk at night regardless of what our Kenyan (and expat) friends say about that. Until something happens, of course.

This old woman runs up to me. She doesn't ask for money, she asks for a job, because it is better to do something than to beg. Because, she has two children and so on, sometimes she can't put food on the table for two days in a row. My sugar high is wilting by the second. We talk. My friend says, when you talk, you are already hooked. So I am hooked and we talk. I say, we already have a housekeeper. She says you are a very good boss. Such a good person. That you talk to an old woman who has nothing on the street. The other people who are streaming back into Kibera in their suits and broken shoes turn their heads. I say, in fact, I am not the boss. The landlady is the boss. She says that doesn't matter, you are a good person. I ask her if she has a phone, so I can perhaps refer her to someone who is looking for a housekeeper. That would be nice she exclaims but I don't have a phone, see, my son had fees coming up in school so I had to sell my phone. 

I feel terrible. My hand is playing with the money I just got out of the ATM. I say, here, please take this money and I want to give her 2k. I say, I really don't want to perpetuate this image, that white people have money just because we are white. In fact, I am a student and I live on a shoestring budget too but of course, while I have a shoestring she doesn't even have any shoes, perhaps. And of course, as the money in my hands is derisively sneering at my claim of brokeness, I can't help myself and give her the entire three thousand shillings I had in my pockets for the next couple of days. We end the conversation with her promising me to buy a phone and call me the next day to show me that my money really went somewhere good. Then there is something about Kisumu and Luos and a high five and she disappears into the dark. I stagger home, meet some friends who laugh at me having been conned but with tears in my eyes I say 'she looked like my Mom'. I couldn't help myself. I don't care if I was conned. Not until the next day, when they said they knew her too. My claim to uniqueness dissipating in thin air.

It is hard for me to see old people going through trashcans. In my european hometown as well as here in Nairobi. It is almost worse than seeing children begging. And yet, so far I was able to walk past most of the working people in the street who market towards my compassion. Often I will walk past a blind-ish crippled person and think to myself: your story is not touching my compassionate heart. It is no different than me walking past the shoes and clothes in the stores that I have no money for. 

In the very same moment I think 'what would Jesus do?' and while my friends would be surprised to hear this because they don't know me as an overtly religious person, I am actually serious about that. Jesus didn't have a blue print how to treat people. He healed one person and sent them back to the village so they could tell everyone what happened. The next one he told to never go back and keep it a secret. Of course Jesus wouldn't just give money to everybody. He would probably sit down and talk and see what really is up. What caused this? Where is your share of responsibility in this life? Are you living a smaller version of yourself? Is society proportionally more to blame?

Sometimes I am thinking, in a way this marketing of the poor is a more direct way than going for the marketing of NGO's who then need a lot of the money to pay salaries and hardship allowances and furniture of their staff. Perhaps systemic change is more important but also maybe just giving a poor person money as they are working their ass off on the streets appealing to our twisted and tortured hearts of compassion is also just that - a transaction of goods. And sometimes we buy, and sometimes we don't. I am remaining with a big question mark in my heart.

sting

I stand in front of a closed door, and it is see-through. I think I can see everything, but clearly, of course, that's not true. My fists and jaw are clenched. Raven voices teasing my worthlessness out, again. It was, clearly, not worth the fight. Guess that's okay. Guess that's okay. Guess that's okay.
The silver lining on the horizon: why waste time if it ain't right? But... I have a question, knock knock, I have a question here. Couldn't it be something true and just in and for itself? I should have shut up and start filtering. To preserve. To protect.

The reason why people filter truth is because other people can read it only in their own way. And then they run away. And then we are left alone. And then we decide that next time, we will play the game.

Drowning

She sits there, with her fists clenched, her heart wide open. The second thing she says is 'I got cervical cancer. Second stage.'

She just found out.

I sit with her and her lips quiver. Singular tears wet the sides of her temples as they try and hide and find a way to release.

'How many blows can one person take?' She says. How many?

I sit with her and hold her neck and her hand. Someone calls. I understand only a few things. There is nothing really to do but be there. Talk to her. Listen to her. Be silent with her. So many things.

The dream I had, when I moved in. How she was calling weakly from her room and nobody came so I went to look after her. She was lying on her bed, wretched, looking up to me whispering 'it is so hot, I need water' and I poured cool water on her neck and back. How I saw the pain and the dwindeling and the need to be helpless, after all. Someone like her, who has been through so much, childlessness, ensuing abuse and being kicked out of the house, widowhood, - someone like her has seen so much. So much intensity and pain and strength in God. Something higher and deeper than yourself. She has held widows and helped them wash off the stigmatization, take care of HIV orphans and build houses for safety. She is on a road. She is on a journey. On a long and winding road.

Let's be in silence. For a moment. For now.

heavy

It is like a hard, heavy hand in my neck, putting too much pressure, making me sad.
I am mad at myself for not being more organized and light and easy to be around with, this is why hate everyone unorganized, heavy and not easy to be around with. I hate myself like that, I am terrified, to actually be that way, I want to leave and never come back in situations like that. I want my own room.

Fuck putting things into perspective and justifying and rectifying. I just want to be angry, mad and sad.
It's been a challenge to be such a burden to everyone and not have my own space. It is too much. It is so little and I am so lucky and it is too much.

Today is one of the days when I can't deal with that lifestyle anymore. I had that for too long when I lived in Los Angeles, and now here it is again. It is avoiding conflict, hating conflict etc. pp. just like my sister was, just like everybody is,  just like how I hate everything. Too many fucking ideas and preconceptions in my head. It makes me tight, stiff and blue. It makes me go away and not know where to go and how to be, proper, I understand I do too little moving, not enough this not enough that. Argh.
Frustration and just inside directed aggression. I am not a nice person. I was laughing in disbelief and defensive.

Meaning

I don‘t actually want to be a high performing person, the way you see it.
I want to live the small life. Not because I want to run away from duty but because the only way I can live fully is by living the small life.
It is an interesting experience to be part of this experiment. Not for long though. Not for long.
It is too exhausting to think it otherwise.

Good night.

abandon

i wish i knew how it looks from the outside. does she recognize my insecurity? i move but it is clearly not my place. i feel silly pretending a flow. she is sweet. her hand so soft on my cheek. her eyes wide and sparkling like fireworks. her moves are like a cats. the pearls shimmer softly in the badly lit ballroom palace. when i look at her and her extremely handsome and tall cousin with a very admirable position somewhere in the world of things, i see royalty. this is how kings and queens and princes and princesses used to look like.

the irony when they all start jumping and screaming along when a punk song comes on. "i don‘t care". such a different fuck you that the song meant. i am not sure if it is cynical or comical to see the decision makers and consultants and elite students go off like that on that song.

it‘s not that cold outside. i think of how free i feel. wild child. remember when we were in africa (the doors). as a traveller i may not have an immediate impact (or any at all) but as a faithful LOTR believer i know that it was the hobbits who sealed the deal of final impact. not alone, granted, but it goes to show that some things we just can t know. of course that is not an invitation to be an asshole or a slacker.

it s just so much nicer not to be gripped somewhere tightly in structures that limit freedom of mobility. the jetsetters, i don t envy them. at all.
i envy those, who travel by foot.