Bought me Chinese feet…

I made a pledge to ensure I bug you every week. This week I got busy…everyone is always busy of course, who am I kidding? Anyway having a tight schedule, will not be an excuse to miss out on this post. It’s been wild fighting with time. Trying to act goddess and controlling the sun, just so it sets in my time. I was busy working, tweeting, face booking, getting friends to like my photo, attending meetings and briefs, peeking at my phone during meetings, getting friends to like my photo some more, scribbling down pointless points in meetings, voting some more…

…till I won a dinner for two on Valentine’s Day. Yes, it was no joke looking like a spammer filling all face book friends inboxes with links to vote for me, and it was not for nothing, Although I only participated knowing my winning chances were very high, I still had to make you click the ‘like’ button. So to all my face book friends, I truly appreciate from the bottom of my, you know what. Because of you, I almost ate a shrimp but got too scared. I danced under the stars and drank lots of wine on a weekday. Because of your votes, I was lucky to witness a young lady (who also won a dinner) steer away raw pork on a plate instead of giving it to the chef to cook for her. She then served herself rice and poured stew on top of the meet! EEEEEwwwwwww!!!!! It was the most embarrassing thing I have seen this year, though it gave ma good laugh for quite a while. Hahaha! Ok, for a very a long while. Friends, because of you I learnt the importance of exposure. Never serve what you are not sure you can eat.

I realise we need to have more of such events so that we as Kenyans keep exercising our rights to free things while our neighbours learn to use the fork and knife. We need publicity to live and fit in with the class of those, like Mike Sonko who have dinner at Ole Sereni every evening. He has the money!

The story…

One hot Sunday afternoon, my husband and I decided to hold a meeting; a family meeting; a meeting of two people; the two of us. We sat down in our bedroom to discuss big matters.

The Money. (Mirrors entertainment music in the background)

We always discuss money. Everyone always discusses money; the same way we discuss traffic in Nairobi, or at KFC Galleria. We discuss money in an overcharging matatu, in the house, office, at my administration desk, in my emails…everywhere!  If money were a man, he would be as hot as those Mexican dudes who unbutton their shirts halfway. They would be touched by all; men and women, laid by all; immoral and gay, yet still valuable. If it were a woman, money would be curvy and fair skinned, in red, killer dresses, tall, with long legs and hair (not weaves), and forever in 6inch stilettos. They would be whores that never take showers and stink or cigarette, sweat and rotting stench. Yet are still wanted.

We all have an affinity to money, no? Why then do I see M-pesa and Airtel money numbers on my screen every Sunday morning? Why do I pretend not to listen to sermons provided by those brown suited preachers in buses? Or the ones that ask for 200 bob at bus station?

Be you screaming knives about not having enough of it, or jumping gleefully about having it for free…either way, it works the key word here being money.

So in our family meeting we decided to recompense ourselves for our achievements the previous year. We had managed to get our floors tiled, did our kitchen cabinets, painted walls, stopped breastfeeding and potty train our little girl. We also thought to motivate ourselves more in order to achieve even greater things this year. We decided to get a family photo shoot. Do a little bit of clothes shopping and get me some silver earrings. I am not bluffing. It’s good to once in a while to thank yourself for being a good chap. Shake your hand, pat yourself on the shoulder and nod yourself an approval for your good deeds.

Off to China…

Among the things we got were shoes.

It’s been long since I bought me nice new shop shoes. I was so used to buying second hand stuff, that my feet grew fat and flat from wearing used, softened, flat and mockingly short-heeled shoes. On our way back I stole yet another glance at the shoes I had just bought…I took a good look. It was until I realised I couldn’t read the brand name well that I realised what I had just done. It read something like Jin-chang-niao. Did I just spell that right? Goodness, that ching chong Chu bug must have caught up with me!

The shoes were made in China. I died.

I have this stereotypic thought, as many of you do, that anything made in china will suddenly fall and break into millions of pieces. It took my husband for ever to convince me that many things in Kenya still come from China.

I wore my shoes on the first day and almost broke my ankles in them. The Chinese in charge of its making must have been high on something. Either that or they had a hunch that I, with my long foot needed a bit of trimming. That evening I had my husband massage my feet and soaked them in hot water. He mentioned that my feet just needed to adjust to their newness. They pressed on till I thought I went a size smaller, I now believe I own a pair of Chinese feet. 🙁

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