I like babies. That sounds feminine, I bet. But I like babies. There is this deep biological desire within me to have a DNA-proven kid, without necessarily marrying. That sounds foolish and irresponsible, but just as more and more women in universities are interested in stealing sperms from men with proper bones and no history of insanity in their families, I am after stealing a womb…Any offer? I recently saw the most beautiful kid of my life, arousing my desire, the more, but that is at the tail end of this narrative.
I once told a close female friend of this desire to have a baby with her and I have never seen a scorned woman more furious. She is an engineer but I was at the receiving end of her grammatical best.
“Silas, did you just say that?” She asked, visibly pissed by that reckless and thoughtless suggestion.
“Yeah, I did.” I said wearing my annoyingly sinister smile.
“Silas! That is demeaning, belittling, condescending, chauvinistic…”She was panting, sighing and looked like she could irrigate my face with her cold tea on the table. Everyone at the table was terrified. The men horrified by my inappropriate remark and the women frightened by the overreaction of their tough-talking, no-nonsense friend. It is a statement that I regretted for the rest of my life. You don’t tell a woman that you would like her to be the mother of your kid, unless you have put a ring on her finger. The double standard is that, for a woman, she can scheme to rob you your sperm and you are not supposed to question, much less get vexed.
A girl I was dating a while back told me that that if she ever wanted a kid from a man, that will be the easiest thing. She told me reasonably oldermen (check 35-50) are a gullible lot and always consider any moment to have unprotected sex with a hot 20-something a great privilege. One of those moments that you hate yourself being a man. One thing that beats up being beaten up is a man being led to bed to stud. I think sitting down to masturbate at a sperm bank is somehow better than a woman unknowingly extracting an Obamallete from you. I know men who will beg to differ; hence I depart from this long intro into this week subject.
Humiliating experiences at the embassies of Western countries
Anyone who has ever had an opportunity to travel outside the country more so to States, Western European countries and South Africa know the pervading paranoia in their embassies. The rules and restrictions border on the inane. You must arrive at a given time and even a single second late, you have to re-book, usually after ridiculously long spells. You must carry all manner of identification.
The security measures seem to be getting really preposterous by day. The number of gates and checkpoints seem to be increasing after every last visit. The heavy metallic gates with intimidatingly annoying alarms have a way of instilling this inexplicable tension within one. You feel like you are the terrorist yourself. So much for Osama and the 9/11.
But it is the frisking that really hurts, especially if you are a man. You are stripped everything. They take your phone; switch it off and everything else that they think might endanger the sacred lives of the foreign embassy officials. You certainly getrankled by the overzealous local security guards about how they go expending their duties, treating fellow Kenyans like animals. Locals, especially those of Somali background are treated with utmost respect. And suspicion.
I recently had an embassy appointment at one of these Western countries. Booking was itself a huge problem. Almost every other calendar date seemed to have been taken; I was like, “Kwani, how many Kenyans go there?” Virtually for from August to November, there were less than five day available. The booking is done electronically and the reply is an auto-generated reply that instructs you never to reply. Very impersonal, and annoyingly so.
So on that Friday, I was in the company of a beautiful young lass called Bella. I will be traveling with Bellato this undisclosed country, later on. One of the most striking things about Bella is that she is happy, rarely moody and has no issues, at least for the few days I have known her. I’m the captain of the journey, so I’m forced to conduct myself professionally, no hanky-panky here. We meet in town and get a Matatu to one the more affluent places of Nairobi where these embassies and consulates are located. Whites love exclusivity.
We get there unusually early, almost by an hour. We decide to sit on the chairs outside that remind me of the Tsavo. Those wooden and metallic chairs under trees that make you look at nature rather differently. We are proof-reading the forms before submission, there are no second chances with this embassies. One mistake and your money is gone.This young female security guard came to us and rudely asked us whether we had an appointment.
“You have an appointment?” She was rude.
“Yes we do.” I told her trying to sound like I was in charge.
“You or both of you?” she impatiently asked.
“Both of us.” We said in unison.
“Then you get in, you don’t sit here.”
Boy, was she annoying. I looked around for a sign warning against idle sitting and I couldn’t see any. We were whisked in after passing through the third gate to be given a pass, another one where we left all the metals, coins, keys and belts and trousers; the belt buckles and the zipper are metallic, apparently(OK, that is a little exaggerated). At the fourth gate, they took my laptop and orderedme to switch off my phone. Without my phone I’m like fish out of water. The fifth gate we show all our passes and state the purpose of our visit, for umpteenth time and my patience is diminishing.
We get into the lobby and there is a small queue. We are ushered into unoccupied seats. The Kenyans look so scared and humiliated. It is as if this will determine their lives, quite literally. They are so quiet and uncertain. Only the embassy officials are a little noisy. Before you take to those heavily shielded windows, where talk through a small irritating mic (if only our banks can embrace this for the low-voiced amongst us), there is a young, fat woman who is supposed to clear you.
This woman is in her elapsing 20s with unkempt locks. She is beautiful, looks like that chubby, pretty but dirty, ‘I don’t care’ chick in school. She is beautiful but has zero sex appeal. She cannot inspire anything sexual. She looks too confident for life. She has balls. She seems too aggressive and in charge. The lobby seems to be the place she has conquered. She treats everyone professionally, but she sounds automated and far removed from humanity.
When it is my turn at her desk, I’m frightened by her presence. Beware of women with locks who look you in the eye. She looked bisexual. Even with my gigantic self, she made feel like a midget. She made me feel like paper. I was making mistakes and was incoherent and inconsistent. She even had the cheek to poke fun at my Central Bank governor designated signature. What nerve? She told me that I looked confused. That coming from her, I swear, I was must have been. I noticed, the senior black staff inside there was just as conceited and brainwashed. They thought that knowing the foreign language makes them foreigners more than Jungus saying Jambo makes them Africa.
Then we took our respective positions in the sitting queue. And this woman with the cutest baby showed up…
The most beautiful baby I have ever laid my eyes on
This woman walked in holding a baby. She seemed relaxed but possibly having a nagging problem, certainly not financial. I took one look at the baby, and it was the most magical piece of humanity I have ever seen. My heart skipped. The kid was impossibly beautiful. About a year or so old. The kid was cut for adverts. The kid, if a Hollywood agent happened to be around, must have conjured a kidnapping movie. The kid seemed happy, healthy and welcomingly troublesome. The kid wore a certain, funny smile. Unbelievable.
The mother on the other hand seemed preoccupied with something else. The mother exuded a certain good background and wore shabbily but tastefully. The mother though didn’t have hips, but that’s how the white men like their women. She looked 29 or there about. The kid was a pointee, definitely and must have taken the dominant gene from the father. The mother was not necessarily hot, even though she looked classy, the slim type you see in malls such as Sarit and Westgate, sipping coffee.
Bella had not seen the kid. When the mother sat down and Bella saw the kid, she was exceptionally overjoyed. She was telling me something serious but she stopped mid-senntence…and in what would be the loudest whisper of my life…
“Wow, cute baby…ooh! Awesome!!!!”
“I agree. That kid is quite pretty.” I said non-committal.
“You can never go wrong with a white man. The kid will always be awesome. Always.”
Bella went on frenzied, unaware of how hurting her words were. I felt ugly. The good thing with Ideos phone, you can even buy a mirror from the promised 60,000 applications. You just lock the phone and the screen will serve as a perfect mirror. I had to look once to confirm how ugly I am, as Bella kept hammering home the fact that a white man and black woman will always bear a masterpiece.
“With an African man, it is gamble. 50-50. Never so with a white man.”All these unrehearsed? I had to believe her. To secure my pride, I asked her about a black man and a white woman.
“Equally the same, but mostly it seems men have the desirable dominant gene.”
I was sensibly offended but Bella had said all these, without any intentions to offend me. The kid was an attraction in the lobby and everyone was overtly looking and mumbling something to the nearby person. The mother seemed unconcerned but I’m sure she could feel the peering looks. She was sure that the kid was the most beautiful in the world. I believe she carried the kid as a trophy and purposely to teach other women how to give birth to handsome and pretty babies.
But this annoying black, clean shaven woman behind the counter
Beware of a woman without her hair. A clean shaven woman is more dangerous than a woman with a weave. A woman who keeps her hair short is a walking time bomb. So there is this woman behind the counter who is extremely rude that everyone in the lounge is really pissed at. Either she is having a bad day or that is her nature.
When Mama Pretty Baby walks there, she takes one look at the baby and then decides to rile the mother. She asked questions in rapid fire and in a very dismissive way. Mama Pretty Baby is very professional and very patiently calls for another embassy official, a foreigner, who had instructed her to bring the documents. When the said foreigner comes and listens, she is visibly happy and treats her like a human being. We are all watching this in amazement. A foreigner treating a Kenyan better than a fellow Kenyan.
First she did the most decent thing. She pointed out that the kid was beautiful and proceeded to help her rather quickly leaving the African lady with an egg on the face. She eventually served us and we left but that kid made me dream about many things. One being, where do you get a woman to fulfill my deep biological desire??????