Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick ||

Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?” 


It was moderated by the consummate prick that is Oyunga Pala, supposedly in conversation with his little big dickmate Biko Zulu, but eventually groped by the now infamous Tony Mochama.We both know you came to drool at Biko, little girl. So sad you were that he did not show, you pulled off your panties and put the roof on fire. But did not squirt it off at the end, when it really was the least you coulda done.


I will not sit here and talk about what has been extensively cataloged by every feminist blog between here and kingdom chick-bean-flicking cum. As an audience member, I did that. Internal monologues between me and myself, and later with one puny cocked weasel Yule Mbois Mndialala who thinks himself some sort of autonomous wankster god on Facebook.


The session turned out quite as I had expected. In these Kenyan *spaces,* the right to doublethink has categorically been displayed as a privilege the *mens* should – make that capital, underlined, bold *Must* – check. It is whipped out in such fancy colours that you, the menses, actually do. You do check these privileges your dick gave you over her pussy.


Women have been silent for so long in Kenya, the second they grow a pair of brain cells, they feel they own the privileged right to whip it out and shut you up with it.


Who said that victims cannot be graceful victors? All I see in these streets are victims walking around either moaning about their victimized little minds, or masquerading as victors to manifest their victim mentality in every puny argument their weak ideas present:

‘manslamming’this, 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

[Caution: spoken with a loud curling Kilimani twang, or else...] 

What is it with you little bitches and your manventions? Ok, I get that you need to vent your manly frustrations, but really? You gave yourselves a label, so we need one too? Don’t we already have enough in our liquor cabinets?


Don’t you see that these one-size-fits-alls will be your undoing?


Tell me, dear little femininely shamed slut of a feminist, how when a man drinks himself silly and has his way with your tired but equally drunk hung-out-together-all-night ass, it is rape. It becomes rape when you wake up, remember your inhibitions were more than slightly off their ticking rockers, and so you could not have been in any position to give his drunken ass consent.


I will wait for you to swallow that.


As a matter of fact, I will rephrase it for your weak little bitch-fitting brain-denying cunt: he was high, his cognition holds up; you were high, yours does not. How can you turn around and look me in the eye, away from your place of invisibility, as you sing that doublethink back into my ear?


Do you even realize how vile that parseltongue is to me?

At the Future of Men rolling in the Hay session, you and your ilk stormed the house.


Check.


You were pricked by Tony and the like.


Check.


You stormed out.


Double twice check.


So you proceeded to whip your imagined dicks off onto the mic, and refused to back down when it was your turn to. Order, dear little vadge-badge, applies to you too.


If you grab the mic off my hands because your fragile little angina tells your vagina that it needs to bring its monologue out into the public, and so fuck me as I wait for my turn to speak:

*you are that little mansplaining, manspreading, manslamming prick you so love to detest.*

Start acting aware of your surroundings. Get away from your phone’s little screen and tembea fucking Kenya. Otherwise you will get plowed down by people who are also unaware of their surroundings. And for the life of your (un)born sons and daughters, little bitch, get a life and live it.


Screaming bloody murder and oh “not all men” means all men, but “no means no”?


Will you stop and get a hold of your export brains before they fall completely out off your imported bra?


In closing, here are the immortal words of T.O.K., the same ones you danced your skinny ass off to before it grew fatty cellulite and made you a fat angry bitch:

No way, Jose, we nuh go ever stay, a gurl fi know she haffi give it up

before we pay…

Coz if she don’t play, then we don’t pay!

Think about that too, every time we pay your way for a lay. Because if I have to hear you claim to have more sensible investments than we do, coz you got land and shit? You and your funny nanny of a fanny will see how gaskets truly blow.


Yelling how there's a mansis up in every nigga-fucking large hall that lets you pander your Bull. How there are no men left up in this bitch.

Bring it! What? We right here, We're not going anywhere.We right here, This is ours and we don't share... We right here, Bring your crew coz we don't care...

- DMX, We Right Here

If you can't find a good one, so you wanna whip up your own little mangina to Lorde over, get the fuck outta my way. I am human. You can take that broken groupthinking gender kaleidoscope and shove it where my sunny little dick will never shine.


And now, in true closing, I will quote my friend Smitta Smitten, the one y’all tried to smite – all hail, ye mighty smiters –

“oh dear, better legal gold than legal lead…n both are better than legally dead!”

Now go manfist your Audre-manifesting self or some shit. I'm out.

Signed,

Marquis de Sadness 

Member of the World Fuck You Media. 

The Women who Lay Over Us

Women are not equal to men. In structure, in theory and in practice, men are more equal than women. Sure, love takes its toll equally on all; some more than others. Sure, the sum of this ‘some’ is not entirely made up of women; experience and interaction abound to prove it.

Sure, money should be split equitably between the sexes. Yet many a girl gets what she wants, many a times, based on what she can give ‘back to sender’.

Lay over – a temporary break in a journey; 

usually imposed by scheduling requirements. 

This is where the needs argument usually comes in.

“I have needs to take care of”, says Stoopy, in justifying her multiple streams of income. Streams – you will often find – that she pays for in kind sex, love without benefits, or smiles and pet names. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, streams that are paid for in rape allegations and entrapped alimony.

Watching world wrestling this weekend, the ironies of our hypocrisy – as concerns the stereotypically weaker sex – could not have been clearer were they erected in crystal pillars. It was a tag-team match, one in which two guys chose to beat the brains out of each other’s brawn. We shall call them Egg-face and Egghead.

The guys went at each other. Fought hard, fought smart…or some semblance of it. The rules of a tag team are that a teammate usually does not interfere with the ongoing fight. Egghead’s tag-team partner would thus remain in his corner, until such a point as Egghead tags him in. At that point, Egghead leaves the ring, taking his associate’s position at the corner.

Further, unless Egg-face can get to his partner before Egghead’s partner-in-crime gets to him, then – ideally – ‘new blood’ should continue to pound on him.

This particular match was different. Whereas the tag-team partner is usually another man, this time, on the sidelines stood female reinforcements. Two women wrestlers. We shall call them the sidelined girlfriends, henceforth SGs. Two things quickly emerged:

a)        

There was a special rule for the Eggs’ SGs. If Egghead tags in his SG, then Egg-face has to tag in her counterpart. Because men do not fight women.

b) 

The match was won when Egghead’s SG hit Egg-face below the belt. You know, in the luggage; in ‘the boys’. Egghead then took over, pinning Egg-face to the ground for the 3 count. Game over.

Now let’s recap. A woman cannot be hit by a man, when in the middle of a fight she signed up for; that would be wrong. She is not structured to be hit in a fight, within a ring, by a guy. Her body is her weakness, in this fight.

The same woman can hit a man. She can take him out by going for his weakest point, his weakest weakness. This she can do at a time when she is not supposed to be interfering with the action in the ring. She can then stand by and watch a strong man mop up, and take the credit for her kill. Her body is still her weakness, you see, in this win. Because while she can opportune a hit that cripples a guy momentarily, physique says she might not stand any chance pinning the man down.

Before Westgate took over Kenyan airwaves, two similar women had been consistently portrayed as the shamed queens. Rachel Shebesh, a Member of Parliament who took a gubernatorial smack in her cheek. Caroline Mutoko, a Radio Diva who took an unsanitary senatorial blast in her ear.

Two women who were in a fight with two men. Let me rephrase that.

Two powerful, privileged, obnoxious women, who purport to speak for all Kenyan women, pit their fists – metaphorically speaking – against two powerful, privileged, obnoxious men, who purport to speak for everyone. In a fight whose rules these two women expected to control, having carefully choreographed it to be on the record.

For a second, let’s walk away from the fight I feel coming, as to whether so-or-so deserved – womanly as she was, is – the reaction her transgressing action brought bare. Let’s walk as far as Germany, shall we?

Lay over – To postpone for future action

At the heart of the Holocaust, it has emerged, were women as brutal as Hitler’s men. A mother, who shot fat-nosed Children of the Ark. A nurse, who injected lethal fluid into Jewish campers, turning their blood as cold as her own.

These German women were complicit to the white-washing of Jewish lives from German nationalism. They killed, directly or indirectly. Just as the terrorist who allegedly warned a pregnant lady he clearly liked, that there would soon be a stampede at the Westgate Mall, was her savior.

Yet only a small number of these women, such as Irma Grese – a concentration camp guard – were punished, and fittingly so, for their crimes in Nazi Germany. Like the accountant who helped Pattni, aka Pastor Paul, rob Kenya blind with government sanctioned scams, or the lawyer who fattened his career protecting Nyayo’s corrupt regime, the naming and shaming game did not apply to these women.

Closer home, a young girl took a knife and stabbed her father dead. She had been repeatedly raped by her guardian, and could no longer take it. While the penalty for rape is surely not death, this case was, and is, justifiably a case of self-defense. For one, she could not possibly rape him back; but more so, rape is a twisted power play, one that deprives its victim of choice, not to mention scarring them both physiologically and psychologically.

I do wonder, though, if the tables were reversed, whether a 17-year old who killed his female guardian would be pardoned on a self-defense claim. Whether his plea would be given a slap in the hand without warranting a visit to the doctor’s, at the very least, to help him with the trauma that got him to take another’s life. I wonder if, simply because he were male, the question would not be as to whether there was any immediate danger to his life.

I wonder if, as with the case of Duduzile ‘Dudu’ Manhenga, it matters that life is precious, and unless it is taken justifiably, then it matters not by whom; just how, and perhaps why. Dudu has been called, in disclaiming her culpability in an accidental homicide, both a 'good person' and a 'woman of God.'

While Dudu's case has many complexities that have little to do with her femininity and a lot to do with her Godliness, even as I write this, a big part of me feels sorry for her. That part of me that feels that a woman should be excused for her actions, simply because she is a woman, and the world has not cut her enough slack. 

The same part that forgets to tell girls - as we tell them that they can be anything, as we tell them that they can be like men - that the world they live in does not truly think so. That the men around them will not live in fear of defilement as they walk home late at night. That they do not have to worry much about what happens to their bodies when they're drunk and passed out at an inconvenient spot in a ditch. That while it's OK to push for equal opportunity, equal circumstance can never be achieved.

That same part, I would imagine, that this comment recently criticized in a discussion I was involved in:

[There is a line between] "rape" and consensual sex at a party. Getting drunk with a girl is not necessarily sexual assault or rape [sic]. It still bothers me that it is expected that a drunk man is responsible for ALL his decisions and actions, but a drunk woman is not responsible for her decisions and actions. Where's the equality?

Either drunk people can still make sound decisions about sex, or they can't. Pick one. 

Lay over – To place on top of; to superimpose

What many women do not always get, in getting what they want, is what they deserve. What their needs often forget, in justifying what some women get – usually and quite simply because of their structure – is the inherent irony. The irony in expecting to be taken seriously in complete disregard of what you look like, when your other hand willingly accepts money and gifts; because of what you look like.

The irony in complaining about the world’s evil hold on women’s necks, when in the same breath expecting women to receive lighter or no sentences for their transgressions.

There’s a million voices

To tell you, what you

Should be thinking

So you better sober up

For just a second.

-   Youssou N’dour.

To rape… to abort; two unwanted mutually inconvenient verbs that demonstrate just how much more men equal, than women.

These two verbs; two doing words that pit their choices against each other while consciously ignoring the woman. Choices that society’s misinterpretations of feminism forget to mention. Mention that some men choose to rape a woman of their choice. Mention that when a woman aborts, it is often out of lack of choice.

Not every woman, society’s feminism seems to ignore mentioning, aborts for lack of choice. Being born male, contrary to society’s ignorant double standards, does not herald a predisposition to rape a female.

Two words that are consistently peddled to generalize women’s fears and struggles, while simultaneously in many cases pitting men in general as the cause of these fears and struggles. In one fell swoop ignoring the fact that these are not, should not be, absolute issues.

This, especially not, where gender were concerned. Because pitting men against women, not only defeats the purpose of seeking a solution; it entirely closes our eyes, locking out the few in society who do not ascribe to our definitions of gender.

What happens when we refuse to think for our selves? Absolute and systemized pigeonholes become systemic definitions of right and wrong, and provisions for selective absolution. 

By labeling yourself - dear feminist, dear counter-feminist, dear activist - you simply label others. Because a label asks them, from the get-go, if they are "for us; or against us." 

___________________________________________

Written by Fred Wambugu Maina.

Photo by Fungai Machirori.

The Women Who Lay ME

Nairobi, July 21, 2013; 10.45 am.

Timothy Mwaura Wambugu's Photography; Fred Wambugu Maina's Writing

There is no need, and indeed there never is, to quantify thoughts about women. This is one opinion, a personal one. It is also the overriding frame with which the next few words are to be read, if not the very same they were written in.

¹ To beat or strike down with force.

At this point, I will allow the first general quantification of women. We will attempt to call her Stoopy, this little feminine generalization; perhaps only she, ever so feminine, can explain my own physical – and beyond – relations with women. I might even get to the sub-atomic particulars of wrath, love and fire – all mine – for, about and from women.

Why? Because while I like the ‘care less’ attitudes women around me have developed in response to such outright stratification as is Stoopy, I also like being real. I can only be as real as my own experiences are. 

So perhaps it serves better logic to stalk off with these ‘imported airs’ women have been walking on. 

Perhaps.

Enter the women who lay me.

“Such docile creatures, women are. Women are drama queens, such little bundles of explosively combustible chemicals. Women are elementary; probable; possible. Women are not plausible. They are hardworking multi-taskers; women can take a hit and be silent while at it. They can take another hit.

Women are short, literally and figuratively; so portrayed in literature, so assumed in their ability to move furniture around. I kid you not. Women are lovers. Women are quiet in their suffering. Women are sufferers: mass sufferers in the subjugator systems of The World, et al.

Women are housewives. Women are mani-pedis and mothers; women are not career-led.

Women are to be submissive; the perfect woman is to be patient, kind, servant, willing, and savant to the man’s needs; strong under conventional duress…” Thus Spake Stoopy.

“I do not let women teach men or have authority over them. Let them listen quietly; [or]

“I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet; [further]

“I exhort therefore, that, first of all, supplications, prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks, be made for all men; for kings, and for all that are in authority; that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and honesty.

For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Saviour.”

² To dispose or spread over or on a surface; to press down giving a smooth and even surface.

There are no accusations to be advanced; no duties or burdens, the lot of us is under punishment, should we be so willing to acquiesce to it. Many women have been laid to such faulty inspection, for all of time in her eternity; for most, the order barked at them, becomes them.

Man: Silence!

Nanny: Sit at your corner!

Women are dyslexia. Dyslexia is a woman.

“Dyslexia is characterized by difficulty with learning to read fluently and with accurate comprehension despite normal intelligence;” thus spake the world’s freest – most used, and sometime abused – encyclopedia. 

The world’s most womanly encyclopedia, that is.

Why are you still reading, woman? When, do you reckon, will I stop bullying? When, do I reckon, will you be bullied no more? 

A woman I know told me recently, that her mother told her – showed her really, in analogizing life – that she is to ‘wear your seat-belt when you sit in the front seat...’

Is this the front seat? Are you, dear feminist, driving it? Are you, perhaps more likely, riding shotgun? I wonder what the buckshot feels like; how much better the headlights are, coming right back at you, dear “doe, a deer, a female deer…”

A mother is the elixir of her child’s life. Her blood is as thick as it will be allowed to be. Like water, the more it is allowed to flow out of her cuts and bruises, the more her elixir extinguishes, long before she has the chance to be her child’s life. Yet unlike water, blood clots.

We have taken advantage of this ability of blood to clot, calling them strong, our underprivileged and underfed, overworked and overborne ‘weaker sex’. Blaming them for not being stronger, criticizing them when they become too strong. Telling them that they do not have all the answers; paradoxically blaming them when they ask "why?"

Never ever being, never ever being real; the lot of us. Being a woman is a criminal action, and being a man the ultimate disciplinary action; the ultimate violent reaction.

"Inside of you is a smart, powerful, dynamic, capable, self-confident, alive, alert, fabulous woman! Let her come out and play. The world is waiting for you."                                                                                                        - Louise L. Hay

³ To bring forth and deposit (and egg); to place for rest or sleep, especially: bury.

To give and to take away; such was my mother, the woman who first laid me. An egg was my self, an odd quarter century and a twenty-fifth of this next ago. 

“Why am I soft in the middle now?” Can you call me Al? Call me what you like; my mother gave what she took; and she got a lot of bad, disposed of it, left with the good and gave it to me.

Just like that, five years ago today, so too was she taken. Taken by men; by a manly system... by an unhealthy Hospitalized system of protocol resigned – not designed – to live and let leave. 

Living, you see, is for the fittest; for the blurred lines between price and bids, prize and greed.

The expression ‘pre-loved, not brand new’ perhaps attempts to sum me up; in my own estimation of my self, it is the lasting lesson from my mother: the self-supply of responsibility, a yearning for release from the shackles of commune. At the same time, tis the realization that our individuated response abilities are interconnected: and much as life goes on, when a loved one moves on to a ‘better place’, moving forward is that much harder. 

We are internally connected to them by choosing to love them.

⁴ To bring against or into contact with something: apply; to prepare or position for action or operation.

I have had bosses, in my time doing the corporate do-do. My immediate bosses, it turns out, have all been women. In all except one case. I have found many of them – within the confines of the office – to be headstrong misogynists masquerading in thinly-unveiled misandry.

One particular incident springs to mind. A bikini bash I went for, liked and was liked, particularly by this one woman’s drunken tongue. Four months later, she was seating across the table from me, next to the male CEO of the company and his female second in command, who turned out to be her friend. 

There I was, being interviewed for a job under the direct supervision of a woman I was not sure I wanted to be under.

Much more recently, I got back into employment in a Consultant capacity, under an open-minded trio of women. With more than enough experience in the sado-masochistic world of femdom that is many of this kind of scenario, I vetted them as hard as they vetted me, before deciding to work with them. I should actually be signing that contract by end of this month, fully 2 months after I agreed to start working with them.

On the other hand, one particular woman I got involved with recently – in a corporate, not corporeal way – is quite the epitome of what’s wrong with misguided feminism; the kind that ignores the very fundaments of itself, assumes that being manly equals being feminist. A Kenyan living in Diaspora, a South African tired of having to be Kenyan. 

Choices, it has been said, have consequences. Whether in the unions or communions, matrimony or testimony, beds or leads. The pervaded scent of ‘quotidian violence’ as one Keguro Macharia calls it, is fast becoming an epidemic.

My argument, if it ever was one, is not that women “submit for examination and judgement” by men. It is not that they “copulate with them; often vulgar.” It is not that they silently lay back as the fists are laid to their noses. It is that they prepare, personally, to be well-laid; to be contrived, not misconstrued.

It is, in fact, an argument that as a woman is, so is a man; human. If we are to continue to lay each other equitably, it will have to be under each other, laying our respective businesses before each other with our intentions clear, our attentions bare.

Before we can call ourselves ‘we’, let us first define the ‘I’ that makes ‘us’. This, however, is my truth.                                                         

Only mine...

^1-4 Various definitions of the word ‘lay’