Codependent - Narcissist

 I, a Pleaser from childhood, from birth,

obligated to placate grown up wrath;

peacemaker, quiet, diffident, withdrawn,

Cooped up in the corner of Brains over Brawn;

How could I resist the toxic Controller,

Strong, decisive, driven, confident?

Slender of waist, beauty sublime,

cutting words, and infinite anger?

Clothed in the garb of piety,

Secure in her self righteousness?

I was a sitting duck

fish in a barrel

a hypnotized deer in the headlights

Slaving to appease her vicious caprice

with grovelling compliance

I lost myself pursuing her approval

And still she left

Abandoning me

to my fear of abandonment

Blue Shoes at the End of the Tunnel

It is a miracle how I got through university.

I was a broke kid in the midst of rich kids.  Constantly felt lost and out of place. Couldn't hang out with the cool crowd. Looked, felt and acted out of place in the few instances I dared to show up at a rave, and didn't know enough to actually avoid caring as much as I pretended not to. It got to me.

Naturally my introversion was amplified in this social wilderness. I mostly hung out alone, sinking deeper into my personal black abyss every day especially after I finally gave up on finding acceptance. No cool clothes, no hot girl, and forget about a car; I worried instead about how Mother could even afford my fees and meals.

Fortunately there was football and swimming. I clung to these sports with more wrath than enthusiasm in a desperate attempt to sublimate the fury of frustrated youth. And the library was big and well stocked with variety. It helped to distract me from all the fun I couldn't afford.

One time an unsought-after crisis befell me. In my eagerness to make friends I lent my only pair of football boots to a teammate who showed up for a match late, hung over and ill equipped. He ran the boots down to shreds in the space of ninety minutes and handed them back to me in the most casual manner, "thanks dude," and dashed off to some other party with his buddies, leaving in my hands a stinking muddy mess of rags and studs. I put a brave face to it, quietly hoping he would make good for the damage, and retired to my humble hostel room to while the ever-present hunger away.

But the days went by and I had no shoes with which to play football. they only had swimming twice a week in those days, and that was grossly insufficient to exorcise my frustrations. So the blackness grew within, with anger and hatred to boot. Depression set in.

But as if in answer to a prayer I needed to make but didn't know I should, Mother traveled to town uninvited and took me shopping to Gikomba. She bought me a second hand pair of blue Adidas F50 boots for 1200 shillings.

12 dollars! Best gift I ever received! Literally saved my life.

Love you Mum.

Young Love

Who longs for days long past
when strange hearts felt their way
in pitch darkness for each other?
And awkward silence tantalized
and jokes veered into explanations
before humor was identified,
and highstrung anxiety prevailed
for sheer zeal to impress,
and onlooking sceptics who
at the time sounded right,
and touch rescued the dumbstruck
sparing language the expenditure.
How did we even survive?

Dry Statement of Intent

I do solemnly but unapologetically
desire perpetual and unrestricted
exclusive guardianship
of the key to your fertility
with appertaining privileges and status
and reciprocal obligations.

Guya the Trailblazer

The extended family enthusiastically responded when cousin Guya, named after late Grandma, invited us to her wedding, almost exactly a year after the death of the beloved lady she was named after.

(I should start with the dinner we all enjoyed on the eve of the wedding, and a late night saga that ensued with certain cousins, but those details will be withheld.)

After fetching the bride from her hideout in Donholm, Umoja SDA church was the place to be. We headed there through interminable Outer Ring Road traffic, impenetrable even on a Sunday, which delayed the intended 10am starting time. (While crawling through the traffic I had the pleasure of viewing Nairobi ladies in their "Sunday best" rushing off to churches. A beautiful sight indeed, and they were everywhere.) I have yet to attend a wedding which began dead on time, but I also generally avoid weddings I do not absolutely have to attend.

Got there to the initial shock of familiar faces (relatives) everywhere which shock eventually wore out when I detected strangers in the midst. Now if you think Nairobi ladies in their Sunday best are strikingly beautiful, then you should see Nairobi ladies at a wedding.

But I digress. Armed with my little digital camera, which could disappear if I wrapped my fist around it, I baptised myself Freelance Photographer and went about capturing photos of favorite people. The professional guys with zoom lenses the size of my head made me feel like an upstart but I was not deterred, having three cousins and a sister in the bridal party. So I jostled for space right along with the most extravagant of them.

And now humor me as I delve into improbable theories fathered by idly musing as my "sisters" marched slowly down the aisle in advance of Guya the highlight of the day. Who came up with the idea of nubile forerunners, eligible bachelorettes, thus displaying their beauty to crowds? What is the rationale behind that? Is it an enticement for the boy child? Is it their warm up for their own big day? Is it build up anticipation for the bride's appearance?

They smiled, they swayed and stepped to the beat. Their corresponding groomsman marched towards them to meet them halfway. They paired off and headed to the pulpit.

At length the rigmarole of marching prospective brides and grooms, and a former bride and groom (a.k.a best man and best maid), and even the wedding matrons, was dispensed with and the lady of the hour stepped out of her vehicle to take her place in the spotlight: the church entrance. Flanked by her proud parents, with wedding music chiming sweetly, she too marched down the aisle to meet her groom and his parents halfway. He unveiled her under pastoral supervision, after which the whole team advanced unhurriedly towards the pulpit.

You know how it goes. A choir sang. A funny preacher gave the couple marital advice and harangued others present to marry in church. The couple took vows, signed certificates, as choirs sang, and then the MC sent us away to the reception. A return march of married couple, best couple, parents, bridal party, matrons, fans, etc, from pulpit to exit, concluded that chapter, with us wannabe Photographers lining the aisle.

There was a hubbub outside as we non-car-owning attendees tried to charm our way into a free ride to the reception. My strategy was to stand around lugubriously until someone had mercy on me. It worked eventually on one uncle, who lumped me and three other sundry stragglers into the back seat of a Pajero.

Outer Ring Road traffic once again delayed matters as a procession of ribboned vehicles headed to Sir Yusuf Ali on Thika Road.

Lunch was served as extremely danceworthy music played, but a full plate anchored me in my seat. I also kept the company of a lively young lady, an absent cousin's girlfriend, who was full of stories and thought I was funny and discouraged me from abandoning food for dance. I also ran into a short, lovely mutual friend who knew the groom and I knew the bride, small world. Speeches began but I was understandably distracted, though I certainly caught the bride's mother's. And then there was time to catch up with long lost relatives and to familiarize oneself with remote relatives as cake was served. Shortly after, the obligatory vote of thanks was hammered out, and everybody could go home, or ask about the after party.

Luckily very few people asked me when I am getting married. 2021, I told them.

I also realized just how important it is for me to start being seen at such events in the company of a lady, even if a hired escort, if only to deflect loved ones' concerns over my long running militant singledom. So if you are a lady - any lady - reading this and are open to the idea of pretending to be my serious girlfriend at major family functions, which are not many, post your application in Comments.

Fate was kind to me. Just as I leave who pops up but Guya herself and her husband John. I hugged her and told her she had done well to set a really high benchmark for the rest of us cousins. Now nothing less than a church wedding will do.

Well done cuz.

By Design

Why does memory not cling
to the face of a loved one?
Only the concept of them endures,
the feeling they inspire.
Their unique features float adrift
upon an ocean of emotion.

Is it not a trick of nature
To ensure we seek the beloved again
And restore their face to memory?
Or rather to try again
and again
Forever.

My Pride and Joy

Gentle and earnest, queen uncrowned,
You adorn my presence.
Calm and quiet, words well measured,
your pleasant voice thrills my soul.
Wise and prudent, yet a humble student,
I would love to enter your mind:
to know the software of your heart,
that so seamlessly syncs with mine;
To examine your delicate voice box
which tenderly caresses my soul.
your Brown Eyes calm my fears,
you excite my passions,
You lift my spirits,
My pride and joy.

Long distance relationship

She's too far away.
Your meetings are never long enough.
Body language is lost in cellular transmission.
Can you trust her? Others see in her just the same thing that attracted you.
Can she trust you? She knows other women are nearer to you.
Suspicion pops up all over the place like a game of whack-a-mole.
Too long a short silence triggers insecurity.
Absence makes the heart grow sicker.
Being alone (single, for-real single instead of long-distance-relationship single) starts to seem easier.
You physically ache inside.
Perfectly unreasonable resentments undermine mutual professions of love.
You start to doubt whether the wait... is worth the wait.
The gulf between peaks of companionship and troughs of separation is mind-boggling, depressing in itself...

Simply Ugly

"Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!"

A girl I am close to was telling me all her relationship troubles: the typical platonic friend.

The story began innocently enough: he asked her to move in with her. She turned down the offer with a barrage of excuses. Of course to her they sounded like valid reasons but I'm sitting there thinking: if she's not moving in on his initiative then something is wrong somewhere.

Cohabiting is always a bad idea for unmarried couples. I will spare you the reasons why. But if a guy is taking that risk and being rejected for frivolous reasons (which do not involve the preservation of maidenhood , for conjugation is ongoing), then he'd better sit down and mentally locate the exit. Because the next rejection on a more significant invitation will crush his soul.

Soon enough my platonic friend confirms my suspicions that her partner is more invested in the relationship than she is. The agony of her soul is the fear of breaking his heart. She spit-roasts the dilemma over the fire in her heart with relish: "I don't know what to dooooo!" She is pulled apart by indecision and the pain gives her pleasure because it is the last vestige of excitement in her long term relationship. It is the great big drama in her life in which she plays the lead role: fate is in her hands, the spotlight on her.

"He is a good guy!" she says with a sympathetic sneer, "But at some point the love just... ended."

So now all that remains to be seen is whether she has the balls to pull the plug. Oh that the gods would engineer it so that he left her instead, and then she could be the victim and cry! Much preferable.

She tells me the guy has even suggested marriage to his dear beloved. I don't know how she weaved out of that hot seat in that awkward moment when it came up, but somehow, she's still there, still in that relationship, allowing him to believe somehow something will work out.

Yet I wonder, doesn't her own internal inconsistency, that cognitive dissonance arising from acting in love while being out of love, appear manifestly sometimes when they are together? I think I have a nose for these type of things. An incomplete smile, a perfunctory kiss, an obligatory compliment, a stiff lay with fake orgasms. Perhaps I am paranoid, but I believe every man should be able to detect these cracks in the façade. Those periods when nothing specific is "wrong," but everything's riding precariously on a knife edge, when one inch out of step is the difference between an uneasy peace and contrived apologies.

This could go either of two ways: they maintain the facade of a loving relationship and marry into a life of continual deception, or she ends the circus and breaks them up.

Except she doesn't know what to dooooo.

Inflation

Someone explain why the bidding for low value women starts at a premium.

There is a manifest oversupply of gold-digging whores. They should be dirt cheap, at least before they find the gold. However the trend within that demographic is to fake it till you make it, perpetuating an incurable epidemic of inauthenticity.

They all look, act and talk the same after a while: shallow, vacuous, fake.

High value women are rare, precious, yet they appear more circumspect in their self-valuation; they appreciate other measures of value besides cash and prizes, they will strive to earn their rewards. Last to proclaim their percieved value openly, they recognize the utility of "feminine mystique" - silence is golden. Let him do what he must to figure her out for himself. Give him space to act the gentleman.

But entitlement is a paradox; the more of it there is in a woman, the less it's worth, and then you will never hear the end of it though pigs should fly.

Attraction Differential

A great sage (I suspect it was the tireless Anon once again) said "Obey your instincts." Now in the haste of modern life many influences demand obedience, and sadly there are always stray people lacking direction who thus fall prey to confidence tricksters, simply because they seem to know what they are talking about. I'm always suspicious of people who primarily issue imperatives in their speech, maybe except my football coach, who literally barks orders. Now I need to be getting to the point, how our eyes need to stay open.

Let us telescopically zoom in on love and romance, the way modern culture depicts them. ( Not so close that we must stare at other people's displays of affection. Look in the mirror and you should see quite enough, thank you.) My view of the past presents me as an evangelical believer in the romantic tropes of back in the day.  For example, The One: an exclusive soulmate figure with whom the matching agent is no less than Destiny and without whom there is no Happily Ever After.

With ideas like these filling my head I set out to search for love and soon thought I found it. But my instinct refused to believe the narrative I was forcing upon myself. I ignored the annoying instinct until one day it screamed out: "Love is not this way!" The attraction was compromised from the start by an unfortunate pink hue coming from rose-tinted glasses I was wearing at the time.

Let me explain myself; you see, attraction is a funny thing, it's like binary. When it's on, it's like two magnets close together, they slam into one another and cleave together. When it's off, nothing will happen, like preoccupied strangers in the street. Factors of attraction vary, from physical appearance to virtues and appealing character but there's got to be attraction, it's not magic.

The problem begins when romantic love is made the be-all and end-all of life and happiness, until misguided souls settle with insufficient attraction. The cart is before the horse. There may be other motives which do not qualify as attraction because they are only marginally related to the object of affection, like how the two of you will look, what others will think, other calculations, etc (which are given disproportionate weight despite only being by-products, side effects.) This is the real dynamic behind that oft-rehashed complaint now popularized by the movies: "I feel like you are in love with the idea of being in love and not in love with meeee!" **tears, and then an overdue break up***

In a lovesick mind, having to pep talk oneself every time before facing the partner is more tolerable than being alone. Consequently, these shut their eyes and ears from dissonant facts that indicate that they have been settled for, shielding themselves from the truth by going to extra lengths to obligate their partners to stay with them. But love is not this way. Granted, arranged marriages between total strangers have worked, which somewhat  complicates my argument on the necessity of initial attraction. Never mind,  I'll figure it out. All I'm saying here is, there's no faking love in a relationship, no matter how "romantic" it is made to look.

Why am I talking like this? How do I know? I've been that guy, I've been on both ends of an attraction imbalance, both settling for others when my options dried up and being settled for by others. One kind of feels a nagging pain in the instinct in either format. Unless an isostatic adjustment balances the inequality, which may not happen even with prolonged exposure, do not proceed by any means. Just wait. Keep your eyes wide open in the meantime.

On the Brink of Bliss

I once seriously considered marriage, in much the same way a small boy craves big-people stuff. My thinking back then was that, yes, it's no walk in the park, but if you put in the work it is rewarding. I wasn't really feeling like an adult by that time despite having obtained an ID card. Embarking on the apex of adult relationships seemed like a sure way to accelerate the process. Colleagues and a wife instead of "the boys" and (a) girl pal(s) seemed like a step up into the somber big boy world of Duties and Responsibilities.  Also, hardship greys the hairs. I looked boyish, nobody was taking me seriously. It got so bad that I'd be in the company of my peers yet some ignorant lazy buggers picked on me as the "kijana" whenever an errand called for sending someone. All because I lacked a premature potbelly, stress wrinkles, a steely gaze or a "baba somebody" moniker. I was just Tony to all and sundry, or, in extreme cases, Duski Bolt. Indeed one of the portly girls gathered enough courage to tell me to my face that I had babyish eyes. Luckily for her I looked, and was, harmless back then. But I digress. Point is, I toyed with the idea of marriage for a variety of reasons. Think Marriage Challenge. As for whether my intended was going to accept my proposal, I took it for granted that given enough time, I wouldn't even really need to ask for her hand except as a formality, a ceremony, a gimmick, an exam whose answers I knew beforehand but still had to sit and write anyway. I felt  to be "in love" was a necessary prerequisite for marriage, therefore I strove to feel and act the way a person who is in love is supposed to, according to an unrehearsed mix of my convictions then and contemporary romantic conventions as depicted on TV. Probably I would do it differently today, just relax and steer the ride at my own leisure, but at the time it was an honest effort under the perceived pressure of self-imposed adult burdens and a need to impress. Those were some big shoes I was yet to grow into, but clumsily walking nevertheless, in earnest, a kid trying to become his daddy overnight. In my haste to settle down I skipped vital steps in the metamorphosis. Long story, we leave it for now. It helped that my intended spoke the truth from her heart, often smiled radiantly and redundantly and was easy to talk to. At times she could draw me out of my shell, which is no mean feat. I often retreat too far inwards to bring myself back into circulation but this one figured me out and disentangled me patiently like I was knotted up Christmas lights. In her presence my mental clutter cleared miraculously. Although there were times when she was the cause of fretful contemplations rather than their bane. Still I decided on the balance of things that marrying her might be a good idea... once I started working, if ever. Also there was the little (big) issue of sex, which marriage would not only rubber stamp but also require on the regular, so hooray, another plus. Other specifics like the wedding, and the house, and how many kids, blended vaguely into the blurry background of things that would somehow sort themselves out with time, why stress. Those days I was an atheist due to poor choice of reading material, but she was a believer. I merely assumed I would convert her to my perspective and married life could begin from there, because even in my unbelief I knew enough not to be unequally yoked with a believer, can you imagine! But she was strong, thank God, though my evangelization was not altogether very zealous because I quickly figured out that a little faith in the mother will be good for the kids if for nothing else. Besides, who wants to raise faithless brats in this cold blooded 21st Century? not me. Yeah that's how far my thinking went. Kids. Weird. Anyway, my marriage fantasies (!) were overtaken by subsequent developments (!) and now rants such as these are all that remain of that adventure that never was.

Love versus Passion

But if the sense of touch whereby mankind is propagated seem such dear delight beyond all other,
think the same voutsaf’t To Cattel and each Beast;
which would not be to them made common & divulg’d,
if aught therein enjoy’d were worthy to subdue the Soule of Man, or passion in him move.
What higher in her societie thou findst attractive, human, rational, love still;
In loving thou dost well, in passion not, wherein true Love consists not;
Love refines the thoughts, and heart enlarges, hath his seat in Reason, and is judicious,
is the scale by which to heav’nly Love thou maist ascend,
Not sunk in carnal pleasure,
for which cause among the Beasts no Mate for thee was found.

(John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book vii)

Apology: I edited the paragraph to align by punctuation. Makes for easier reading than the original.

Here John Milton argues that love is superior to carnal lust ("passion") because mankind has great capacity for reason and emotion than the animals, hence a greater scope for the exercise of love. All other animals can partake of carnal relations but for man to settle for that baseline is to sell himself short. It's quite relevant in this age of overhyped melodramatic romance (also "passion") which is really only confusion in a nice dress. The passage actually tells men to love the aspects of their better halves that are attractive, human, rational, but not to abandon the reins of judgment to "passion." Sound advice?

First Love

One imagines, one believes, that in days past
when one couldn't live without the other,
that the love was spontaneous, unrehearsed;
honest, unschooled by hurts;
awkward, hence unfeigned; 
pure.

One remembers ideal love
(or imagined it to have been thus
before second thoughts came along):
That the terrain was uncharted,
pristine, wild, beautiful, perilous;
so that one marveled and feared,
as wonders and horrors from either's mind
took colossal strides that shook your worlds;
one held fast to one's own mutually vulnerable other,
in turn was held close in pain or pleasure;
one's collateral was one's own heart,
one held nothing back

When one meets one's first other,
one mumbles mundane weather updates;
yet one imagines, one quietly fancies,
wishfully, unjustifiably,
that one knew the other perfectly
first loved and was loved 
as none other ever will

Because when that perfect chapter ended
both devoted the rest of their lives
to protecting themselves
from losing it again
by never finding it

(Or so one dreams.)

Romance etc

Looking into my introvert mirror I am forced to wonder where my cynicism towards love came from (I have been avoiding the topic). Out here on the internet I collected a clue: men act like realists whereas at heart they are hopeless romantics. Ladies, meanwhile, pretend to be romantics, but their inner instinct is realist to the core. (In other words, men love romantically, with all the ideals in place and all. Women love realistically and pragmatically.) Once I read this it became clear: there is the source of my cynicism, in so many words. I had already subconsciously suffered the truth of it, long time ago, though it never matured into active thoughts until, wandering on the internet, a kindred spirit brought it to life on his blog.

Emotions and hormones complicate women's realism for them, so realism is not always a straight, coldly calculated strategy on their part. They acquire the romantic's outward mannerisms and deportment. It's called bait, because like attracts like, therefore a man is drawn to a pseudo-romantic woman. No, really.

Romantic overtures are commonly regarded as such when they conform to the common rosy-colored feminist Hollywood format, whereas "it's the thought that counts" gestures far outweigh that other stage-managed circus.

Now see how this mind game plays out. A Kenyan girl, or a girl from anywhere, will stand up and declare "Kenyan/wherever men are not romantic at all! So unromantic." The emotions accompanying this announcement will nearly condense into tears. Remember it's a mind game, therefore the nearest Kenyan man who has always been far more romantic (think "affection" not "flowers") than the girl ever will be, he invests some kind of effort to conform to her plastic definition of romance, notwithstanding the fact that his ardent strength of feeling merely lacks any instrument strong or big enough to accurately measure it. But at the same time (remember, it's a mind game!) no man will openly confess to being a romantic, so, in order to preemptively save face so the boys don't rib him about it, they collectively imprudently surrender the label Romantic to the female party, who take it and run with it, and then at opportune times they jump up and lament in male hearing how unromantic Kenyans (or Africans, or humans, as the case may fit) are.

A man could be staring into a potential partner's gaze while hers is trained on his bottom line, real or potential. Her eyes are looking at you, but her mind's eye is guessing how many zeroes, give or take. But I half-joke. It's not commercial like that. Just concretely appreciating the depth of that article I read.

Drawing Lines

Let us temporarily move our minds beyond the alleged tradeoff between being single and lonely, or being in a relationship and bored. (Admittedly it is debatable.)

Putting that aside, I have a theory. Single people tend to be rigid in their opinions. Once they've made up their own mind, that's it. On the other hand, being in a relationship compels one to be flexible and open minded to a certain extent, in order to accommodate the other's opinions, tastes and preferences. 

This reality opens one up to all sorts of compromises that one would have never otherwise contemplated. Commonly referred to as "love conquers all," we have all seen the phenomenon of lovers ditching ideological stances, personal principles and even entire religions in the name of love.

It has happened to me enough times. For example, my taste in music and choice of viewing have been significantly influenced by exes, friends, the company I keep. On my own I am cautious of being seduced by pop culture. Even certain so-called "gospel music" don't cut it no more, mostly I'd rather let my thoughts soar through silence and naturally occurring ambient noises. If something "hot" comes up, you will catch me scowling at the screen moments before I change the channel or switch it off altogether. But put me on even the most casual setting with an acquaintance and the pop music will eventually bob my unwilling head as the visuals charm my hypnotized eyes. At long last all resistance is laid in the dust and the old joints will bust spontaneous moves.

I for one have resolutely taken the extreme view: unless I meet someone who is as strict (or stricter) about what they allow themselves to listen to or watch, guarding my own mind will be a losing battle. Since two shall become one, be not unequally yoked. Compromise must come with relationships indeed: however certain lines must be drawn as mutually inviolable or else two can not walk together.

Resist Attraction

I believe in organically cultivated relationships. Get to know someone under mundane circumstances, befriend them gradually, understand the SWOT slowly and maybe blossom into love muuuch later. Long stretches of this road may look like the much-maligned "Friendzone" but nothing good comes fast and easy. Patience wins the marathon.

The whole "love at first sight" rainbow-themed rose-tinted fireworks arrangement strikes me as genetically modified love. Artificially inseminated with primal desire, incubated in pretentious dates, needing life support when the excitement fades, shaky at best, likely dangerous. (I've been both victim and perpetrator, so I ought to know by now.)

This is not to say that I have saintly transcended instantaneous lust in the age of makeup. That struggle continues. A man's eyes are prone to be ensnared by elaborate cons as long as Photoshop tools avail in our sisters' dressing tables and wardrobes. Actual authentic 100% lovely-looking lasses also roam the earth turning beholders' necks. I have already ranted so much against the consequences of fashion that I loathe repeating myself here now.

Alcohol also predisposes men towards carnal gratification. In Proverbs 23:33, The Bible says after you have become drunk,"thine eyes shall behold strange women, and thine heart shall utter perverse things." Ever seen how a drunk gazes at the strange women who avail themselves? The Bible knows all about that. Goes on to say "a whore is a deep ditch; and a strange woman is a narrow pit" (v27). At first I equated  strange woman with whore, prostitute, harlot;. Unfortunately, today, many glorified and overrated strange women operate under the guise of a wide variety of socially accepted (nay, celebrated) roles.

Back to topic. Granted, visual attraction is a major element in the establishment of any relationship. can't deny the fact that beauty is that which arrests the attention in the first place. I'd just like, one day, to be able to approach a lady with something along the lines of "I admire your character and comportment and I like your wit and humor. Your looks are an added bonus."

Nothing is certain

Strident assurances can’t certify
that I will see your face again

It subsists on fragile hope
It depends on fickle chance

There is no guarantee
Fate is not obligated

Conflicted within
resigned without

hopeful and afraid together