Problem Solver

I was going to indulge my Münchausen by Internet and tell you all about my recent stay in hospital and that I am suffering from minor mal non epileptic seizures. All those episodes of spacing out, memory loss and total assfoolery; oh no, not multiple personality disorder. See, I really cannot help it. Münchausen by Internet is a psychiatric disorder. So I am going to try really really hard to talk about something else. It will be hard but I’ll try.

So lately I’ve been in the signs-from-the-universe kinda mood. That is when I am not listening to Mario Frangoulis. Man! Do I have a celebcrush or what?!

Anyway, back to the signs. As a rule, people generally tell me their problems and ask for advice. I swear it’s like I have a sign on my forehead that says, ‘I am a problem solver, tell me all your secrets.’ In another universe I would have started a church. I am sure church owners get more money than therapists, even those 50 dollar Kenyan psychologists who prescribe antidepressants even before they have figured out what’s tying you up in knots.

So back to this universe. This chic comes to me. Now I am lying in bed, with a brain that keeps telling my body to take forceful breaks from life and thinking, and a mum who comes to my room every night to see if I am still breathing, and this chica comes to me because I know ‘stuff’.

Honestly, I don’t know ‘stuff’, I am just really good at pretending I do. But the official story is that I read a lot, so I know stuff.

The chica in question is slightly younger than me, has been living with her boyfriend for a couple of years, even has a kid with him, has a decent steady job, no particular ambitions except to marry a wealthy guy, which her boyfriend is not.

Really, did I need to know all that?!!

So after a long winding story, we get to the point. She met a new guy. She met him at work. He was a client for the graphics shop she works at. He is nice. He is white. So she has decided to break up with her man. ‘Cos this new white guy is really nice, he even gave her some money to find her own place.

I stared at her. Even tried to fake a space out episode. But she was havin’ nae o that. She wanted my advice. Funny how when someone starts dating a white guy they get automatic twengs.

Screech! Hold right up. lady.

First, of all, I am not your friend. I mean, we’ve met like twice, okay fine, we meet a lot cos your mamma; who still isn’t over you moving in with a guy ‘just like that’; is a friend of my mamma , but this meeting is not out of my choice. Its just that when you are housebound, everyone who comes around finds you and running like the jeevies are after you is not really an option. If I had a chance that’s what I’d do when I see you walk through the gate.

Second, since when was I an expert in relationships? I can hardly hold my own relationships together, so what makes you think I would know what you should do?

Besides I don’t think you and I have the same definition on things related to love and friendships. You see, I don’t think of my boyfriend or any potential life partner in terms of how much money they can contribute to my lifestyle. Sure, there comes a time when your boyfriend pays for something for you, or when you and your husband buy a house together. But what I look for in a man is intelligence, self-esteem, a sense of humour, concern for people other than himself, personal responsibility and life ambitions, someone I can respect, and share the things that go through my head [not all of them, yikes]. That combination generally also includes a career and a measure of success. I don’t check out the Merc first, if its there, its there.

Thirdly, I am not an expert in ‘white’ men. I don’t know who you have been talking to, but I am NOT an expert in ‘white’ men. What are they, a species of beetles I spent ten years in the jungle studying?

White men, are human beings, just like your black as soot boyfriend. Sure they might, and that’s an off chance, but they might be educated, maybe even financially successful. But your nice ‘white’ man could also be a serial killer who used to work as a mjengo guy in Topeka, Kansas, then moved to a rural college town somewhere called Slippery Rock, and then the FIBs got on his scent so he took the next flight to a rural city in Africa called Nairobi. Sheesh!

You’ve got just about the same chances with your black as soot man. There is not a manual that I studied in college which tells you everything about ‘white’ men. Or Kenyan men, black, brown, white or green.

I’ve never met your ‘white’ man, or your boyfriend for that matter, I told you we are NOT friends, cos I’d know at least one of them by now if we were. With this lack of information on your life, I definitely cannot be giving you advice. But if you insist, here’s advice:

Do what you have to do, girl. Its your life in the end. Not mine.

As for me, the signs got lost somewhere in there. My head hurts. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel particularly understanding. Wait, maybe that’s the sign.

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