The War Without!

On that hot August day when I took my first breath in to this world, I was without question born with equal chances  and rights as my brothers.
I take pride in the fact that my dad, as old fashioned as he is gave me that one gift that most humans of my gender have had to fight for all their life.

This is not to say that it has been easy. Growing up with testosterone charged males who are ever trying to be macho in the eyes of their peers is not a piece of cake.
From declining to do my brothers laundry , having cleaning and cooking duty rotas taped on our kitchen wall, to beating the lights out of a guy who insulted me because I was playing football with a bunch of boys, I have had to literally punch my way into what I perceive to be equality ,so many times such that I lost count along the way.
I remember coming home from school after the first term in high school, super charged from the endless hours spend in the library reading Feminist poetry and literature, like a bloodhound, looking for trouble with anyone who dared insinuate that my place as a woman was in the kitchen or at the laundry room doing house chores. 

Now, I know some of you might be wondering why I could not just do their laundry, cook, and clean and let my brothers be.
I will tell you why.
I went to school as they did, had homework to do just like they had, needed to play just as much as they needed,and I also needed extra time to be a girl, which by the way, I never had;  I was busy learning to do boyish stuff because they made me believe that I was just like them.
So, instead of playing Cook,and changing  doll clothes, I was out in the streets kicking tins and paper balls or making wire cars.There were days I even practiced my boxing skills and ended up going home with sore knuckles from the endless hours I spend hitting rough concrete walls in our neighborhood to make my fists hard.
I will not even start on how I learned how to replace fuses in electrical appliances,or even test if batteries had power using my tongue,or even how I learned how to ride a bike.
Today,we all have grown up and left the nest. We only get together on holidays and no one bothers me with their laundry anymore.
Now, I am facing the biggest challenge of my existence as a woman; annealing my place in a world dominated by men.
Its a crazy place this world.Its a pity that no one ever tells you what to expect in life after school as a girl, or how hard the transition to womanhood is.
The  old cliche told to every girl that 'Men are bad' is very far from the truth. (It only applies to boys)
I find men to be good people, but some are just downright evil ,chauvinistic, egotistic ,close- minded,manipulative and demeaning. They will do anything and everything to make women their slaves.
 They will use Religious texts,and culture to woo you into believing them. They will call you names,brand you until you start doubting yourself.
Nowadays,I find myself dealing with this crop of men.And boy,do they come in all shades,shapes and sizes.The most repulsive and annoying lot, the Potbellied ,married LOSERS who think that just because they paid a hefty amount of dowry,they rightly own every woman.
 Fortunately for me,feminist poetry was my turning point.It gave me a clear picture of who I am as a woman.
 It made understand the reason why I was always at war with people who seemed to take me to be a lesser being. It made me resolve never to let any one put me down just because I am a woman.
Yes! I will fight if I have to.Even if it means I claw my way to the top,I will,because I don't do easy.
 I am not sorry for the numerous times I have had to slap a man because he greeted me in a way that made me feel violated.
I don't even care if they find me arrogant or rude because I refused to let them talk me down,or I declined to make them a cup of tea in the office just because I am the woman.
I don't care if their community,culture or belief states that a man should be worshiped,because i won't.
I don't give a damn if they took a loan to buy that big car they drive or their bank account can feed an entire continent, If they cannot respect  the fact that I work hard more than they  have to ,then we are going to have a problem.
I lack words for those humans from Mars who think that a woman somehow has to sleep her way up the corporate to be in a position of power.. I hope one day ,when your have daughters become Managers and CEO's, you won't expect them to give you 'Bed' money.
As for those who think that I should slow down,grab all this opportunities coming to me from all directions and live on the easy fast lane, may the Good Lord have mercy on you.

Bottom line: I won't ever wash, clean ,cook or kneel in submission to a man because the society expects me to.
I will,because I want to.

Rickety Roadster: Back to School Memories.

The sight of teenage boys and girls in  different shades and patterns of  uniform reporting to school evoked in me deep memories of times in the past where I have found myself in the same predicament: unwillingly being towed back to school after quite a short holiday.
 I must admit I was one of those people who, as the opening dates drew near, and all the Supermarkets went into a crazy frenzy advertising for back to school offers, silently hoped something would come up, say a Teachers' strike or a Presidential decree that would see the seemingly short holidays extended by a week or two, perhaps even a month.
Going back to school was painful ,I hated it and I had a reason  to.
See, Boarding school for me came at a time when everything about you was under the scrutiny of your peers. Everyone else but me seemed to come from Nairobi, Mombasa and other big towns.
 I was the girl from the village. Actually my home was and still is a few minutes drive from the school and my dad didn't own a car to drive me to school, like most of the other kids.
 Suprisingly, even the other children from the village pretended to be town dwellers.
When I was growing up, to be a village kid was a crime.
Every opening day, as my school mates travelled to school by car or bus, I would hitch a ride on my dad's old bicycle, my bag on my back and start the long ride to school.
I would say a thousand prayers along the way, hoping that the  mean girls and boys in the cars ,matatus and buses that sped past that painfully slow,rickety bike would never recognize me.
My dad never seemed bothered by it. He really loved that bicycle of his,much to my chagrin.
That dear old bicycle must have been nine or even ten years older than I was, with scratched paint , dented fenders and a greasy old chain, caked with layers and layers of oil from the numerous times it had been oiled, to keep the paddling smooth and easy.
 How can I forget the dynamo and the huge headlight that would make us spot dad from far when he came home late.
Infact,the only thing that seemed perfect on that bike was the braking system.
My mode of transportation to school was a top secret and it  seemed to work out perfectly until one day my GHC teacher had a slip of the tounge and mentioned my dad's bike during a Lesson about the Colonial Era,where apparently all bicycles had to have a Tag.
As the class bellowed in fits of laughter, I sat on my desk, embarassed and seething inside with fury, asking myself a million questions on why it had to me, who had to endure all that humiliation.
Fortunately, the humiliating Bicycle rides ceased the moment my kid brother joined me in boarding school.
It was not a smooth transition though. It took me days of protesting, tears and endless pouts to change my dad's mind. His arguement : he did not see anything wrong with me sitting at the passenger seat at the back carrying our bagpacks, and my brother,sitting at the front on the stem between the handle bars and the seat.
Fast forward to today.
Its been Fourteen years since my last bicycle ride to school.
 I am alot wiser and all grown up now.
I take pride in the fact that I was raised in the village, and thats where my heart and home will always be.
I miss that dear old rickety bicycle.It now hangs somewhere in my dad's barn at home, old, rusty and battered by the countless rides it has taken, dearly loved by its owner ,and the people it has ferried to different places.
Its a symbol of the sacrifices made,memories created of where we came from amd who we are.
A resonating reminder of our humble beginnings.
I have forgiven myself for being embarassed of my dad's bicycle,and forgiven that GHC teacher for making fun of it.
 The realization that he could have easily afforded a car if he wanted to,but didn't,so that we could get the best education he could afford makes me respect my old man even the more.
And Perhaps one of this days, when I get home, I will bully my brother into taking that dear old rickety roadster down and take it for one last ride.