xmas shopping in Nairobi

I am up to my elbows in gifts, labels and wrapping paper all to be cobbled together into parcels and sent back home to family in a day or two with ever obliging parents-in-law. I did finally pull my finger out and have been frenzied buying for the past week. Nothing like a deadline to focus the mind. Now that family birthdays are over, it's been like the cork has popped out from the 'spending inertia' bottle and there's no stopping me - unless of course the cashpoint does that old 'insufficient funds' trick - which it probably will any minute.

This year, keen to avoid the cliches, I've bought things from South Africa (Mr Price Home/kids), Nakumatt!! (they have some good Klutz activity books), pig cups from UK (I know, I know, talk about coals to Newcastle but they were a bargain!). I also bought beads/necklaces etc. from here in Africa (prob some are from Asia too if I'm honest). Even some masai bracelets from a 'real' masai lady with no hair who sits outside the veg shop in her shuka.

Also, Kenya colours rugby shirts (for boys), sarongs made in Kenya and books like Hot Hippo, Lazy Lion etc (for those who haven't received these before in previous years). I might even find myself sending some stuff that I bought in the summer in UK, then carted out to Nairobi in numerous roller bags, back to England. Though this sounds utterly nuts it might just throw me a lifeline with the last few pressies I have run out of ideas/energy to find.

There were some childrens' things at the craft fair last weekend (ie knitted teddies) that were made by very worthy slum based women's groups then sold on by mzungu ladies, but they were SOOO expensive that I'm afraid I shyed away from forking out.

You get faced with a lot of hugely expensive, locally made things when shopping around - I often find myself looking at price tags then backing out of the gift shop quickly with the words 'I'll just have a think about it...' In fact, without the aid of the internet and Amazon, you have to be ready to make a lot of executive decisions on how much you are willing to spend whilst on the spot, whether the items are actually worth it or, more to the point, are they really going to be loved?

The process is agony, but so exciting when it's finished. Phew. Now that I'm organised so hugely far in advance (I've even done my own kids!), I'm sure to wake up in a cold sweat on Christmas eve thinking,
'OMG, I've forgotten X! What on earth did I get them? Perhaps I forgot altogether? Help!'

I know, I know, I can hear you all shouting 'LISTS!' The problem is, I do hate lists with a passion! Organised chaos is far more fun.

Excessive noise and vibration - matatus

Last week a new law was announced by NEMA (National Environment Management Authority) banning loud noise and excessive vibration. If you do plan to make noise or excessive vibration, you must have a licence. The most outraged were the matatus (minibuses) who love to pump out sounds and they threatened to strike. In fact they did strike I think briefly on Wednesday morning leaving commuters stranded in the rain. The elderly plumber who comes to our house from time to time says the pounding noise in matatus sometimes makes his head shake.

There is a vibrant 'matatu culture' here and there's a always battle to be the coolest one of the pack, especially when touting for customers. It's all linked to hip hop, fashion etc. Touts hang out of sliding doors at high speed, leaping off as the wheels are still rolling to cajole potential passengers to embark. The price is decided by the tout and is variable, depending on whether it's raining or rush hour, or a national holiday etc.

'They have hiked the prices again' the lady who works in our house often laments.

The brakes were put on the matatu culture when new safety related laws in 2004 were introduced by gov minister John Michuki (known as the Michuki rules). Passengers were limited to 14 only per vehicle (IE no more packing them in like sardines, standing room only). Speed governors were compulsory. Each seat had to have a seat belt, but most disturbing - all graphics on the outside of the vehicle were to be replaced by white paint with a single yellow stripe. Oh, and drivers and touts were told to wear a rather unfashionable uniform of matching burgundy or navy sleeveless jacket and trousers. Meanwhile, the traffic police had a field day implementing all these rules.

Now, with the safety record having improved, the old graphics are creeping back on the sides of the vehicles. Uniforms are not always worn. Music booms out and screens inside show the coolest music videos on a loop. At night, many of the matatus are decorated in flashing, coloured lights. The matatu industry also provides a huge source of employment for the youth. There are even avenues for matatu graphic designers whose skill is honed specifically for this market.

I think the the 'noise' law is like a last straw for matatu operators - their wings have already been clipped so harshly. Next time a matatu pulls out in front of you without signaling, count to ten, think of the passengers trying to get home and have some patience for this pivotal part of Nairobi culture.

I looked at a few YouTube clips and think that the one below best describes matatu in Nairobi.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2saWJOtwSuc&feature=related

Love the ma3 abbreviation!

Meanwhile, I am just concerned that NEMA are going to slap a fine on our household for the excessive noise and vibration emanating from my daughter's new drum kit! It's bringing the house down, literally!

Christmas craft fairs - Nairobi

It’s that time of year again in Nairobi. Christmas craft fairs. I am reliably informed that Bizarre Bazaar that took place last weekend is a lot like some of the ones you get in England – i.e. with very expensive stands peppered with smart looking lady stallholders selling highly priced smock dresses made in Mauritius, paintings, handmade paper and the like. But I have never been to one of these, so I honestly wouldn’t know.

Sadly, I find can’t go to a Christmas fair in Nairobi without being significantly more focussed on what I would like to buy for myself, than the task of buying Christmas presents. I look at pairs of earrings and pretty, decorative things for the house. The reason for this is because there is almost nothing priced at under £50, so buying anything is an indulgence.

I learned over past years that it inadvisable to ask the price of anything, lest you fall over in a dead faint. This time I did look at a beautiful linen apron, but when I learned that it cost 6,700/- shillings, I died. I also liked a pair of pottery table lamps but they cost £100.....each, so I left empty handed. I thought, if I was rich enough to buy this stuff for presents, then whoever I was buying for would either think I had gone nuts or would be blissfully unaware at me bankrupting myself in one fell swoop. You could not exactly describe shopping at Bizbaz as bargain hunting; it’s more like splurging on things you really don’t need and to hell with the Christmas shopping list anyway.

I must admit, I do like to go along for the chicken tikka and naan, Dorman’s coffee and the socialising. The late evening shopping was fun, that is, once you’d run the gauntlet of a circle of unidentifiable Karen mums circled around a table at the entrance in the semi-darkness drinking wine and gossiping. My husband found some fellow motor bike/diesel head/KC friends and spent the evening happily talking ‘knobbly tyres’. This year, whilst window shopping, I identified an amusing sort of stall holder’s uniform that comprised; long embroidered Tibetan style or homemade velvet coats for evening and see through kaftans for daytime wear. So now you know.

My mother-in-law gave me strict instructions to do all my xmas shopping at ‘Bizbaz’, so that she can kindly carry the gifts back to England for the family in a week or so’s time. With seventeen nieces, nephews and godchildren in England, this is no mean task. My excuse for accomplishing absolutely nothing thus far is that, having been enormously relieved not to see the police loitering at the same spot as last Friday’s incident (the old heart rate was racing I tell you), my turbo spectacularly blew up. Fortunately the break-down happened not far from home, but once my husband had towed me back, identified the problem and told me how much it would cost to fix the car, all shopping plans were immediately cancelled.

The Craft Fair in December is generally better for smaller gift items and by then I am generally in an honest panic about xmas shopping – so hope that I fare better there. How I’ll get the things back to England though, I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better resort to gifts ordered online that arrive on the door mat unlabelled and unwrapped. This might make a refreshing change from endless flow of cliched beads, kikoys, scarves, flip flops and rag dolls that perhaps all our family and friends are well and truly OVER by now, having received the same African stuff from us for the past ten years. How do other expat wives do it? Oh, the trials and tribulations of living overseas!

It's raining in my car...

We were all worried. The El Nino rains had sputtered out after only ten days - we had two weeks of hot sun. The dams are not yet full. No one was ready for the rains to be over, or 'fail'.

Last week I cursed the fact that my driver's window is jammed shut because it was so sweltering, and was relieved that one of the back windows is jammed open a few inches, so at least the kids didn't die of heat exhaustion. (one day the air-con packed up temporarily too).

'Where is the rain?' I asked the grocer, the man in the supermarket, everybody.
'I don't know' they said; worried.

Now the rain is back with a vengance.

For example, it rained all night and it has been 'raining in my car' (a German friend of mine coined this phrase.) The sunroof is generally the main culprit as water drips through the edges of the tinted glass and down through the roof lining, causing me to resort to sitting on a beach towel. I know the drill well. The canvas seats have many water marks from previous downpours.

The window that won't close has been problematic today. I tried to rig up a plastic Nakumatt bag to plug the gap which flaps horribly when going along. This afternoon I saw a man driving a landrover with a purple plastic bin bag stretched over the open void that was the driver's window. I felt his pain.

P.s. The new 'harmonised' draft constitution has been published in the Nation and Standard newspapers today. It's very exciting and all everyone down to the man on the street has to talk about. The jist is,
'we have waited so long for this. We want to take time to read and understand our new constitution and don't want to hear any more politician's spin on it.' As I understand it, Kenyans have 30 days to gather their thoughts then present their views and debate before it is passed as law.

p.p.s. Just read in the Standard that Nicholas Cage has been in Kenya touring a Mombasa prison, Shimo la Tewa. Will I ever see these celebs - am sure I have a secret calling to be a pap photographer!

It's a fair cop

I was having a quick word on my mobile phone to my Mother-in-law on Friday. She was waiting for me at school and I was driving to meet her. Sadly my hands free mobile phone kit is not working (and has not been for the best part of a year).

I generally know where the traffic cops hang out, but on Friday they surprised me. On that day there were banks of cops all over Dagoretti corner. As I approached the roundabout, one traffic police spotted me on the phone and pointed (probably excited), gesturing for me to pull over. I immediately dropped my phone into my lap. My mother-in-law heard me say distantly - 'OH God'. My four year old from the back said, 'what's the matter mummy?' 'Nothing Darling' I said.

I was in a rush and in no mood to be arrested. I had ten minutes to get to assembly. I've been arrested once before for talking on my phone, it was just after the new law was introduced and I had to admit that it was a fair cop, but there was no way of getting out of it. I ended up driving the police officer to the police station and hanging there for the best part of three hours as everybody studiously ignored me and refused to tell me what was going on. It was only when a nice CID woman officer turned up that I was released with a caution.

I didn't fancy repeating this experience so this time, Thelma and Louise style, I swerved around the policeman, driving up onto the curb, past the policeman's colleagues, round a small pick up van via the dirt verge, onto the roundabout without stopping and on my way round, I clocked a second policewoman on the other side of the roundabout who was interrogating a van driver and sped past her.

Once home free I looked in my rear view mirror. A line of three cops were looking, waving and pointing at my car. The decision to just put my foot down was based on the fact that I've seen this done before elsewhere in Nairobi and it actually seems to work.

I figured that there might be more cops at the next crossroads - and in case the Dagoretti Corner ones had radioed my number plate ahead, I decided to take a short cut down a dirt road and to avoid them too.

When my daughter said, 'what's wrong' a second time I said, 'well I'm feeling stressed because I've just dodged the police as they were going to arrest me for talking on my phone ..... and we're also late for Granny.'

By the time I reached school I was a sweaty mess, adrenaline pumping. Fortunately I had the whole of assembly to sit quietly and recover myself. Later I hung about drinking tea at school until a friend (with a hands free kit in her car) let me know that the police on Dagoretti corner had gone. I then felt confident enough to go home. I wonder if they'll get me this friday?

Once, driving along the Naivasha road with a girl friend and three children on our way to a school match, I stopped a couple hundred metres from a police road block in order to adjust a child's car seat/seatbelt. I thought this was a safe place to pull over as it was a busy main road and traffic was slowing there anyway.

What should happen but a surly traffic policeman decided to take advantage of my stupidity and stroll over to interrogate me. He asked whether I had the correct licence, fire extinguisher, safety triangles in the vehicle. I had everything with me, pulled everything out so he hadn't much to go on - until he saw my slightly tatty driving licence that I pulled from my wallet and said 'this is Government property - it has been abused!' He then did that usual thing of pocketing my licence it so that I couldn't leave and had to sit there like a lemon, totally at his mercy.

The policeman made out that he was going to arrest me on the basis of a scruffy driver's licence. I found it hard to contain my temper, but just about managed it. It was only when I asked for the man's police number that he started back tracking.
First he said,
'What number is this you are talking about? My phone number? What is this?'

'No' I said, 'Your police number - so that I can report this to your superiors.'

Finally he threw my licence back in through the window,

'Just go.' he said.

I do worry about my new lawless streak - but I ask you? What to do.

Phew - the party's over

Since my middle daughter went off to big school in September knowing absolutely nobody in her year group, I wanted to get lots of kids over for her seventh birthday to sort of launch her socially, get her on the map – as a sort of ‘debut’ if you will - her being the debutante of course.
As the invitations went out a week ahead of time, my daughter endured seven days of ‘why haven’t you invited me!?’ from the boys, followed by, ‘I am definitely not going to invite you to my party now!’ – but inviting the whole year group would have meant 40 kids, so I had made the executive decision on all girls. As it was, we ended up with 22 kids, which was more than enough.

Last week things were not looking good. When I rang the usual party entertainer/magic man/clown he said that I was too late, he was already fully booked. In a flash of inspiration I remembered that the grounds-man at the kindergarten had pressed a DIY business card into my hand at the end of last term, saying ‘I am branching out into party entertainment in my spare time’. A bonus was that my daughter knew him well, as last year he sometimes helped out with football training, so when I asked him and he said he was free – it was a done deal.

Alarm bells started to ring when later I asked,
‘what do you think you will bring, what games shall we do? What can I provide by way of props?’
and he said, ‘I think I am going to think of some very good games for you.....’
Our conversation sort of trailed off after that. I didn’t ask, but it was dawning on me that this might have been his first ever party booking.

~

Having only just been thrown together in September, the 22 party guests were not really what you might describe as ‘friends’. The beginning of the afternoon was pretty awkward as the children failed to bond. One six year old girl arrived from the car park talking on the phone to her Mum with an ayah trailing behind.

‘Mummy – I don’t want to stay here’ she was saying, shaking her head. I could hear the mum on the other end of the line saying, ‘give it five minutes’.

We kicked off with ‘make your own party hat, painting, sticking and gluing’, but as some kids lost interest and began to torment the guinea pig and baby tortoises, I gestured frantically at our ‘entertainer’ to please leap into action.

He managed to get some girls to agree to play a game, so relieved; I rushed inside to help with the mass production of homemade pizza going on in the kitchen. When I emerged the girls were balled up on the ground, screaming, pulling hair and trying to grapple a single football from one another in a sort of impromptu rugby scrum. The ‘entertainer’ was blowing his not very loud whistle ineffectively.

‘Stop stop!’ I shouted, adding diplomatically ‘Not this game I think!’

A couple of mums were on our veranda and four ayahs were sitting with legs straight out on rugs on the lawn. All had decided to stay and literally sit the 4 hour party out, so under their watchful gaze I had to try to keep my cool.

‘Something else?’ I implored then handed the party games man a bag of sweets for prizes which helped on the old enticement side, unless of course he put the bag down and then another rugby scrum ensued for free sweets.

I must admit, after a shaky start, the entertainer saved us. When I spotted my husband reclining, relaxed on a director’s chair, I hissed pointedly, ‘he’s doing your job!’ but then looked on pleased as our party guy finally got the girls sitting in a circle playing ‘duck, duck, goose’, which was much better. A few kids carried on sticking and painting all afternoon. I later got covered in paint while stapling the globby hats together, but that worked out well. The kids all had lunch on laps on the grass.

Later, (before popping out to buy paper plates) my husband put on a ‘wear –em out’ treasure hunt that involved lots of running, a drinks break and getting scratched by thorns as my husband guided them around while riding his bicycle. One girl, however, I could not coax off the tyre swing to participate.

‘There’s real treasure at the end!’ I promised in my most exciting voice.

‘Oh, I’ve got loads of that Nakumatt chocolate money at home,’ she said.

There was a lot of clock watching on my part (only 3 more hours, 2 more hours, one and a half, three quarters of an hour etc.). Grandad did the barbeque before trying to slope off for a snooze (only sadly for him the dogs were locked in the spare bedroom and they were whining and scratching to get out) and Granny iced fairy cakes, cut slices of pizza and worked like a Trojan all afternoon.

At one point I walked out to give our gardener a plate of pizza and sausages to find the parking area full of drivers snoozing in their vehicles (at least six). All you could see were pairs of socks sticking out of rolled down windows. I rushed back inside and found pizza for them all too, which they quickly roused from their slumber to gratefully receive.

The cake turned out OK, but working with those homemade melted chocolate butterflies was a trial, plus I didn’t mean for it to be quite such a Calpol pink, but my hand slipped with the red colouring.

In the end there were JUST enough party bags handed out importantly by my four year old.

We then collapsed in a heap. I sort of spoiled it by saying to the birthday girl at bedtime, ‘that’s the last big party I’m doing!’ as she whinged for the millionth time about having collected a thorn in her foot on the treasure hunt. Oh dear. Nobody’s perfect.

Without advance notice, my husband went ahead and bought the birthday girl a full size set of drums - which has been a big hit - and perhaps not something I would have chosen.

Yesterday my husband and I had the lovely job of clearing the blocked downstairs loo.

(p.s. since my parents-in-law got back from a trip visiting friends there was a terrible smell in their bathroom. There had been a lot of soul searching on the matter, but just last night my MIL found a dead gecko nestled in the spare loo roll basket, which was definitely the culprit.)

Childrens birthday parties

Have been up to my elbows in cake mixture for the past two days for my daughter's birthday party tomorrow. First I scoured the shops for the excellent Betty Crocker cake mix and only found a rather revolting looking alternative called 'Magic Time'. There's also no fondant icing around or anything by way of fun decorations.

Anyway - I am have been forced to fall back on my own shaky skills and once again try baking myself. By some miracle, the results (so far) have been satisfactory. Usually my fairy cakes explode and big cakes flop. My daughter wants a no 7 cake with butterflies, so this time I need the sponge to rise straight and flat...

Party bags - tick. Party games - to devise. Treasure hunt - to devise. Icing of fairy cake and birthday cake - to do. Wrapping presents - to do. Lunch for 20 little girls - to do. Beers - to buy.

What am I doing blogging. The trials and tribulations of housewifedom! It's my husband's fortieth in Feb - there's no help for me!

In other news...

Ocampo came from the International Criminal Court last week and said he would move with speed to try those guilty of perpetrating 2007/8 post-election violence because he wanted to try to end the current culture of impunity that exists in advance of the 2012 election.

As far as I can make out, everybody was very nice to him when he visited. He even got to adopt and stroke a cheetah. After shaking hands with Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki they agreed to arrest and send ‘two or three’ key perpetrators of post election violence his way on completion of investigations due to begin in December. The guilty parties are to be tried either in the Hague, or Arusha or somewhere else. Ruto bleeted in the press that people should stop focussing on this subject, Uhuru Kenyatta stayed silent.

Monday’s headline hinted at an about-turn. Surprise, surprise, Kenya’s leaders, having been gung-ho while Ocampo was here, have mulled things over the weekend and are now being very cagey about whether they will in fact undertake any arrests or allow anyone to be sent to The Hague or ICC at all. After my initial excitement that justice might be served, I now feel a yawn coming on.

Amos Wako, Attorney General is still fuming and whining about being barred entry to the US. Today, civil society is beginning to question why he has been in the same job for 18 years straight (rather than a more usual 5 year stint) and also drawing attention to the fact that there was supposed to be a stated age limit in the Constitution for the guy that holds the job.

We also went to a Born Free fund raising dinner and auction to finish off the fibre glass painted Lion project, in aid of Lion conservation. The evening comprised 99.9% speeches, MC-ing and a lion auction (x50 lots in all) that trailed on until after 1am! There was no escaping it. The order of events was printed on a card. Unable to talk much over the tanoy, I ticked off speeches and lots item by item as we went along, the assistant minister of this, the head of KWS, Virginia Mckenna of the film ‘Born Free’ fame (circa 1954?) and founder of the charity. The people sitting on my left and right got thoroughly bored of me. Although the auction was lively and my friend sold her lion for a whopping price which was a brilliant success, my bum was numb after sitting, rooted to the spot for five hours of micro-phone monologues without pause for breath. Even the delicious vegetarian meal did not console me. Hoodwinked by the fundraising machine, a chance to make use of that dance floor or chat amongst ourselves would have been nice for the eye watering price of those tickets. My husband successfully bidded on a de-snaring excursion with KWS rangers at some time in the future - he is extremely excited at the prospect.

Lastly was Sunday’s Remembrance service at the War Memorial, Jamhuri Park. Thank goodness it was dry and sunny. Last year it was heartbreaking to see those painfully thin old Kenyan war veterans with their medals and fly whisks getting soaked to the skin. The highlight for me is always the smart brass band wearing red coats and Colobus Monkey hats and also prayers by representatives of a broad spectrum of religions including Catholic, Sikh and Buddhist monk.

Two bonfire night parties

As a family, we went to two very different bonfire nights last week.

The first was a truly KC event (Kenya Cowboys only) at the Karen Club. Although the vast majority of the club’s members are black Kenyan, in an act of self segregation that is typical in Karen only the expat/KC firework enthusiasts seem to go down to the golf course to drink beer and wine, eat hot dogs and watch the display. Thinking about it, on this occasion, it may be because the former group have more sense. The event is open for non-members too and there’s a cash bar.

I must admit, I enjoy bonfires and fireworks as much as the next person but it’s always terrifying when darkness falls. Initially you are enjoying chatting with friends, vaguely aware that small boys letting off bangers off to one side, but safe in the knowledge that you can see where your kids are. Others wave sparklers haphazardly, some are kids as young as two and there is every chance that their parents may not be looking. Once it’s dark, all bets are off. Kids disappear, melding into the crowd or behind trees. There was a falling over adult marching toward the roped off bonfire with a spliff hanging out of his mouth who was lighting his own fireworks, accompanied by a circle of kids aged 7 and under like the pied piper. Thankfully he was reprimanded by management who said something about liability insurance, but not before one of his fireworks fell over and shot off horizontally into the crowd. It’s a combination of so stressful, but sort of fun because the kids love it and we like chatting to old friends, but again sort of too stressful for words. Most people cope by drinking too much. At the end, my daughter told me one boy was rushed off to hospital when a banger exploded in his face. I must vow not to go next year, but to be honest, not sure if I’ll be able to resist, it's sort of addictive.

The second bonfire night was a charity fundraiser organised by the kids' school with fancy dress, henna painting, coconut shy etc. An altogether more multi-cultural/multi-racial (loads of everybody mixed up - as long as they could afford the 600/- to get in) affair and very civilised (ie no bangers and sparklers allowed). The event is always very popular. Parents volunteer to help and I usually find myself up to my elbows in the bran tub, taking indecent amounts of cash-money from primary school age kids. It falls to the poor teachers’ man the raffle, the bar, the car park and the sale of food and drinks vouchers out of the pure kindness of their hearts. There are thoughtfully located rubbish bins lots of grounds men and security staff and bucket loads of safe/controlled fun had by all.

As far as the lucky dip is concerned, most of the hundreds of kids were searching for that elusive and much talked-up mobile phone that is hidden inside (in fact there were two), but end up with a free tube of Colgate toothpaste and a brush. As bran tub adult you then have to micro manage their disappointment or else resist the temptation to steer them toward a more promisingly shaped parcel. My nine year old daughter really wanted the phone but only because I’ve officially banned her from having one. She got toothpaste.

The first girl who actually won the phone told me later that she planned to sell it for profit, the second was only six years old and looked entirely non-plused by the boring looking box.
'Quick, take it straight to your parents' the lady on that particular shift encouraged her.

A highlight for me (and my ego) was being tracked down by an ‘Expat Wife’ reader who said she identified me through a friend.
‘Whenever you have a bake sale, I have a bake sale – I knew you must be a parent here!’ she said. I was chuffed to bits!

My poor parents-in-law got roped in to man my husband’s stand all night. Head torch and glass of red wine in hand. They’d only got off the plane from England the day before! Scrupulously fair, they managed the queue and charged both our daughters’ full whack for a ride in their Dad’s car.

Another big firework display is held at the Muthaiga Club but I can't comment on that one, as I've never been.

Avoid the Stereotypes....

Somebody, 'Anonymous' sent me via comments, a link to a brilliant tongue-in-cheek article by Binyavanga Wainaina entitled 'How to write about Africa.'

http://www.granta.com/Magazine/92/How-to-Write-about-Africa/Page-1

His beef is how writers over-generalise way too much when writing about 'Africa' in broad, sweeping, dramatic terms. Although I enjoyed the article - it made me laugh - I still haven't forgiven him for being SO MEAN TO ME - when I signed up to do a writing course with him in Nairobi a couple of years ago. I do feel privileged that I got the opportunity, but at the time I felt like the worst sort of uninvited guest at the party.

We were a group of twelve or so would be writers, some students, some adults, two ex-headmasters - and I was the only mzungu which was fine by me, but I suspect, not my tutor. Here was Binyavanga, trying to raise the bar of Kenyan writing and there was this silly, bored English expat housewife in the midst of it all. He didn't try hard to hide his displeasure - but I stuck it out every day for a week - and am almost..... over the experienced of being dismissed, ignored, passed over and barely tolerated. I actually learnt a lot, and probably it was good for me. Even though I suspect he had me down as one of those stereotypes that he was so keen for everybody to avoid.

Anyway, the reason I started this blog three years ago was because I wanted it to be hopefully a bit different from the way foreigners generally write about 'Africa' and give a more realistic, honest picture of day-to-day expat life, just to throw into the mix of everybody else's blurb and points of view. Visitors still come to Kenya or Tanzania or wherever today and say that they want to see 'the Real Africa' - what the hell is that? What exactly do they expect?

Kuki Gallman, bless her, is the worst culprit I've come across. When I read her book ten years ago, every word of her 'I dreamed up Africa' - with all its; 'I felt I was finally home' - 'the Swahili flowed naturally' and 'like me he was intelligent, fascinating, alluring'.. all conspired to drive me nuts - though I must admit, I toughed it out to the end. 'Rules of the Wild' is another - though I do really admire anyone who can spit out a book and get it published - perhaps there's a hint of sour grapes here. If so, I apologise.

From the Granta Magazine article, I followed another link. It's a video clip of Nigerian woman author Chimamanda Adichie talking about preconceptions and generalisations in writing. It was really well delivered, honest, thought provoking and v. much worth a 5 min watch.

http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html

I think her message was - let's all tell our own stories, especially from Africa, then when everybody is done and there are so many out there, there will be no more tempting generalisations and people will finally see the colourful, vibrant diversity of a continent rather than an amorphous whole.

That was it - literally!

I went to watch the Michael Jackson movie on Saturday – on my own! It was the first time I’ve gone to the cinema on my own before. It felt a bit odd, but what happened was, I was about to drag the whole family with me, when it suddenly dawned – they weren’t remotely interested. Even the prospect of looking after and bathing three children appealed to my husband more than this particular flick. So off I trotted, hugging myself at my coup of ditching the family, having arranged to meet for pizza later and then on to two hours of uninterrupted Wako Jacko. If you’re not a fan, probably best you don’t read on or you might vomit...

For the first fifteen minutes I must admit, I felt like crying. A hard old cow in real life, I always, unexpectedly, find myself crying in films. I think I was caught off guard as I hadn’t expected to see Michael Jackson still being so utterly brilliant.

We’ve been reading so many stories in the press about how the tour would never have happened, that he wasn’t rehearsing, he was ill, that he couldn’t dance any more. In fact he was far from washed up at this point. The reality was that yes, he was so painfully thin that his hands and feet looked huge, and his clothes hung off him but also there was still the incredible voice and tons wonderful and entirely improvised dance moves, all of our favourites. His dancing was the best and brought tears to my eyes (non-jacko fans – I did warn you!). I even found myself digging his odd fashion style, layered shirts over t-shirts, funky jackets, big slip-on shoes (OK the silver jacket and skinny red jean combo was well dodgy) but he carried it all off – odd, distorted plastic surgery face or no. In the movie he looked less odd than in the images we’ve seen in paparazzi photos of late. Having said that I did find myself wondering if indeed his nose was fake (there was that rumour that in the morgue he didn’t have one). I took note that when he sung the words, ‘Did you ever stop to notice...?’ he was actually saying, ‘dotice’ but I couldn’t believe that his nose might have been detachable.

The movie showed that in the rehearsal auditorium, the show’s crew gave him a standing ovation time and time again. Michael Jackson was a joy to watch, encouraging everybody else around him to do their best. Also an incredible solo performer. I was impressed by how involved he was in all the details, the music, special effects, dancer’s moves - tweaking things slightly to get them to have maximum dramatic effect. It seemed he was fully committed to doing those shows and the fact he never got the chance was a tragedy – though I do wonder if he would ever have really managed 50 dates. Unlikely. It was sad he has been in retirement for the last ten years because, frankly, we all forgot how good he was.

My own small disappointment that he never embarked on a tour that I would never in a million years would have seen, must be a tiny, tiny glimpse into what the show’s producers and performers must have felt. I guess they locked themselves in their rooms and cried for a week. The dancers, technicians and musicians were all huge Jackson fans who felt they were being given the chance of a lifetime. The costumes (Swarovski crystal encrusted suits etc) and special effects would have been legendary. The film gave us an idea of what we missed out on. Hey Ho. At least he died during a time when he was busy doing something he loved.