Ever wondered why when you make eye contact with people especially in Britain, they smile at you? Well, it is because of culture. After 4 years of research, I am pleased to announce the results of my findings on this experiment. A lot of energy went into it including reverse psychology. This finding has prompted a new research into the reasons that make me ‘normal’. Well, you may think I am by default normal, but I am actually very normal.

In my previous life, I was a prince – but no one knows this, so don’t tell anyone. The few who may know probably can’t recognise me and I am not fazed, I am not dazed, I am not hazed. Being underrated is a very familiar position and very comfortable for that matter. There is a lot of fuss around, much of which I like diving into. But when I want my sleep, my whatever-my-favourite-food-is, my football, my Southern Comfort (you didn’t see this coming, did you?), my woman (laugh out loud, in fact, choke on a bar of chocolate), my poetry, my puzzles, my music and last and least (don’t tell her), my mother, I cannot stomach the weight of a pregnant world hurling verbals at me or breathing their breaths onto, or worse, into me. At such times of my life-cycle, I like to just exist and I am very sure I can just exist. You can call me a larva if your former Biology teacher has a money-back guarantee on your school fees (read this as, they did a good job).

Being very normal requires that you often use brackets to synthesize information for your audience. Sometimes it even prompts an ‘open bracket’ and a ‘close bracket’ during conversations with the wide world, something that actually is part of me by induction. It also helps you see that all women in the world are very beautiful. Like the three seated to my left as I write this. Stunning! But the catch is that, you cannot recognise a single one out of all of them as being beautiful. Surely, if this is not a symptom of very-normalcy, nothing else is.At the same time, it also makes you see men as very handsome, while at the same time barring you from being gay. (Put exclamation here)

If there was a technical error in the human-making factory somewhere in Nirvana and I was fortunately born a woman, that would be the best thing to have happened to the world after the current me. The first item on my mind, right from emerging out of teenage (I guess it couldn’t happen earlier – am African mark you), would be to flaunt my backside. I am assuming I’d be having any although during the few times that I have caught myself noticing my fleshy vertebrate parts, I have reckoned that if my gender was any different, I’d be heavily endowed in that sector. So, I’d give people a 3D movie without the 3D glasses to compensate for my inability to see my nether-couple as often as I would (if they were in front of me, say). I’d make maximum use of tight dresses just for the heck of it. Having been a man (I think) in this life, I know the whistles that accompany a majestic her-majesty when she passes by with nicely shaped flesh swinging like a pendulum (see your Physics notes).

But I actually love people. I love people although it is not very clear that I can work with them, or them with me. I enjoy being hated because that is the only way of getting some enemies on board. The thinking here is that the people who love me actually hate me, or worse still, they don’t know why they love me. I can assure you the feeling of being hated by a person who loves you is much worse than that of being hated by people who actually hate you. Being the person who looks at the problem and possible solutions, I can extrapolate that the best solution here is to get as many people hating me as I possibly can. Very normal that.

Yesterday I met a lady who smiled at me for about a mile before we actually met. My visibility is like 5 Metres but I could feel the smile. And I really was tired of smiling and so I wasn’t gonna do my usual snap smile. It didn’t work. Arousing is the word. Her very normal height, her shapely chin, her gibbous smile, her fibrous hair and least, her half-brushed teeth forced a genuine smile out of me. In fact, for some moment, I forgot about the Rubik’c cube I was trying to solve (actually unsolve) and looked over my shoulder to return the ‘hi’ she had propagated my way without my immediate notice.

Only if the rest of the world smiled at me… I would smile back, albeit at the feeble effort with which they may have afforded their teeth a wash.

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©Jamesy 03/12/2010

Once upon a time, there lived a man called Dr. Johann Ludwig Krapf,

Ludwig Krapf

a German in his own right but employed by the English to go to the Kenyan coast and translate the bible. Into Swahili. Such men as Johann brought to my forefathers what would later corrupt my authentic native tongue (or tongues) under the catalytic influence of Queen’s English. So the story goes.

I was born 141 years after Johann’s arrival, into a community of people wielding the Luhya language threateningly at me and speaking gibberish. Before I noticed it, I had been immersed into it and become a Luhya.

Then society brought the so called Swahili along, through interaction with those in my age boat, who could not make out a word I said nor I theirs. And so I learnt Swahili. But my dear mama, having gone through the centres established by Johann’s mates, commanded me to call her ‘mummy’ and also took me to a thing called ‘school’ where they tied another thing called ‘disk’ around my neck and forced me to speak ‘English’. You should not be surprised to hear that ‘disk’ was typically the skull of an animal, or in it’s absence, the largest born some scavengers could garner within the precincts of the so-called ‘school’. At least you are only reading this, I carried this thing as a necklace quite frequently for a few years.

Those days, they called me ‘Billy’, a short-form of ‘Jubilee’ which was my mom’s joke at her doing the Fergie time thing of ‘the match doesn’t end until we score’. So picture Billy carrying a kg of a stinking animal skull around his neck, with a dictionary of two pre-loaded languages inside him, and being forced to install yet another language – ‘English’.

I learnt, anyway. Going through those morning and evening strokes of the cane, crying my throat sore, hiding in a maize plantation on a few occasions to evade some strokes and other stuff that came along,…I made it. In fact, so good have I been that I can spell my name backwards while on a full tank of Bacardi (37.5%). I rest my case.

And so, my learning of English has not been a pleasant one. And to cap it all, the addition of German to make it 4 languages in one head isn’t something my neighbours in the Kingdom are used to doing.But I refuse to learn ‘Sign’ language  as a remedy for not being bothered to add to this, I must boast here, rather large dictionary of English language, different English accents to suit my listening audiences. I refuse on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday …trusting you to know the other days of the week and complete that would-otherwise-be-long sentence for me.

So when I speak, don’t ask me to talk in English, but rather, listen to the Queen’s English. Of course coming out of a head preloaded with Luhya and Swahili and infected with German.

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©Jamesy 27/11/2010