Today,I came to a scary realization about my humanity and abject passive aggression.
I was sitting – ok,am sitting – in a jav on my way home. The condi kept stopping for more people. Even when there were 4 or 5 people on every row but my row,he would still stop. This irritated me to no end.
As I will do in such situations,I began to imagine what I would do if he put someone else in my row. What I would say,in the exact sheng I would say it. Because of the way I speak,my swa is often not taken seriously,and thus diction is often my saving factor. Actually not really. Sometimes,I WISH I could just yell at them in my slightly accented speech and have them fully understand the impact of and fury behind my insults. Because boy,is there a lot of fury.
I envisioned myself causing. I envisioned the conductor mocking me and ignoring me as I asked for the half price of my seat,seeing as I was now sharing it. I saw him laughing at me,pulling the ‘Sasa ni nini na huyu mwanamke’,as if my sex was a valid excuse for his stupidity…for a quick moment,my imagination was so well crafted that I felt despair for my sex. (my imagination is slightly dramatic,yet still it exists,and still I blog) I felt helpless.
Why is it that some men cannot take you seriously unless you are a man? Unless I speak the language of the penis or the fist,my word is on an even lower level than a politician’s promise. Or at least,sometimes that’s how I feel. Let the men talk,dear. pats head I felt discarded. Disregarded,though nothing had even happened. Yet. But you see,something always happens. Eventually. I felt frustration at this system that led me to this matatu.
In my head I saw myself protesting,demanding my money back and then getting off the matatu. I saw the conductor reaching out and grabbing my behind in a lewd gesture of disrespect and perversion (I mean, it’s different in the club. Ha. No it’s not. It really isn’t). In my vision,the outcome went two ways. I whirled around,angry,but unable to defend myself,trammeled by bonds of fear by his reaction,always scared that whatever I could do to him,he could hurt me much,much worse. The matatu would speed off laughing at my idiocy.
Or I could step out and calmly pull a purse sized pistol from my – well,purse. I would aim it at the dead centre of his forehead. I would cock it. The matatu would go quiet and he would plead with me to show him the milk of human kindness,none of which he showed me. I would contemplate this,then make him apologise for being inappropriate; make him swear never to do this to any woman again. Put the fear of woman in him so badly that his balls would shrivel everytime he ever wanted to ever dare…he would stammer over the words,sweating and swearing profusely. I would show him mercy and walk away. And one man would have changed. I would be a modern day Walker Texas Ranger.
This is Kenya. If the second scenario happened, he would hunt me down and slaughter me,with his cronies having their way with me before I started walking to the light at the end of the tunnel. I like to think I would blast off a few prostates in the process,though,Sin City style. But I’m no Batman,no masked,untraceable vigilante of the night. I’m only human. But if I had a gun…would that even the playing field? And doesn’t everyone who is carrying a gun think they’re ‘right?’ Think they’ll only take it out to scare,not scar? Doesn’t absolute power over life and death absolutely corrupt?
Some people think these things and never say it. Some people say it – or blog it – and never do it. Some people think it, say it,then one day they snap and DO it. The line is thin.
Also,possibly,I’ve been watching too much Revenge.
p. s. Lqtm. At the bottom of this,it says, ‘Give labels for this post,e.g. scooter,vacation,fall.’