Yeah, yeah, yeah, I love Nairobi. And Kenya. Yay for Maasais and Sonford and Harambee. In fact, my last post was all about how awesome Nairobi is, and how it is me.

I’m still gonna move, though.

This city, like the person I am, has a lot of ugliness in it. Now, while I can take my own ugliness (much like you can wipe your own arse after you take a dump, because it’s YOURS), I can’t take Nairobi’s. I’M NOT YOUR NURSE, DAMNIT! YOU’RE NOT SENILE! It’s the little things that make our already complicated relationship a null and void one.

Today, I was in a matatu. (SURPRISE!!) Ah, matatus. The bane of my poetic existence. I hate them, but I love them. Their beautiful disorganization thrills me, and then kills every fibre in my being (except the ones in my fingers, apparently). I love that I can get a jav anywhere. I hate that they can decide to drop me anywhere, especially NOT my destination. I hate sharing seats (which @brendawambui inspired me to not do anymore, but I get dirty looks all the freaking time! Man, if I had telepathic/telekinesis powers, or just something that could shrink balls with a look…the Ballinator. Yeah. I can see my underwear costume now, fighting crime beside Batman, because you know it would be Batman, who would secretly be scared of me, because…well, duh. Then we could…ok, back to the story.), but I love how they drive on the sidewalk and you feel like you could possibly be canoodling with death as you hang on for dear life (and wish you were a superhero. Yes, yes, we ARE back to that).

As I was leaving the matatu (after sharing a seat with the lovely @C_Leo_Patra), SOMETHING stabbed my shin. Not the nice are-you-just-happy-to-see-me kind of stabs. The I’m-going-to-rob-you-blind kind of stabs. Only it was a chunk of metal, looking like it was trying to wrestle my shin. It won. The gougefest was a bloody, gory one, and it left with enough of my skin to make sijui a humanskin coat. Or shoes. Or a bag. An entire pimp outfit, damnit. This, as you can imagine, is highly uncomfortable in skinny jeans.

Ok, it wasn’t bloody. But there WAS blood. And I was pissed enough to mutter “Fuck!” as I left the battle scene (I’m that passive aggressive. I only muttered. Like Muttley. I’m so ashamed.). Either way, as Sparta does not exist, I’m moving to the nearest closest thing: Rwanda. It’s run by a Spartan. Good enough for me.

AUU!

tSN

p.s. Also, I want to live in a country where I can sue the wankers for violation of safety rules. That CAN’T be safe. By Jove, I could be so. Freakin. Rich. Then I could retire, and REALLY work on my costume/BALLMOBILE.