THE DAMSEL.

When she walks in, she has to bend slightly by the entrance door. Stoop, if you will. Or anything that an Ostrich would do getting through human-'measured' doors. She is that tall. Like Naomi. Or Tyra. If you don't know who those are, please go read some politics somewhere. Hatuko hapa juu yako.

The way she strutted along the array of tables, beautifully arranged, that Tsavo peacock you keep praising would have had nothing on her. Her head seemed to be floating, carried along by an invisible pole. Her face is expressionless. I guess all that make-up has wiped off all her facial expressions, my kimeru mind deducts. Sometimes I pity my Kimeru mind. It's thinking that her real face may be smiling, but the make-up one looking like Laila Ali's, on title defence morning. 

As our damsel floats on, you wouldn't know if she was impressed by her surroundings or just outright irked. She sweeps her eyes around, absorbing the sea of humanity, who's attention is now firmly rooted on her. It's the reason she's here anyway...the collective attention.

One of the Governors drops his glass of champagne from of God--knows-where, and there's no earthquake to blame it on. Wow. Wow, because you just have to admire the she timed her entrance. This chic walked in, even after all those who rode on all those motorcades, had sat down....a dignitary-aide's worst nightmare, cos the boss might just ask for her number na hauna. Taabu hii. Careers are on the line, and there's nothing like like the sight of twenty 'aides', each representating their boss, now at this strange damsel's fingertips, each trying to save their careers.

But she hasn't even finished her entrance yet. Her high-heels are sinking in with every step, because its been raining and water has found its way inside this huge, dignitary-filled tent. Don't ask me what i was doing inside a tent, with all these tables beautifully arranged. Hiyo itakuwa kazi mbaya...even I, may not know. 

But when she pulls out her heels off the wet ground with each step, she has to make this slight jump to pull them out, and all her accessories have to literally clap in unison...the jewellery, the 'unsecured' K.C.C, and the even more unsecured 'sitting allowance'. And I wished she could just keep doing that for eternity. But I can't stop my Kimeru mind from deducting that she really must come from Hawaii. See, all the movies on Hawaii that they've let us see so far in Meru, are on near-naked, beautiful, flawless humans on even more beautiful beaches. Not a single beggar, not a single poor bloke.....i must go to Hawaii.

Dancers...

The traditional dancers who came in before her, wore stuff that produced that same clapping and clamping sound that her modern attire is now producing. And I feel today, tradition and modernity is agreeing on something for once. See, there's a time, when they hadn't discovered all the clothing, that they wore everything. Now, they've discovered all the clothing, and they are wearing nothing. Tragic.

Human Bulb

She's shining all over. The clothes, that is. Shining brighter than the lights up in the tent's 'ceiling'. At some point i thought she looked like the International Space Center.Hii Umeru itaniua,haki ya nani. 

Then, half way down the tables, she stops.  Allher accessories protest at this sudden stopping of movement and they clang and clatter some more.  If you've worked in some mhindi cup-producing plant, then there's a sudden power blackout, that sound of machines screeching to a halt, take it and bring it here. Then she swings her eyes around, as if in search of someone to torture, and everyone is looking down with every direct stare. Then her gaze finally swings to my direction. I want to hide but that's like hiding from a giraffe in a grassland. I'm thinking...if she's been reading my thoughts all along, then my day with my maker may have just arrived. They weren't very nice thoghtst. I breath in hard, for she has started this forward motion toward me, sweeping all aside. Behind her you will find napkins and table-cloths, traces of mercury and all. She's in this gown that seems to be mildly magnetic, and is attracting stuff on it, only to release them after a few seconds. Being dressed for the occasion,she has this huge ribbon running across her shoulders to the waist, and which announces to all who she really is. She's some beauty pageant winner, something i know nothing about......

 

Be right back..

I breath a sigh of relief when she veers off my path, and heads off to this table occupied by these black men with curly-kit hair, and who speak like a million throat infections rolled into one. And who's description will not be expounded further, for my own, and others security reasons. And these men, having had earlier been frisked, and ascertained to be posing no immediate physical danger to anyone, offer our queen a seat, and she takes it with glee. Only doing so, i felt she's swang her midriff a wee too much, like its about to move out of place. Or like its where our eyes should be fixated on. But my other mind reminds me of my only business here, which is to mind no business.  

Then these dudes embark on this barrage of their strange language that no one can understand if you ask me. But because you haven't, we'll leave it at that. Even they.

This doesn't bother our damsel one single bit, because even though they are obviously talking about her, she understands not a single word, so that's their problem, not hers. Then the waiter shows up, and the damsel will not place her order, without first studying him from head to toe.Think of it as a grown Jewish man, being stripped naked by a lady Nazi SS Officer, at the gas chambers entrance at Auschwitz. See, the fela's shoes had definitely seen better days, and trust me there's nothing as degrading as a lady staring down at your torn shoes. It feels like a crocodile staring at you, as bathe naked in some river. It's the one flaw that you have, and is privately aware of, but can do nothing about, because of 'torn pockets'. You want these people to look elsewhere but the Damsel would rather pull everyone's attention to the one flaw you'd rather hide. My friend, the world is made up of unkind people, and you're realizing it the hard way.

To proof my point,....a waiter is required by law to, instead of shooting the Nairobi middle-class brood when they come for holiday, he must smile and pretend to love their drunken antics and jokes. So our waiter is fried, and social media will certainly not be on his side if this chic posts his photo online. And data-fed middle class will rush to her defence, and condemnation emojis will overpower the National Security traffic for a day. 

The damsel proceeds to place an order, after half an hour of scorning the menu material. And when she finally does it, the disgtuntled but smiling waiter leaves, butbut  can see smoke bellowing out of his ears even though on his face.

It would be another ten minutes before the waiter returns. He's shocked to find an empty seat. The men with the strange language are too engrossed in their hearty conversation to be of much help. See the damsel, immediately after placing the order, rose and strutted to another table, half a mile away, eyes firmly rooted at the dais. The waiter is searching frantically around for her, then spots the obvious give-away that would direct a blind hippo to you;- The shiny attire. Carrying his overloaded tray, he heads to her new location and places his load on her table. Just then, another waiter shows up and places his own load on the exact table.bApparently, The damsel, in her impatience, sent two waiters, though with different orders. Now sitting in front of her, is this huge party, not a meal. And when you look at her size, the irony sinks in. Modelling must be a costly business. Taabu hii...

There is a sharp bone protruding from her back, just below the shoulders. She's skinnier than skinny. Her skin seems to be the only thing that's holding her bones in place. Yet her one chance of putting on some weight is sitting right in front of her, and shes letting it pass. One false move and she would disintegrate into a million pieces of beauty pageants. But its her turn now, to wish attention away. She pretends to type away on her large gadget, (Again, hii Umeru itaniua), but even if you don't know what it is, you can tell its clearly off. But as she 'types' frantically on it,  like her life depends on it, you can almost read the words 'Baibe, uko waapy, wananicheki vybaya, come lock them up, from a million miles away. 

Both waiters stay put.  Eachone is trying his own 'karibu chakula dada', but the damsel may have turned deaf, for she pays them no attention.

When she finally raise her head to them, it's like her Majesty the Queen of Mongolia. Then she looks at the party before her, inwardly salivating. But you are not allowed to consume unhealthy foods, if you want to remain a 'queen' in the Modelling business. The other guests must be crazy, according to her, for looking around, everyone seem to be enjoying the hearty meal. To her, if the Cosmopolitan Magazine says African food is awful and unhealthy, a 'queen' worth her salt would be best advised to believe it. So she waves the food away, with a scorn on her face,bbut not before nibbling on each plate,bas if to ensure nobody else will touch it after she is through. 

She's been on this table for ten minutes flat, by which time she's managed to irritate all and sundry. Reminding me of the day 'Miss Kenya' showed up at the site of a collapsed flat, with flowers and high heels. As others were using bare hands to move blocks of concrete and steel away, she posed for cameras, with the collapsed site and crying family members as her background. She may have had compassion on the families trapped under the rubble. But you couldn't have told that from the flowers and the high heels. She was the most unwelcome sight on site, and the most useless as well, under the circumstances.

The damsel gets on her feet. The clatter and clang follow suit. Her heels are inches deep in this soft ground. She pulls her leg up forcefully, so that the other one sinks even deeper. Then she repeats the motion over and over again, all the way to the entrance, by which time the other guest have started clapping for her ironically, for having successfully navigated through the most difficult lunch of her entire life. Hii Umeru, kweli itatuua.

Thumps up to the Beauty Queen.