Talk less, listen more and buy her chocolate and flowers

I wrote a pretty awesome blog post on my other blog last night. For those not in the know, I had a pretty rough ride for the past couple of months, literally I mean. I believe bloggers and writers refer to it as a writers block but as I have always insisted, am not a writer nor a blogger but a story teller. That is why my stories tend to evolve a lot, I feel the need to sensitize points, and sometimes my blogger friends don't follow. I am sure at this particular point, most of you have already lost the plot (laughing at y'all in my head, blondes....hehehehehehe.....), so am going to back it up, a little.

I had a loss of words phace, a ''writers block'' if I may, and since I felt the need to keep you around, I decided to start this other blog (Uncle Serge), it's about conversations between me and my 8 year nephew. I posted last night, something about how to deal with women, and the lesson of the day was, talk less, listen more, buy her chocolate and flowers. When I re-read it, I thought about it a lot, because from past experiences these lessons have never really stuck. I know I should talk less, but I go ahead and talk a little more than I should, I will make promises that I might not fulfil and she will hold it against me for the rest of our relationship. I know I should listen more, but I sometimes listen to the cosmos and her voice feels like background music as you day dream, but you don't hear a thing. I don't know much about chocolate and flowers.

Talk less, listen more, buy her chocolate and flowers.

I maybe wrong, but let's test this theory.

Talk less:

As men, we are held to our word. Every word you utter is taken with the strength of your character. We would like to give our women all that they desire, and we try our best, sometimes we get there sometimes we don't. When we tell our women what we would love to do for them, we raise their expectations, we make promises under uncertain conditions, and if the situation goes south, we break it. As much as we wanted to keep the promise we find ourselves breaking it. Since your woman expected you to keep, trust gets scratched. Our words hurt us, if we talk, we commit ourselves and make our lives harder.

Listen more.

Women talk a lot, that's how we know how to treat them. A woman who loves books talks about books, a woman who talks about music is a lover of music, etcetera, etcetera. Women love different, they are choosy and specific, and they tell you every single time you are together. Problem is, they don't tell you in one word. When you listen to your woman, you get to know her, you get to know how to make her happy, how to fulfil her needs, how not to take her on drinking sprees with your friends, and so forth.

Buy her chocolate and flowers. This, I don't remember life teaching me much about it, all maybe I missed a couple of classes. However, based on heresy, women love chocolate and flowers.

The flip side. Men's stories are based on bruises in the battlefield, life isn't fun if we don't get in trouble. We are thirsty of acknowledgement as alpha, we don't get bruised easy. Some people will call it ego, others pride, and others will give it even bigger names woven around with scientific meaning. For me trouble is just fun, I don't need a reason to get in trouble, but most men do it for pride. Between ego and love, we choose ego until we are old enough to know how to follow the rules.

And now, as my nephew grows older, i will watch him get into trouble a little less than I did, because I've learnt.

Operation "Amani Ya Ghafla"

This is going to be short, as short a story as it can possibly be since the moral should not be lost in the details. I will start with the moral of this story if I may, peace in the house. The best gift you can give a man is peace in his house; the sacrifices he makes to accommodate a woman in his house should be reciprocated with peace at home.

This is a true story.

Sometime back, a policewoman was relieved off her duties for wearing the inner wears on the outer and vice versa. You see, in a broader sense, it would be her fault but we can credit a little fault in her mans pursuit of peace at home. This lady, let’s call her Joyce* was married to a very nice fella, let’s call him Paul*. Paul and Joyce had been married for a couple of years and Paul did his level best to keep his woman happy. He had come to accept that he was never right, he did not own the house or his pay slip, if he had a better day than his wife he never bragged about it and he had learnt to shut up even when he was right. He was a perfect husband in his opinion, and if I may throw in my two cents, I believe he gave up too much.

Joyce on the other hand loved chaos, she loved her tantrums so much and a day gone without one was considered a day lost in her books. She would complain whenever Paul went out for a drink with his boys and stayed out late, but staying in never guaranteed peace anyway. She would still find a reason to break glasses. Paul tried his level best to keep his cool, love his woman for better or for worse but peace he craved for, he dreamt big, dreamt because peace in his house was more of a dream and being the good husband that he was, he accepted that. At least until one day, that one day his need for peace overshadowed all else.

Paul was a social drinker, he consulted Mary Jane every once in a while. Those who knew him believed he stayed around for that long because even though they fought a lot, he was allowed to attend the sessions at Mary Jane’s therapy and spa. One Friday evening, he asked in group therapy for advice, peace mission in his house. Stoned heads come together in pursuit of peace.

“Operation Amani Ya Ghafla”

Come Saturday morning, Paul woke up earlier than the norm. He was not going to work, his wife was home too. He decided to make her breakfast in bed, a very noble idea. At this point, he wasn’t really sure if his idea was a mistake but the consequences at this point were outweighed by the benefits. Peace mission it was. He scrambled some eggs, threw in some bacon, spread some bread and made some coffee. The coffee was good, he knew it, he had made it some time back and liked it. The coffee had to work. He laced it with some wisdom, a little peace element, and a whole lot of love. Breakfast in bed it is.

Joyce loved the coffee, she loved it so much that he took a second cup, and a third too. It was relaxing, therapeutic too I must add. She was peaceful, smiling all morning, walking around the house with only her T-shirt on. She didn’t know what was happening but she liked the feeling, a sudden feel of peace had engulfed her.

10:00 a.m., a call on her cell came through, emergency at work. She took a quick shower, changed to her work clothes and rushed to the office. On arrival, her boss summoned her to the office.

Boss: Is everything okay ma’am?

Joyce: Yes Sir.

Boss: Are you sure?

Joyce: Yes sir.

Boss: Any trouble at home, or at work?

Joyce: No Sir.

Boss: Why is your petticoat worn on your skirt?

Joyce: (frozen, she checks herself out) Huh?

Joyce was the self conscious kind. She never made such kind of mistakes; she cared a lot about her appearances and was able, on a normal day, to talk herself out of most situations. But this was not a normal day, and this was not part of most situations.

Boss: Take some time off, and see a doctor. The good kind off doctor.

Cool Dreamer

Serge: Have I ever told you about my art dream.

Mj: A couple of times.

Serge: I talk about it a lot. I think I regret not following it the most.

Mj: What's up with you and art?

Serge: I don't really know......
But it feels like you really own something....
And you get to roll in paint....

Mj: You just want to roll in paint

Serge: Naaah, but rolling in paint is kinda cool.

Mj: It's the rolling in the paint.

Serge: But art is wide, I can be an artist of words, playing with nouns and verbs. Wordsmith.......

Mj: Yeah right...

Serge: You're such a pessimist, you don't think am good at anything...

Mj: Hehehe, it's nothing like that. Six years of therapy with me, I get to know you, I'll probably know you better than your wife if you ever get married, which am in doubt if you ever will marry.

Serge: Judgemental bitch.

Mj: Call me whatever the fuck you want but you know it's true.

Serge: And what makes you such an expert in me?

Mj: How long have you ever gone out with someone, except for me that is?

Serge: Like 3 years

Mj: That was an on off thing, and to be honest you guys almost only talked on the phone. I count that as not more than 9 months. Actually it's like 7 months, coz you once had like an years break.

Serge: It's 3 years in my book.

Mj: Okay whatever, how often do you change your priorities......aactually the question should be, what are your priorities?

Serge: Mj, don't do these...

Mj: My point is, you get bored quite fast. You don't stay in relationship for long, because you like a fire in it, and as soon as it cools down, you want to move on. Your priorities are defined by situations, and they change when the situation changes. You are always on the run, you want to do everything at the same time. Slow down hurricane.....

Serge: Hehehe, you just had to say that, and how is that connected to my art dream?

Mj: You don't see the trend here?

Serge: Not really

Mj: You can't stick to one thing, you are not patient enough to dream one dream. Plus you are more of a dreamer than a doer, you want to paint and you have never even bought a single painting tool.

Serge: There is that.

Mj: You are lazy too...

Serge: that too

Mj: You procrastinate a lot

Serge: Okay, okay, I get it....am a dreamer.

Mj: Not that I mind....

Serge: Yeah, you just like hanging out with me

Mj: Yeah, you're a cool kid.

Serge: There is that.

Coffee and therapy

Serge: Hey

Mj: How's it going?

(silence)

Mj: You know it's never that bad.

(silence)

Mj: Have you tried to write about your memories in Lamu?

The beach parties, the house parties at Matata's or at Kofi's....

Serge: I've tried pretty much,everything.....

You remember Irene's story??

Mj: Yeah, the one on your way from Lamu she's pressed, she stops the bus and all the men pretend like they have to pee and all

Serge: That one

Mj: That would be a good story, especially, the part where she had to pay your fare, that was smooth..

Serge: Yeah, I tried to write about it and came up with slightly over 500 words, I even tried to throw in some flashbacks to make it a little longer but still nada....

Mj: This is bad...

Serge: If you think that is bad, I got to a point where I was contemplating some really mushy stuff.......

(both laughing)

Serge: (still laughing)......I was...(tihihihihi)...contemplating poetry...

(both uncontrollably burst out with laughter)

Mj: Holy shit......(tihihihi)...this is some deep shit I tell you,

Serge: Scary shit I know

Mj: We gotta get you to get to write

(silence)

Mj: What happened with hypotheticals, where you break down these sayings and all? Like ''the wrath of the working class'' in Let's begin with a prayer next time, or the one about art.......you never posted that, why don't you try playing it with it a little and see what you come up with. There might be something there.

Serge: You think??

Mj: Yeah, plus it has a wide range, from music to fine art, to food, you can even throw in that line in that Denzel's movie Man on fire.

Serge: Yeah, where Denzel's friend says, ''A man can be an artist... in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it. Creasey's art is death. He's about to paint his masterpiece''

Mj: Makes art really cool, even death can be an art, ''An artist of death''

Serge: What do I know about art?

Mj: Pass the coffee

(I pass the coffee)

Mj: You can write on how you view art, how a good painting makes you feel. Or good music, you know how you love old school music. You can write about old school music, how does old school music make you feel?

Serge: I don't know....what do you mean make me feel?

Mj: When you listen to old school music, how does the music make you feel?

Serge: I think it reminds me things, places....people...a good party, things like that.

Mj: Take like a specific song

Serge: Are we going anywhere with this? Coz I don't want you getting me all over exited for nothing.

Mj: Just go along with it, pick a random song, a song you like.

Serge: Can I pick an artist?

Mj: Yeah, whatever, just pick

Serge: Lucky Dube

Mj: Aha, now what makes you like his music.

Serge: It reminds me of the day my dad snuck out to attend Lucky Dube's concert

Mj: What do you mean sneak out? He's your dad, shouldn't he just say he's going to be late or something?

Serge: When I was around 11, we lived somewhere around Murang'a which meant by 11:00, all pubs were closed and everyone was indoors. At his age, my dad that is, you wouldn't have expected him to even contemplate going to a reggae concert which meant there was no point explaining it to anybody.......so he just went and explained it the following morning.

Mj: That's kinda short.

Serge: You know what the problem with writing is? Material.

Mj: What do you mean material?

Serge: When you start writing, you have a lot of material. Mostly, it's old material, you are just recycling but since it's a new crowd, it feels new because you are telling it to them for the first time. After a while, you realize your stories are dwindling real fast and as a stop gap measure, you try a couple of things, write a hypothetical, borrow a couple of points from different sources, patch them up and try to come with something worth the readers time....play with some ideas

Mj: I've seen that in one or two of your posts....

Serge: When you start writing, you start with the best of them, but when you do that, you set a bar.

Mj: Yeaahh, now I get it

Serge: When you set a bar with the best of your material, anything below that is unacceptable. Problem is, after your first couple of posts, everything else in your treasure box becomes unacceptable.

Mj: Treasure box?

Serge: Yeah, I like giving it names, I thought of calling it treasure island, where you go out digging for treasure and all, then I thought, nah...treasure box sounds better. I keep my scribblings and the thoughts that fly by in my treasure box.

Mj: Empty treasure box......ironic

Serge: Yeah.

Mj: I hear they call it the writers block.

Serge: Yeahh....
I prefer calling it the "storytellers block" Am a storyteller, not a writer. I think that's where my problems begun. I was supposed to tell stories in bars, around bonfires, not write about them.

(silence)

Mj:So what are you going to do?

Serge: neeehh

Mj: Nothing?

Serge: Hey, if you got nothing, you got nothing.

(silence)

Serge: I was thinking about writing something about this girl.

Mj: Mushy stuff?

Serge: Hear me out for a minute....

Okay it's kinda mushy but sexy.......

She's one of those good girls, starry smile kind of girls.

Mj: R n B girls.

Serge: Yeah...

She likes old cars, 69 Impalas....

Mj: That's a good girl, Impala a great car and as they say....''69 was a very good year''

Serge: I wanted to create like a scenario where me and her would take a road trip to nowhere....

(silence)

Serge: We would sleep in small towns, eat local foods and drink their beer.

(silence)

Serge: Then it started being all mushy, and you know I have an image to maintain. Am a bad boy..... I can't be seen out there being mushy and all...

Mj: Yeah, if they only knew

(both laughing)

Serge: Am sure I'll come up with something.

MJ: Yeah, not that anyone expects you to.

Serge: As in?

Mj: As in, who even reads your blog? What? two? Three people, they probably read it as an afterthought.

Serge: Yeah.....

But I think some people read but they don't comment.

Mj: It's cool, it's cool .............you need to believe people read your blog.

Serge: Something like that.

Mj: Something will crop up. Don't worry too much.......

Serge: Thanks, tomorrow...same time.

Mj: Sure, and bring coffee.