RECIPE: How to Preserve a Husband…

Woman’s’ Kitchen Diary Magazine.

Be careful in your selection,
Do not choose too young,
When selected, give your entire thoughts to preparation for domestic use,
Some wives insist upon keeping them in a pickle,
Others are constantly getting them into hot water,
This may make them sour, hard and sometimes bitter,
Even poor varieties maybe made sweet,tender and good by garnishing them with patience,
well sweetened with love, and seasoned with kisses,
Wrap them in a mantle of charity.
Keep it warm with a steady fire of domestic devotion and serve with peaches and cream.
Thus prepared, they will keep for years.


The 24th Dimension : Confessions of a 24 year old chai holic

By Gloria Mwaniga

The Mayans have already succeeded in casting a certain degree of gloominess over twenty twelve, this would be good enough, except some un-known forces decided it wouldn’t be so for me. Not without my doctor.
Like a good story, it began on the eve of the New Year. The Saturday before the Sunday that ushered in the leap year that ends on December 21st. I knew from the moment I rolled out of bed that the bacteria’s in my body had made a resolution to fight me to some bitter end which was still unknown to me then. Even so, my friends’ plea to take me to the nearest hospital was met with indifference on my part. I didn’t take sickness too seriously; after all, no one in my family is a doctor,
As you may be aware, the office in January, especially with your newly promoted colleague-turned boss, has a way of awakening all the sleeping illness in your body. Immediately I walked into that glass room and was politely asked why I was two minutes late, I made up my mind to ask for an off and go fight the bacteria within. Knowing too well that the one seated on the supervisor desk across from me would take much longer to fight. See I am a girl who likes to tackle my adversaries, one at a time.
So off I went to have my blood tested by this very reputable doctor on Jubilee plaza (and this isn’t about the jubilee advert that says as others bring papers, we bring flowers.)
The good doctor, after listening me repeat myself in a futile attempt of self-diagnosis, sent me off to his not-so- friendly lab assistant, who after skillfully ignoring my rather warm greetings, put my blood on some tickling machine that looks like one of those plastic omega watches we wore in class eight to save academic time, watches as it ticked rapidly then gives out a near- shout.
In the world I live in (at least the movie world) one always gets to be told two pieces of news, you even get to pick the order of receiving it, good or bad first. I didn’t have the luxury.
Aaai…Your brad sugar madam ,it s very high, the normor one is 7.5 yours is 8.1 ai madam and you rook young, wewe bado sasa utafanya aje(your blood sugar is very high madam, the normal level is 7, yours is an 8.5, yet you are very young, what are you going to do?).
Bad news can be pretty inevitable sometimes, but this kind of bad news was supposed to come when at sixty five, I would be holding the hand of my dear husband. As we somberly watched the doctors face to read the unvoiced emotion and quietly deliberate on who would be the first to fulfill the final part of our wedding vows (till death do us apart): not on a new year in the 24th year of my young life.
No matter how badly you hated exam time in school, there comes a time in a person’s life when a lot of questions pass through your mind. As I sat listening to the lab assistant turned health lecturer giving me a class on lifestyle diseases versus the youth of today, I kept asking myself why I had said no to Georges’ proposal to be my best friend and then marry me. It must have happened when I actually believed Destiny’s Child Survivor lyrics. And they are now married,, those liars.
The other question on my mind was whether the Mganga kutoka Tanzania in my neighborhood was actually able to punguza sukari (reduce blood sugar) like he claimed.

So what if I am a six?

By Gloria Mwaniga

Obviously, civilization brought with it a fair share of trouble for our otherwise nice and simple male species. From Dolly Parton’s very generous bust, to Shakira’s hips, Angelina Jolie’s lips and Serena Williams’ bountiful legs. I believe the brothers’ share of trouble was just as fair without adding a number line to it (and this has absolutely nothing to do with my long standing love hate relationship with math).
Whoever came up with the female grading system to determine attractiveness?
‘My woman has to be an eight,’……
‘I can only date a seven’…blah blah blah,
You keep hearing this everywhere, from the net to the radio and the streets. If you are one of those females who worried that you would forever be cast to a gloomy dungeon of solitary confinement because of this, help me ask this question, I am a six, so what?
A girl can make some grave mistakes in her life but excuse me for thinking that being a six is not one of them. More so, the high court is already falling apart with its numerous court cases without even adding the crimes women allegedly commit by being number six downwards on the attractivometer.
A colored girl.
In our Kenyanised version of the attractiveness grading, I know without being told that top among the reasons I fall in the 6 is because I am not a yellow yellow. Ok, I am guilty as charged but what seems to skip many a peoples mind is that there is absolutely nothing that I could have done about this no matter how early in life this below-the yellow- line condition was detected.
The other good I should have worked harder at was just to stick to being a black beauty, I hear they rank closer to the yellows (but unlike black beauty the fairy horse, I wasn’t born with jet black mane).
So it looks like in the color scheme, only the two extremes are legal and since none is my reality, then, I will just stick to my original story that being a six has absolutely nothing to do with my prettiness. After all, no male ever publicly disagreed with Indiare when she said she is not her skin.
The nine obviously has a thin waist encased in expanded hips and shapely legs, what nonsense! You and I both know that Paris Hilton is a sorry story of willful starvation for the sake of a slender waist and if you think Tyra didn’t try hard, then check out her photos of back when she won the modeling award and now. So, I am not going to spend foodless nights tucking in my stomach in for some guy who when I finally lose the tummy will sigh with relief and say, ‘one more thing baby, get rid of dat weave’
I am not my weave
If he has only a thing for the real and natural things of life like he claims to, then he should start off by abandoning his four by four and opting for the more natural way of self-transportation. Or better still, doing away with all the shiny china (save for the plates) in his living room. This will save a lot of me girls from the outdone ‘weaves are just fake; a real girl keeps her hair natural ‘line.
On this, I will only echo Alicia Key’s ‘And a real man can’t deny a woman’s worth’. And please note that this song has absolutely nothing to do with hairstyles.
A guy friend of mine once said that times have changed and a woman who still expects medieval acts like getting a bunch of roses from her modern man is setting herself up for disappointments. It is with the same breath that I say that any male who sits by the roadside with an algebra ruler waiting for a 8 or 9 girl to date might as well walk back into time and use Rapunzels long hair to climb up her tower.
Like the good 844 student that I once was, I will end with a poem
What If I am a six but I can cook
What if I am a six but I can wash your clothes without a washing machine
What if I am a six who still possesses the hidden ability to bear children?
what if I am a six who bathes with the diva soap
Tell me, would I still be a six.
Would I?