Thick Thighs and Facebook Affairs

Two things DB, good news and bad news. (DB- Dearly Beloved. Status of our relationship, I can fart in your presence.) So, farts and all, the good news is, I have discovered Facebook filters. Like the Snapchat ones. Bad news, since I am subject to the societal dictation of masculinity, I shan’t share images of myself in the said filters with you. They are for my eyes only, well, mine and the swarm of people seated behind me in a 14 seater matatu, but yeah, you get the drill. These filters dearly beloved have become my favourite pastime. You know how normal people do video games, baking, fornication, Bible Study etc., well mine just happens to be taking self-portraits and enhancing them using these digital era things. Narcissism at its best. I am the embodiment of self-absorption at this point in my existence.
Here’s my deal with Facebook. For a long period of time, Facebook has for me been a secret love affair. A clandestine engagement. Done in the bushes, under the cover of darkness, away from the light. You probably want to know the reason for this, but if you don’t, skip this balderdash and head on down to the part where I declared my love for Hildegard, a ripe, platinum-blonde sports-bra model just before taking her into my strong, masculine, African arms and making her feel like a woman. Anyway, sorry, I don’t know a Hildegard, it looks like you are stuck with having to read through my confessions. CRINGE!
I joined Facebook when I was still a promising young man, youth in the spring of my step, swagger in the breath of my speech. Those days, where people used YAHOO and Hotmail. I created an account with my mobile phone number and I made the worst mistake of my life, well second to smacking my younger sister a good one back when we were still tots not knowing that mother dearest was by the door, with a belt in hand, ACHING to discipline this her young son. I am still traumatized. The mistake I made was to announce proudly, smirk on my round, fleshy face, that I was now part of Zuckerberg’s colony. My father looked me dead in the eye and said, “Go make us tea.” While my mother looked at my Samsung flip phone and told me, “nitengenezee account pia mimi.” I.E. “I also want in fam!” I created my mother’s Facebook account whilst making tea, a decision that has haunted me ever since. Why did I tell you what my father said? I honestly don’t know, I just felt like oversharing.
I went back to school and when we broke for holiday, I came back home eager to continue my Liking, Poking, Updating my status. That was until I saw what I saw next. There, on my flip phone’s screen beeped my mother’s friend request. My mother, who was Facebook friends with my father, had sent ME a friend request. My life was cut short. Well, that’s a bit exaggerated but still… What did they want to know? Who had sent them? Is the earth truly round or is it just a Physics lie? These are all questions that came at me, rushing, knocking me down, that sunny afternoon. So, ladies and gents, began my clandestine affair on Facebook. I made it seem as though I was not on the social network while keeping close tabs on my parents’ interactions. Quite a ‘Hunter becomes the Hunted’ situation am I right? This went on for a while, with me saying how Facebook was for old people only. This paragraph honestly doesn’t fit. It’s like that part in a conversation where nothing makes sense and there’s need to fill the silence with language. Just keep reading.
Most of the people I know who have denounced ‘The Book’ as I call it, well, not really, I just used that now for the first and definitely last time, are actually low-key group admins on the same. It is that playground we pretend not to like while in real sense, we’ve cut holes through the fence to get in. To be honest, I LOVE Facebook. It is also 2:15 am as I write this and maybe it’s the sleep deprivation speaking. Parting shot: Facebook is for cool people. I also do have a hole in a playground fence. I can do anything for the swings, ANYTHING.
PS: My laptop has been giving me trouble the past few weeks and I have already spammed everyone on my contact list, asking for consultancy services. I am lounging in several blocked lists on WhatsApp and I don’t want to ruin my chances for a pre-wedding fundraiser I am planning for January. If you know a good fundi wa mitambo, kindly hit up a brother’s email.
“I get it how I live it, I live it how I get it,” Rihanna.

Writing about Facebook has me thinking about Uji a good one! I used to read The Moses’ series by Barbara Kimenye and they had this thing they’d eat, Gruel and Posho. I have grown to assume Gruel is thin porridge and Posho, according to my mind, is beans. Oh well, the Uji I am making reference to today is thick. Thick Thighs Save Lives. What? Just go on reading. With the rain in this our lovely Nairobi, what you need is some thickness to keep you warm. I am a life saver DB, a life saver. So, I present to you, Spicy Cinnamon Uji with Fruit. I am now going to show you how to make it while throwing in pictures of the final product to keep you enticed.

Ingredients
1 cup maize meal or Uji wimbi flour
4 cups of water
1 tablespoon Margarine
1 ½ teaspoons Cinnamon Powder
1 teaspoon Mixed spice
½ (half) Mango (ripe)
4 strawberries
1 Banana
1 lemon (halved)

Method
In a bowl, mix the maize meal, cinnamon powder and mixed spice. Add water and stir to a smooth paste. In a sufuria, put the 4 cups of water and bring to a boil. Add the margarine and stir till it melts. Add the Maize meal paste and stir continuously until it thickens and starts boiling. Lower the heat and let it cook for 5-8 minutes. Cut the mango half into dices and half the strawberries, slice the banana as well. Put the done porridge into a bowl and place the fruit in.

TIP: You can squeeze in the lemon juice while the uji is still cooking or when it’s in the bowl. Add sugar as desired.
Let the thickness cover you in a blanket of warmth, enjoy.

Thank you for reading through, kindly share widely. Also, take a look at my previous posts, there’s food and pictures of myself milking camels.
Asante Sana and Kwaheri.