Ifehenia's blog

At work we have this thing where every Monday morning we give 'reasons to dance'. Everyone is supposed to share something good that is going on in their life... and being a Monday morning, the most common response is usually, "I had a great weekend." This week though, my reason to dance was Mashujaa Day. With only one other Kenyan in the room, this was met with blank stares. I don't consider myself terribly patriotic. Heck, most of the time I do not consciously identify as Kenya. I am Ivy, simple. However, of late I have been increasingly thinking of myself as a Kenyan. This is probably because I have been confronted with my Kenyan-ness. My Kenyan accent, my Kenyan aggressiveness, my (Kenyan?) hairstyle. I am proud to belong to this unique country, whose strong population finds a way to survive despite everything. I know that there is a lot to be ashamed of: a government that has miraculously managed to undo years of economic development; blatant corruption; c

Turns out Green Day was wrong... Silence is not the enemy... If you've been following my blog you know that I just finished school...exactly one week ago, actually. As expected, I was starry eyed and full of dreams. All my life I have been prepared for this moment. For a person who didn't peak in primary school, high school or college; I figure the next few years will be my moment in the spotlight. I have become quickly disenchanted. You see, as I said here , I have spent the last four years in the company of highly intelligent people and in a place where almost everything runs like clockwork. In other words, I have spent the last four years in a scenario that was nothing like the real Kenya. In fact, make that eight years. My high school had this antique feel to it that made it seem like a prep school. Now it's dawning upon me that most people are pettier, duller and generally more difficult to work with than I had imagined them to be. I have to say it started wit

'Be The Change'... an old cliche that carries a world of truth. Sunday mornings are surreal. The reality of the new week is just beginning to hit you as you try to hold onto the remnants of the weekend. Sunday mornings are the moments when the weekend’s escapades stop feeling as glorious when you tip out your wallet to see what’s left of your last pay check. For some, Sunday mornings are their only chance to reconnect with family, pets and well...God. For Kenyans, Sunday mornings are the times we wait for that Breaking-News update or that lunch-time bulletin informing us of the latest blast or hopefully, reassuring us that there was none. You probably think that is a gross exaggeration. I mean, it’s not as if there’s a blast EVERY other Sunday... and no, we don’t wait for it with baited breath. But think about it carefully... When was the last time you were genuinely shocked at the news of such a tragedy? I am willing to bet that it’s been a while. We have grown used

I suppose it’s a bit late for me to give my two-cents worth on the Olympics. So I have chosen to look into the future. Probably due to the ‘A Million Reasons to Believe in Africa’, His eminence the Prime Minister has found one major reason to believe in Kenya…its untapped potential to be the 2024 Olympics host. No matter that we are nowhere near the level of infrastructural development needed to host Olympics now, let alone in 12 years time when much more will be required of us. We could just borrow like the Greeks and plunge ourselves into debt. It would be worth it, that fortnight of fame and wonder. Let’s not be cynical here. It can be done! In fact, my limited imagination can almost picture it. We would have to hold it in Moi Sports Centre, Kasarani (You didn’t actually believe we would build an Olympic stadium, did you?) That would also give us a chance to show the world that we could also ‘gerrit’, what with Thika Superhighway and all… High ranking officials would be hosted

Boredom inspires/ drives me to do the unthinkable... like texting him to say how I couldn’t stand pretending that I didn’t like him...or drinking a glass of milk. I do not DO milk. And no, I am not lactose intolerant. As Max in ‘2 Broke Girls’ aptly points out, “Poor people don’t just run out to buy anti-biotics. You man up, grow a pair, and stare germs in the face...booyah!” I may not be poor but I am definitely not rich. People in my economic bracket don’t get fancy diseases like eczema. We get rashes, and if you want to get all fancy then you will have to do with ‘allergies’. So, no, I am not lactose intolerant. Where I come from it’s just a plain, simple ‘I don’t drink milk.’ But here I am, with a now half empty glass of milk. (I hope you can detect the pessimism there or else my pun will have gone to waste) I suppose the ‘Do Milk, Stay Young’ campaign hasn’t gone to waste. All that sexual objectification of infants wasn’t in vain. “Sexual objectification?” you ask. Yes,