Monthly Archives: March 2012

The Queens


I love girls, and I love that I love girls.

So far all that I have told you about Pakistani girls is that they have huge feet. This is true; I do not know why the women in these parts would need big feet- for balance maybe? These appendages look pretty scary to me; I always find  disproportionately big hands/ big feet or both on women fearsome.

People have even written books about it

From english-phonics.blogspot.com

But feet aside, I love the women here. I don’t hit on them, haven’t fallen for any, but I still love to indulge when the social situation allows.

A lot of girls here cover their hair, a lot of them wear traditional outfits, shalwar khameez – colorful clothes that hang loosely though gracefully, others cover their hair,  and others both cover their hair and wear shalwar khameez. Some wear jeans and shirts – regular clothes – though seldom tight.  But covered or not, in tight clothes or not, these girls tantalize.

Sometimes those that do cover up innocently expose their hair briefly when their abayas (scarves tied around the hair) come loose. Other times, they adjust their abayas to fix their hair, allowing you to see it for the first time. Sometimes they bend down low to pick something, and you only sight as much cleavage as their conservative dress allows, but even this slight exposure is so captivating that you  shyly look away – thrilled but afraid that you may have seen too much.

These girls hurry for nobody. They walk slowly, taking all the time in the world, forcing you to wait…and stare. You stare as they drag their scarves behind them – like some kind of queen’s gown. Walking around with your duppatta (scarf usually draped around neck and shoulders) hanging off your shoulder and sweeping the path behind you, is hardly practical, but the impracticality is what probably renders it charming;  so you continue to stare as she goes about in her slow graceful ways. If you are lucky, the strong Karachi wind might whip her long hair around her. If you are next to her, enjoy the Bollywood like experience as it is blown in your face, along with her silky dupatta, which you will try to avoid though you will be tempted as sin to enjoy the sensation. She will have no idea that you are watching, or of her effect on you as she calmly brushes the miscreant hairs away from her face…and that makes the whole fiasco and flowery scent of her perfume even more…something.

I am a sucker for eyes, and the women here have eyes in all shapes and sizes, but that doesn’t matter to me, what matters is that they come in different colors – and am not talking about contacts that gay/ too metro sexual men in Nairobi wear to Blankets and Wine, I am talking God’s own gift.

You constantly see girls with electric steel-grey eyes, girls with green eyes, and my personal favorite – girls with those brown eyes that burn.

When you are done fascinating with the colour, you notice the fleeting confident look behind those eyes,  but she throws you off again with her innocent almost naive smile, like she has been waiting all night to see you…she calls your name and says Hello.

So many times I swear that these girls, be they mere acquaintances, girls I have just met or young married women (below 27)  purposely challenge me with that look, belying something not so innocent. Sometimes the dead-on look they give seems like a challenge to the bold…those bold enough to make a move against typical social norms, daring you to flirt, offer a complement, challenge you to make more than casual conversation, challenge you to speak to her through a smile that you allow to linger more than usual. That look, bizarre in its heady cocktail of sudden brazenness and innocence challenges you to break the rules and run down the wide path that climaxes in anarchy. These Pakistani girls have innocent beautiful eyes, but behind those eyes seems to dance tantalizing madness bound deep within…bound by society or maybe my own fantastical imagination is playing with me. Whatever the case, unlike Barney, I do not accept the challenge.

She will serve me with a plate (this is definitely NOT Kenya, none of these queens tell you ‘Go serve yourself’). Her eyes dance and glow, her dupatta playing along, she bends to hand me my plate (for she has refused me to get up) and our hands, conniving against us and against the rules, touch under the plate – brief stillness bordering on awkwardness, because I am a man and she is a woman and our hands should NEVER touch. Her hair will cascade down the side of her face, as the tiny stud in her nose glints in the light.

And to crown it all, their voices…especially when they speak in Urdu. The femininity in their voices, the graceful high pitch and soft rolling words…my friend, the girlish laugh and the incredible intelligence they will display when engaged in conversation about anything….the intimate way they will hand you the naan with their bare hands – taking the time to break it for you, … again engaging you in meaningful conversation for hours…you do not understand them as creatures, and neither do you understand their language when they speak it, but you do not forget The Queens.

Benazir Bhutto - 11th Prime Minister of Pakistan (assasinated 2007)

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My Autobiography: 15 – 20years


I love to work out. For those of you who are surprised – I do it on a need-to basis :-p.  When I feel it is time to add weight I will hit the gym or do push ups at home, when I think I am gaining too much flab I will start running.

This year, I started to target train, i.e. specific objectives. For example, this year my objective is to put on a lot of weight (10kgs of both muscle and fat). That’s cause in Jan 2011, I looked ready for a C-section (company lunches at Haandis do that- I wasn’t that important but I was in an important team :D), so I went on a serious weight-loss training program. Then came Pakistan, and I lost even more weight when I had to eat beer and 2 slices of bread for dinner because I was too lazy and didn’t know how to cook for myself.

I realize I may have digressed, let’s continue.

I love to watch workout videos and read about the benefits of different kind of workouts,  weight training techniques, and recently I youtube a lot of videos on posture and correct form when doing different exercises. I have even noticed a trend in my google ads, always telling me about ‘Abs of steel’ and occasional spam about ‘Pleasuring your lady friend’…rrriiight…

I love ritual, and I love methodology. Going to the gym is a ritual for me. I always tuck in my tee-shirt, never wear dirty shoes and try to start my work out at the exact same time everyday; following a set program. I follow the rules;  resting a minute or less between sets, being very keen on my posture, and I concentrate; either switching off my phone or leaving it in the locker.

My current gym, is the most dangerous place in Pakistan; a series of accidents waiting to happen.

1. There are no instructors = people are ALWAYS working out with the wrong form.

2. There are no rules = my colleagues come to work out in their office clothes, only changing their shoes… I forgive them for they know not what they do, as they run on the treadmill in jeans, and some have the audacity to walk in with slippers, OLIPOS!!!

3. Nobody concentrates. People sit on the machines to have conversations,  pick up phone calls in the middle of making maniacal faces in the mirror as they lift 2kg dumbbells… (2kg, that’s like working out with a Mumias packet) They pick their phones and  leave their tu-weights lying there…just waiting to trip someone. They must think I work there because before I start my workout I often clean up their mess.

I love and respect the gym and its required discipline…

This is why I sold my Playstation 1 when I was 16..to join Figure 8 onTom Mboya Street; also the gym where Conje used to workout (for real).

Figure 8

Figure 8 had a pretty receptionist; who used to sit outside in the narrow, dark corridor typical of Tom Mboya buildings with their many stairs. Monthly membership fee at the time was 1500, and individual sessions were 150.

I joined Figure 8 with Man-Josh, who now lives in SA- my guy, I hope you didn’t forget about our place. 🙂

All muscle-focused gyms have a hierarchy of people working out and of weights. (Except my current gym where weights lie all over the place, including right at the door, ‘Gosh’ is the only expression I have for the atrocities I see in there.)

Anyway, so every GOOD gym has the weights placed in order at all times. The most used weights are usually in the centre. The lightest ones (for super scrawny guys and some fitness-freak girls) on the extreme left; and the instructors and guys suspected to be on steroids use the ones placed on the extreme right…These are the weights that you try to lift out of curiosity when nobody is watching, kisirisiri style.

In Figure 8, I was the ONLY person wiping the dust off the weights on the extreme left. Again I say, ‘Gosh’…even the only girl in the gym used to work from the centre weights. Believe me when I say I have a very dark past.

Figure 8 must have been a gym for bouncers and bouncers only. They didn’t make fun of me though, as I flat-bench pressed my 10kg (TOTAL weight) and incline-bench pressed the bar alone without weights. These bodies took me under their massive wings (gym pun intended), and one of the biggest ones used to greet me enthusiastically each time, shouting ‘Ah, sema body! Train bana!’

Figure 8, where I used to rock up in my shiny bling (remember my ear), and drink water from the cups whose brims smelled like dry saliva. In between sets, I would watch the sinewy tall Sudanese guy doing free weight squats getting that awkward sporting you get when doing free-weight squats as opposed to Smith’s machine squats (FYI, am just showing off knowledge right now hehe). I was also there the day after his squats, he slipped and dropped the bar on his thumb, almost bleeding to death- all that blood, you would think someone let out a foetus.

I sold the playstation 1 I had at that time to finance this new hobby, and I will never forget the day I was found out.

For the first time in my life, nilichapwa kama mwizi, Heh!

At some point I remember my mum telling my dad to use a mwiko- and in the confusion, I didn’t know whether she was trying to save me or if it was that she thought he was getting tired.

Then I was given money to buy back the playstation from my classmate. LOL.

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