Prologue: Find an introduction to Captain Save a Ho(bo) here.

The Set Up
Early this month, a good friend I hadn't seen in literal years sashayed back into town, so of course, catch up plans were hastily made. An eventful day of lunch, lounging and 2 years worth of gossip followed and a good time was had by all. That's not where this story begins.

At about 08:45pm, we were done with our shenetigens (copyright: Joseline Hernandez) and headed home. If you're familiar with Nairobi Town, you know where Archives is. My friend headed down towards Bus Station and I, the opposite direction to catch a bus home.

While we were saying our protracted goodbyes and "love your hair"s, a group of guys walks past us, with one of them (we'll call him SRSLY?) essentially stopping to look at me, then moving on with his friends and stopping a little farther ahead. Before you ask, YES these are things I notice when walking around because I need to know when to cross the street to avoid an ambitious rando.

Hey, boo. joyreactor

The Escalation
Now solo, I headed up the way the guys had gone and summoning my fiercest Resting Bitch Face, attempted to walk by them staring stonily ahead. At this point SRSLY? decides to run up beside me and say hello. Who hasn't received an unwanted hello? My default reaction is usually to act like the saluter is Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense and I'm not Haley Joel Osment, while speedily getting the hell up outta there, which I do here.

Naturally, I'm now on high alert; and proven correct when I hear a group of voices behind me and a distinctive "Nah, relax, I know her". Yup. Following the principles I was taught playing peek-a-boo as a toddler, I decide if I don't look at him, he doesn't exist.
Shortly, "Hi" sounds uncomfortably close to my left.

What? is there something on my face? hollywoodhorrormovies

The "Why Aren't Tasers Legal in Kenya"
I feel I need to explain: I am not a big girl. I couldn't hit 50KGs in Timberlands, and I'm not particularly tall. One of my high-school teachers used to make a point of telling me to be careful over school holidays as I can easily be stuffed into someone's duffel bag and never be seen again. She was the best. My point is, here is this group of guys, led by Mr Insist Until She Gives In and I'm by my lonesome.

This was taken last year. liveluvcreate

The following conversation then proceeds to happen:

SRSLY?: That wasn't fair. At least say hi to people you know
Me:           I don't know you

(At this point, I walk away to the right, putting proper distance between us but still in the vicinity of my matatus)


SRSLY?: My name is "whatevertheheck"
Me:          *silence*
SRSLY:   I said, my name is "whatevertheheck".
Me:          That's nice
SRSLY?: What's your name
Me:          I don't have one *walk a bit farther away*
SRSLY?: That's not fair. At least I know I'm good. *his friends finally get him to go away*

I get a matatu and head home to recount this story to everyone on my WhatsApp. My girls were, as expected, sympathetic, having been in that position themselves numerous times.
The guys...a mixed bag. Some understood where I was coming from, some laughed and said I was unnecessarily mean, and the real gems said I should have just had a conversation with him. "Kwani what's so hard about saying hi?". (Guess who immediately had 'Creeper' added to their name in my phonebook and win a Channing Tatum cut out.)

Specifically, this one. beautyandthedirt

My Perspective
From where I'm standing, when you're alone and being essentially accosted by a group of gents around other people, the safest thing is to show you are not voluntarily involved from the get go.
The way I see it, if the crowd waiting for javs with me sees from the beginning that I'm uncomfortable, should things escalate to a physical confrontation or necessitate me to yell for help, I am more likely to receive assistance.
In a situation where people see you laughing and conversing with this group, then asking for help when things go South, they are likely to interpret it as a domestic squabble and continue to mind their own business (although in Nairobi, short of literally being on fire, folks are likely to mind their business anyway).

#ButThatsNoneOfMyBusiness marketmenot

Epilogue: Guys, if you pull this stunt/endorse it, you are a DOUCHENOZZLE. Stop that. Stop. Go forth and be gentlemen.

What's better than being up at 04:00am because you have plans at 09:00am and you know if you sleep you'll be out cold 'til late afternoon? Everything. Everything is better than this torment. Your resident insomniac has returned with a piping hot serving of shawarma for this week (left overs in the fridge can be found here) for this week. My theme today, typed while listening to "Just a Kiss" by lady Antebellum, is guilty pleasures. Obviously. Let's get to it, shall we.

1. Reading

I make no secret of my love for Russell Brand and the fauna that inhabits his beard: he's wildly hilarious with that brand of intelligence catches you off guard. Seeking this wit in written form, my reading for this week is his "My Booky Wook 2". I've heard it's not as fabulous as its predecessor (which I'm still looking for), *shrugs* let's see.

2. Fashun

As much as I feel that pic alone is sufficient fashun to last the rest of the year, I must press on. As far as sartorial mentors go, there are few better than Mr Bass himself as far as dressing like a dapper gent goes. Thankfully, the Internet gods are feminists and have blessed us with acres of guides on translating Bassian looks for those of us with bewbs.

There you have it. If you happen to spot a girl in a bow tie and unruly hair on the bus this week, please look away, I have terrible social anxiety. Speaking of looks you should look away from:

Red. Onesie. Hoodie. Style Bistro
Never forget.

3. Watching

On to Guilty Pleasure lane. Remember when that telenovella 'Maria De Los Angeles' was all the rage and everyone had a crush on that herbalist bro with a red headband or Radames Basanta? Yes, me neither, as it never happened. *clears throat*
Similarly not happening is my enthusiastically watching the soap of our times, 'Revenge'.

Veering from "omg what happens next" to bat caca nonsense with insane glee guaranteed to give you whiplash, I am ashamed to say that I have religiously consumed 3 seasons of 2014's answer to 'The Bold and The Beautiful'. My name is Evey and only your specific god can judge me.

Honourable Mention

I tweeted this gem on Tuesday, and I'm compelled to direct your attention here today. A little backstory: social media is being used to find delinquent fathers that skip out on child support in the States. Some of the ones who are caught are interviewed by Fox to find out their reason for being a special flavour of awful person. One such interview, which totally changed my life, is below.
Awesomely Luvvie, where the vine is from, does this story true justice HERE: the story plus comments are everything. EVERYTHING.

'til next week folks, no further questions. *is carried away by giant owl*

Given that I was actually enjoying a lovely shawarma roll at the time of commencing this post, 'tis kismet that the name remain. Pro tip: do not, in this lifetime, ask the chef at an Arab restaurant to make your dish spicy because you think you're G. You are not. No one is. On the plus side, I can finally fulfill Mother's dreams of seeing me eat spinach as I've lost all feeling in my tongue. On to this week's round up.

1. Reading

Yo girl DJ Procrastination took it old school this week with the frankly refreshingly easy to read classic, The Island of Dr. Moreau. The question here is, does this make me automatically classier than you? Yes, yes it does. People who call themselves classy always are.

Again, I have this e-book but will not share here because prison (maybe). You can download it yourself over at Adelaide and get a bunch more classic books as well. Happy haunting!

2. Listening to

The 80s were a magical time where shadowy characters could drop acid then create mystical experiences to introduce your child to the wonderful world of psychedelic drugs. Yes, I'm talking about the cartoons.

These came to Kenya via KBC a lot later than when they were actually aired, and for that, we are all eternal grateful. Hark!

 SoundCloud is still being sulky. :( Aluta continua.

3. Cooking

I cooked, you guys! Sticky chicken wings what whaaaaaat! This is what they looked like going into the oven:

Which you'll recognize as my first mistake, since they generally cook better in a little group to keep the painstakingly mixed sauce from essentially draining and going to waste. Needless to say, the result was laughable. 20 minutes later I ended up having to turn them over and redrizzle them with sauce (the bottom end had all dropped onto the tray thing) then cook again 'cause apparently, giving your family salmonella is not "something we'll laugh about 10 years from now". So uptight.

After the second baking, my wings were well and sticky but I was over it and left them all in Mum's fridge where my kid brother happened upon them and destroyed them in one sitting, swearing he'd seen the gates of heaven with each bite. ...that's totally what he said. For real.
I would be flattered, but we all know teenage boys are essentially Sarlacci, so I'm not sure. Will try again, with moar pics!

Honourable Mention

I won't even preface this. Go here ---> 28 Dates Later .Just...don't Google the Nigerian thing. Enjoy.

Jusqu'à la prochaine fois, this has been Evey G and the cat her neighbour is frantically searching for, with weekly Shawarma.