Who impregnated the family cat?

Kisang’ule photo bombing yours truly!

The last time I wrote about the family cat, I was complaining about her feeding habits.

The damn thing had developed a weird appetite for avocados. That was just when I had moved back home in preparation to move to Sweden. This was in March.

I left my father, Kisakwa’s house in April for Sweden and went back to visit in November and guess what, the cat was pregnant.

Full blown pregnancy. Type of pregnancy that gets a cat too lazy to even meow. I can swear I saw a rat play with that cat’s tail and it didn’t even bother to go after it.

Sorry, I can’t handle snow!

The cat getting on to the family way got me wondering:

Who impregnated her?

Do cats have sex?

Do they get married before?

Do they have mother in-laws?

Which reminds me, the last time she gave birth, she ate nine of her kittens and kept one. What type of mother does that? How I’m I supposed to explain to the world that our family cat’s favourite delicacy is not a rodent but her own children and avocado?

Anyway, I got to catch up with Kisang’ule our loyal mongrel. My only worry with Kisang’ule is that he has developed a penchant for rich dogs type of games.A typical village dog should only come close to humans in the evening when he knows he is about to be fed leftovers. But this dog! Where are his manners? He is so disrespectful to a point he wanted to be in all my pictures. It’s like he went on a crash course on how to become a professional photo bomber!

But I love him. Infact, my feelings for this dog came to life when he followed me to the bustop the other day as I was headed to my friends house for a sleep over. He got so confident and though that he could sit in the middle of the road and the vehicles would stop for him. You know, like my dad does all the time?

Guys, I dropped my handbag and dived into the road and sent him home after a thorough spanking. He did not play those rich people games with me for two days. I didn’t care. I had saved his life!

Swedes are sad, I imported flu!

Pic/courtesy

This post is dedicated to my loyal follower, Nkatha Bae, who missed me so much that she had to find out if I’m still alive or dead and buried at in the imaginary deep caves underneath Ramberget (Raven hill) mountain in Hisingen Island in Gothenburg, Sweden.

I really don’t have a solid excuse as to why I have not been blogging for the past few weeks. I just hit a writer’s block and lacked motivation. But can you blame me?

I’m still getting used to this dark side of the continent and so is my throat during this cold, dark and mysterious season of European weather seasons.

I recently suffered a sore throat so rough it could be used to clean a pair of Savco jeans. Infact if it continues this way, my throat will be rough enough to be used on rough wooden surfaces instead of sandpaper.

Have I mentioned how I slid on the tarmac while walking home and almost popped my brains open? I think Africans like myself need special training on how to walk on ice. Anyway, it’s now seven months since I moved here and no matter how much I try I will never understand Swedish people.

Let me tell you how I concluded this dilemma……

My neighbour’s cat is using me

When I came here during spring, I got mixed signals. Some people were happy while others seemed deeply sad. The sad lot improved during summer and survived the beginning of autumn a bit maybe because of the beautiful flowers. Then I decided to leave Gothenburg briefly and visit a friend in Denmark.

Spent a splendid weekend there with journalists from all over the world and when I came back everything had changed. The Swedes were sad again.

They are all behaving in a uniform manner. When they are not looking down while running from buildings towards their cars, they are staring deeply into their coffee mugs in restaurants. It’s dark and they are wearing black. I suspect I’m the only one still doning colour because most immigrants have now adopted the ‘Swedish uniform’.

“What happened? Who died while I was away? How long with they be mourning? Is it something I did? Is it because I imported flu from Denmark? Are they sad because I left? Or is it because I’m back?” Are some of the questions I have been asking myself lately.

Sweetheart not so sweet!

It’s three months now  since I relocated to Sweden. And a lot has happened to me. So much that I feel like I have lived here for a decade. Infact, these activities are the main reason I began blogging again.

Most of it has been laughable but there are two incidences that have left me in shock.

Towards the end my first month here a man harassed me at the bus stop.  I had a meeting that went on to almost 9.30pm and on my way home I decide to pass through a store to get a few supplies. Some guy followed me out and asked if I wanted to go home with him to drink some vodka. I politely declined thinking he was part the notorious A-laget  (Swedish alcoholics).

Ambushed by a gypsy!

He was persistent  and declared he was from Italy. I could clearly see he was an Arab from looks and accent. I’m not sure why he would lie about that either. Not unless it’s cool to be followed home by an Italian. I walked faster towards the bus stop which by now was clearly empty. He followed me, inquiring whether my bum and boobs were real or if it had some silicon in it. Then he declared that he was willing to even pay me to go home with him so that I could ‘please him’.

I was very pissed off and was about  to beat the hell out of him then I remembered that I was in Sweden where shouting someone’s name in the streets is already frowned upon (I have been insulted for laughing out loud. Ok, fine! I laughed too much and frankly that could have annoyed even the wildest animal.) Where were we, guy followed me to the bus stop, tried to corner me but I swung my gym bag and walked away very fast to the nearest crowd. He shouted ‘Goodbye Sweetheart. I will call you’.

I had forgotten about that  until  recently  while walking to the bus stop from the gym. It was at 10am, on a public holiday, when a black Mercedes slowed down beside me. A middle-aged Arab guy waves and I look away thinking he was waving at someone else; perhaps two blonde girls walking towards me.

He then sped off and parked right ahead of the store that I was clearly walking towards.

He pulled down his window and shouts: “C’mon sweetheart, let’s come inside. Let’s talk.” 10 am?

Where do people get these guts?

I thought moving to a first world country meant that I was taking a break from sexual harassment. I was like phewks! No more cat calling and risking being undressed for a while but no. It got worse!

And the worst part is that I still don’t know how to deal with this. Normally in Kenya, I would have faced the man and gave him a piece of my mind. But now I’m in a new country dealing with people from different backgrounds. I have to be careful how I address some issues lest I’m tagged racist or violent!

 

DISCLAIMER: This post is just meant to highlight what happened to me. I mean no harm towards any race. We are all equal!