Silky Shirts

Okay I know it isn’t in good blogging form to post many posts at once.

But hey, you guys know me by now.

I err, disappear for a while, and then suddenly WHAM! A mass of posts at once 🙂

This is my favourite silk shirt. I love the colour. It works well casual or formal.


Hijabi Work Wear

I have been a bit lax at updating the blog with my new looks. I have however been taking pics 🙂 So shall be posting them one by one.

Here was yesterdays look.

Its summer and I love the contrasting pastels 🙂


Coming Home


Nairobi cityscape

Image via Wikipedia

I just read an article about Africans coming home. (In Msafri magazine while on the plane coming errr..home. So it was very appropriate really. Lol. )

It was about young, professional, skilled Africans living the dream – in Africa.

Gone are the days of queuing at the US or UK embassies, hoping that the un-smiling visa officer would bestow on you the magic ticket that would allow you access to the ‘American Dream’, a land of riches and success.

A lot of people are realising, that they can have their cake and eat it, right here at home.

You don’t have to be in a tiny apartment in a foreign land, far from home and everyone you love, to eke out a living in the world of success and money.

With the right job and mindset, a beautiful life can be had in Africa. A fact known for a long time now, by many expatriates who came to Kenya and refused to leave!

Beautiful weather, gorgeous beaches, lovely atmosphere, cosmopolitan, diverse, family, friends….That is what Nairobi means to me.

Who wouldn’t want to live here?

The power cuts, and the rising cost of living, the politics and the car jackings – those are minor inconveniences in the grand scheme of things. (I may think differently after my 100th power cut)

Nonetheless, I am seriously considering coming home to roost.

The sooner the better.

Karibu Kenya 🙂

He lives in a pineapple under the sea!!


Absorbent and porous and yellow is he.



Now that that’s outta the way…

What I wanted to say was…

I am a sponge. A ‘literary’ Sponge Bob.

I am an emotional sponge. An intellectual sponge. A mojo sponge. A mood sponge. A blogging sponge.

The blogs, books, magazines etcetera that I read influence how I write.

If I was a superhero, I would be the one whose power was to absorb other peoples’ power.


Now, its an okay-ish power. If you absorb nice moods, good feelings and good mojo.

But when you absorb negativity (the sponge doesn’t discriminate, yo) it can result in some weird and wonderful situations.

After watching an Indian flick, I get all ….head bobby, and romantic, and emotional. LOL.

After reading a really intense philosophical book…yeah you guessed it….I get all Freudian on everyone.

And after spending time with my very blonde friends, I realize that I have deep fried my last remaining brain cell.

Why am I telling you this?


Its because I want to apologize.

I feel my writes sometimes lack any form of coherence. One minute I’m a touchy feely blogger. The next I have decided I am strongly political. One minute I am a feminist and an activist. And the next, I am a proud Muslim Blogger.


To be fair, this blog is a reflection of the writer. A mirror image of QQ. And I can be any one of the above types of blogger, or ALL of them. Maybe all in one day.

However, I should set a specific TONE for this blog.

A feel.

A focus.

You know?

Like, if u read my writes anywhere  else; On another blog, or site, or paper, or magazine (who knows?! I think big!) , you will automatically know that it’s me! You would smile and nod. And even wave! ‘Hi QQ. We see you!’


I want a distinctive taste.

A unique scent.

A personalized stamp to my work. Like a genomic blueprint.


I shall get there.

But, to be a master, one must first study the greats.

So in my path to being a better writer, I shall experiment with different writing styles.

Dear reader.

Bear with me, as I take a journey through the Shakespears and the Chinua Achebes. The Quraan, and the Emily Brontes. The blogs and the magazines.

My ‘sponge-like style’ is where we are at.

Where we are going? Who knows…

Let’s take a journey.





How does one explain it?

Whenever I’m THIS close to something beautiful….

Whenever I’m a teeeny bit closer to achieving a goal…

I mess it up.






Did I mention that it’s deliberate?

I ‘unno.

I have long since reconciled myself with this aspect of my nature.

I have decided, that I am clinically unstable.

And have analyzed myself to such an stupendous level , I have awarded myself an honorary honors degree in pseudo-psychiatry.

This is what I came up with.

I choose to self-sabotage because I want to have something to blame, other than myself, for my failures.

If I fail that exam, I can blame it on not revising hard enough.

If I don’t get that job, I can blame it on not arriving for the interview on time.

If I lose my best friend, I can say that I didn’t deserve him after all, because I treated him like shit.

Its basically a testament to my deep insecurities, my feelings of low self-worth, and my fear of failure.

And I’m sure every single one of my readers have experienced this at some point in their lives. Forgive my blanket assumptions. But….I’m really just hoping I’m not alone in this.

As I type this, I have lost a job, several friends, a degree and a soul mate…because of my dratted interfering.

Sometimes your worst enemy is yourself.

Check yourself.

Before you wreck yourself.

And on that cheesy note, thank God Monday is over.

Have a Terrific Tuesday..


I Been Gone, Gone For So Long

Monkeys Blogging

Ya, I don't know what that means either

‘Sup peeps.

Sorry about the lack of posts lately.

Many, many, many apologies.

You can look forward to several new posts coming up ASAP.

And I hope never, ever, ever to be parted from Qilma and my beloved readers ever, ever again.


Withdrawal symptoms people. REAL symptoms yo.

It was rough.

Lets just say I’m glad I’m back.

And that leprechaun-in-a-tutu incident (he was begging me to put up a post) is totally behind me now.

Mad Love.


First Impressions

high heels

Image via Wikipedia

So I have never been really good at these.

I’m the weird person in the corner. Or the annoyingly cheerful/over enthusiastic one, who shakes your hand a bit too hard or holds it for that second too long. I’m the hyped up person with the strange glint in my eye. Or the moody cow in the corner who is hoping people won’t notice her.

Yea, I’m not that great at first impressions.

Or second impressions.

Maybe even third.


Basically, you need to get to know me to realize I’m not a total weirdo. *shrugs*

A lot of people don’t take that time.

Kind of helps to weed out impatient friends. Because to be my friend you will NEED patience.

So yea, where was I? First Impressions.

It’s sad how we rely so much on first impressions.

We all get sucked in.

The blonde, hot girl…is for SURE a bimbo and stuck up, so you don’t really bother to get to know her. Shock on you, she is a mathematical genius.

The stinky-breath guy you screwed your nose at on the way to work, is actually a secret millionaire.

The weirdo at work, is actually a really, really nice guy, who became your closest ally against the blonde-mafia at work.

Our first impressions get proven wrong over and over again.

But like crack babies to cocaine-laced milk bottles, we just can’t help ourselves.

We like to judge.

We’re human.

That first impression is hard to rub off.

So, I play the game at times.


Most days I can’t be bothered.

But on special occasions, I pull out the big guns

The high heels, the false lashes, the lipstick and the hair.

No, I’m not a hooker by night.

Just a girl who likes to make a good first impression first day at work, or for an interview, or for my first date with a guy.

After that first few meetings, I slowly peel off the layers of falsehood.

And LO! and behold, one day, they wake up and see regular ol’ me.

No make up. No nothing…………….But they don’t notice.

You see, people only really LOOK at you that first few times.

After that, it’s just a cursory glance.

They usually rely on a MEMORY of how they THINK you look. Really. Its scientific. (Just can’t be bothered to look for a link…..)

So, if that first memory is a HOT ass mama. That’s what you will forever be to them. Even when you are in pajama bottoms and a bra, ‘chilling with no make up on’ (Drake)

Job interview? Hot date? First day at school?

Get the heels out.

The taller you are, the more important people think you are.

Really. Again. Scientific fact. (Too lazy to find the references…sorry…)

No matter how much we hate this giant beast that is societal conformity.

We must pander to its whims at times to ease our way through its myriad of norms and intricacies.

C’est la vie


Why Its NOT Okay For Men To Be Sissys

Okay I am all for Women’s rights. And I have been known to be very vocal about feminist issues. But sometimes, we need to fight the good fight. And accept that men also get a pretty sour deal from time to time.

Case study

Exibit A: Sodden tisses

A man comes to work. With MAN FLU. He is sneezing all over the place. Has tissues coming out of his whazooo. His eyes are red. He is putting in eye drops for what I take to be conjunctivitis every few minutes.

He generally looks like death.

But he souldiers through the day. And being the man that he is, complains every step of the way. LOL.

Next day. He is not at work. He calls in to say that the doctor has advised him to take a week off.

Say whaaaaaaaat? A week off for flu?!! Now SUAAALLLLYYYYYY (surely!)

Cue in the boss’ rant: ‘IN MY DAY, if you had the flu, you jus manned up! You showed up at work, tissues in hand, and you did what needed to be done. A whole week off??!!! What a weakling! He knows we are short-staffed. This is just ridiculous. When it comes to evaluations, who would want to re-hire someone who’s record shows time off for a FLU!!…etc etc etc…*More ranting* What an idiot…etc etc etc ….*Even more ranting* ‘ I tuned off after a while.

Anyhow, at the time I kind of agreed. Men are known to exagerrate illness symptoms for sympathy. Hence the term MAN-FLU. Because its different from normal flu. Its waaaay worse if a man gets it. Lol

I swear its not normal flu...I have bird flu!

The next day however, I turned up at work having caught the same virus, and things could not have been more different. Said boss was all over me with SYMPATHY.

BOSS: ‘ QQ you are ill. You need to take some time off. Why did you come to work at all today?’

ME: ‘Emm, because you said, emm, in your day, you know….sissys….emmm…’

BOSS: ‘No, NOOOOOO! That was …ermm, what I mean is, you look really ill. Not like you know, the other guy. Have a few days off okay. Get better. Now hurry along…’

Okay. I did not know whether to be insulted. Or touched.

In a typical antagonistic female fashion, I chose insulted.

Now I could exploit the perceived weakness of the female species. But I think that would just be unprofessional. And downright…shady!

We insist on being treated as equals. Yet when push comes to shove, we take advantage of being the ‘weaker’ sex when it suits us.

Shame on us.

I showed up at work the next day. Tissues in hand.

Boss chose to keep his trap shut.

I did see a glint of respect in his eyes. Or maybe he was checking me out. Not sure. Ah well.

🙂 xo

NONE of your business you NOSY bugger!!!!

QQ Icon

So, I'm a penguin?

*Featured on*

Okay picture this scene. I am busy minding my own business at work. Some random, lairy, hairy dude walks up to me. Pushes me off the computer *A rude, ‘I really need to use the computer’ is all I get instead of a polite ‘excuse me’ etc etc…*

After he has basically hijacked the computer, he decides to start niceties with me. They begin like so:

Him: (Gruffly) Where are you from?!

Me: Emmm…Kenya

Him: Oh


Him: You don’t look …ermm…how do I say this? errrm…

Me: African?

Him: (Grateful) Yes, yes! You don’t look African

Me: (Wearily) I am originally Arab

Him: YES! Ofcourse! (conversation swings to Arabic) Inta min fein? (Where are you from?)

Me: I’m originally from Oman, but born in Kenya bla bla bla…The usual spiel. (All the while thinking, GET OFF MY COMPUTER, AND ITS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!!!)


This scene usually unfolds repeatedly….until infinity…..

I unfortunately/fortunately have the kind of features that could belong to any nation/nationality.

I have been accused of look African American, Ethiopian, Egyptian, Omani (Arab), African (Masaai), Bangladeshi, Indian, Spanish, even Philipino for Gods Sake!

It doen’t help that my accent is weird. It is a pseudo Kenyan/British/ American hybrid. Which just morphs depending on who I’m talking to.

All this results in making people uncomfortable.

They cannot BOX ME.

Thats my term for the constant need for people to categorize each other. This makes people less of an unknown entity. And we all know that unknowns are frightening. Unsettling.

Going about BOXING people would be hunky dory, if there were none of us weird hybrids walking the earth. Us weirdos who look like no one specific, yet look like everyone. Who have lived everywhere. Who’s genetic blue print looks like a diplomats worn out passport.

I am NOT simple/straightforward!!!

Stop trying to BOX me!!!

Can’t I just simply be QQ?

When did, ‘Hi, my name is QQ’, stop being enough??


What’s worse is if you are talking to a Mzungu ( A British or American person) Eh, after the above conversation, he will undoubtedly go:

‘YOU SPEAK REALLY GOOD ENGLISH!!!’ (Massive grin + vigorous head nodding)



I KNOW  I should just ignore such comments. And nod my head politely, thank the fella, and move on my way.

I. Just. Can’t.

First I hit them with a dose of Colonial Guilt.

Yes, Kenya was a British COLONY.

(Uncomfortable pause)

We were forced to learn English to speak with the Masters.

(Longer pause. Throats are cleared)

In Kenya we speak both English AND Swahili. Fluently. Sometimes English better than Swahili.

(This avoids having to answer the question: ‘What OTHER language do you speak in Kenya, AFRICAN?KENYAN?’…or other such nonsense)


I wish I could be a bigger person and just let these ignoramuses stew in their blondness.

But, hey. They have to learn someday. And that day is when they stupidly compliment my English, which is their way of saying, I’m African so I should be speaking English like a retarted 3 year old, if at all. ****ing racist, ****ing ignorant ****s!

It doesn’t stop there.

Oh nooooo

The interrogation from before kept going.

Him: So are you married?

Me: *Thinks: Wow, that’s personal. How do I dodge that?* 

Me: (Rudely) NO!

Him: Are you engaged?

Me: *Thinks: ALA! WTF?!* 

Me: (Even more rudely) NO!

Him: Are you courting?

Me: *Thinks: Dude, is this pudding-head serious?!! I don’t know this geezer from Adam. PLus who sayyyyys COURTING this side of the 21st century????*

Me:(Somewhat flummoxed) Errrmmmm, Yes

Him: (Excitedley) So there is a chance you are getting married soon!!!

Me: (Brusquely) Look, I need the computer please.

Him: (Hurt) okay…emmm, bye.

ALA!!??? Kwani what was that about? He was not coming on to me ( I hope) given that he was a 60+ year old man. So was he concerned for me? Was he concerned that there are single ladies walking the streets with no prospects of marriage??? Did he want to hook me up with his son???

Or was he just tring to define me as an entity he could understand?

Please, people of the world. If you have no business asking me questions. Don’t. Okay? Just don’t. My inbuilt honesty and politeness chips are getting worn out. And they will soon be replaced by a chip that plays *None of your business you ****ing idiot!* over and over on a loop.

So there!

Hi, everyone, I’m QQ, I’m complex. You cannot box me. So just move along….Alright???!!!


But I’m really nice …deep, deeeeep down. Mushy and sweet, honest! (Ermmmm….sometimes. 🙂 )

Peace out yo..

Things NOT to do

A few lessons I’ve picked up along the way from eejots (idiots) I have met in my travels. Enjoy.


1. Stand in an alley, dressed in a massive beard, a kanzu and kofia (full Islamic dress) screaming Arabic epithets into the phone, all the while pacing back and forth.

What is Likely to happen: Missing persons list

2. Sit in a bar, reading a newspaper nonchalantly, all the while discussing how the men intently watching the semi-finals of a random championship/tournament are eeeejots.

What is likely to happen: Bar fight, broken face, police record.

3. Shove a vibrator up your *** so far, you need emergency surgery to get it out. Also you may not want your first words once the anesthetic wears off to be a request for said vibrator.

What is likely to happen:  Never, ever, ever being able to go to any other doctor in the country who has not hear about it. Even if you just need cough syrup.

4. Scratch your balls energetically in my presence, especially when my face is level with said location (umm, I was sitting down looking at a computer screen, eejot in question was standing next to me)

What is likely to happen: Knee. In. Groin.

5. Watch BodyTv or any other such SOFT PORN nonsense masquerading as workout videos and then pretend you are learning fitness tips. Especially if you are my significant other. There is a reason the camera focuses on Zuzanas boobs when she is doing sit ups. And NO, it is not for you to learn proper technique and form.

What is likely to happen: Laptop + 5th story window.

6. Sleep with a nurse. Or a medical student. Or a fellow doctor. Or even the cleaner on the ward.

What is likely to happen: We will all know what you’re (not) packing. *waggles little finger*

7. Light up a cigarette, while sniffing aerosols

What is likely to happen: Natural Selection.

8. Agree to walk a random kido to the bus stop

What is likely to happen: Atypical Tuesdays

9. Drink too much at the annual Christmas party

What is likely to happen: Resignation letter. Yours.

10. Run for president in Africa – You’re opponent is likely to either a) Rig the elections b) Kill all the opposition including you c) forcibly take over using the threat of the deadlock erupting into wide scale violence. Ivory Coast or Kenya, different country, same eejots running for president.

What is likely to happen: Different eejot at the helm, possibly two eejots at the helm. No change for the mwananchi (citizens)

Go forth and be merry.


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