Attacked by Kilogologo (also known as the demon itch).

I don’t want to turn into one of those writers who endlessly bore their readers with whatever they are obsessed with at the moment, but this is important. For the last seven days, I have been scratching myself like a 7 year old with worms. But let me start at the beginning.

As you know, I proud mother to plants such as lemon balm, sage, thyme, lavender, strawberry, rosemary,two kinds of mint and a plant whose name I can’t remember, but whose special power is that it smells like BOB insecticide when you burn it. Because my energy is surpassed only by my kwemolar, I sing to my plants. I wake up very early in the morning, push my sleepy feet into sapatu and haul a bucket of water to my herb patch. The plants are doing very well, which convinces me that my croaking is making them happy. What I am not convinced about is whether this particular brand of kwemolar is sustainable.

See, since I began this little ritual, I have developed a most insufferable itch. It doesn’t attack. To say it attacks would insinuate that it follows a strategy to accomplish its goal of tormenting me.

This itch is an obnoxious squatter. It has built a house and grown crops and taken a wife on the landscape that is my skin. When I wake up, I am scratching. The last thing I remember before blacking out is manically raking fingernails over my skin. I am even developing sexy biceps from all the exertion.

It is worst around my feet and entumbwes but will many times spread to my arms and back. The amount of time I have devoted to daydreaming about rolling around in a pile of coarse sand is embarrassing. My doctor laughed when I demanded dewormers and then said that the worms which used to make children itch have gone extinct, and that what I have is an allergy. Me a whole Apenyo, having to pop cetirizine like one of those people on the internet who cannot stand pollen.

I have often felt smug about how at one I am with mother earth and now see.

To the best of my knowledge, I am not eating anything different, or doing anything new (apart from singing to my herbs) so I can’t even begin to understand this allergy business.

The itch got so bad at some point that I went to comrade Google for some home remedies. Squeezing my workmates’ lemon on my feet worked for a minute, and then it returned with a vengeance. Hand wash, air freshener and crushed garlic all failed to work. Fortunately for my legs, I had a small piece of aloe vera in my handbag. I cut it in half and rubbed it briskly over my skin. This toned the itch down to a background annoyance. Aloe saves the day again!

Now to go stock up on Shea butter (whose proper name is moya) to heal these dumb scars that are trying to colonize my legs. 

It looks about 10 times worse than this.

It looks about 10 times worse than this.

A pox on all DVOYS

I like to play with words. Smash them into each other. Subtract certain letters to create interesting sounds. Language is far too rich and life far too short for me to restrict my rich imagination to the couple of million words that England has deposited in my country. Take as my gift to you; Voncersation which defines a conversation between lovers in which one is punched in the voicebox as they tell the other that they’d like to sleep with other people.

One relevant to today’s story is dvoy (dee-vhoy), a combination of diva and boy to describe a male who through every failing in his personality is a very annoying, poncey and pissy human being. Dvoys sometimes shed their drama and grow into men, but this doesn’t happen often. Most times, these narcissistic zeros go about their lives spreading irritation and confusion among girls (mainly).Their very existences depend on whether or not they’re successful in luring unsuspecting people into their worlds which are teeming with existential crises.

Overwhelmingly irritating things that dvoys do.

Hey baibe: They incessantly, without any style whatsoever, proposition girls on whatsaap. Yea yea. I know. This is the era of the social network, people are getting laid more than ever on merit of cleverly worded messages and wordplay is the new foreplay; mbu, but that doesn’t make it acceptable, especially if the receiver of these messages is more irritated than stimulated.

Fits: In an admirable show of unpredictability, they throw fits at moments when you could’ve sworn by your grandmother that everything was hunky dory. They’ll blame the people around them (in self-righteous falsettos) for the missing of a call, for the weather, for the crying of a random baby in a taxi. For anything really. As long as they’re whining and making everybody uncomfortable, they’re happy.

ngwaa this ngwaa that, ugh

I’m hot: They constantly remind you, in ways both subtle and unsubtle that their eyes are wandering and though you’re enjoying their attentions for the moment, they can switch to some other girl, exactly as if you’re a TV channel. Their tastes in music haven’t evolved beyond that wiggle wiggle song. They know how much you want them, yo, and won’t ever stop talking about it.

I’m special: These soiled pampers believe they are very different and very extraordinary and very unique and very everything. The word very features a lot in their vocabulary. They expect you to be grateful for their attentions, so the moment you let lose an opinion or disagree with one of their dumb ideas, they lose their minds. Their tantrums are powerful enough to frighten little animals into comas.

One of the most annoying phrases they use a lot is, “I know how wild and crazy you are for me”. Barf. This is so annoying that you may find yourself making money from the whole ugly business by writing about it.

By virtue of free will, everybody can behave in whichever way they want to, but please, dvoys, cease and desist from exploding your bad personality all over this girl’s space.

Yes