The few misguided characters that find their way onto this blog sense that if there is something bad to be said about any public figure, I will find it and I will most likely say it. (I'm sorry, Eric, for picking on you and poor Manoah these past few months; I won't do it overmuch any more.) So you can imagine the deep shame I am feeling for failing to find something bad to say about her. Not for lack of trying, but I have searched, nay, scoured! the internet looking for dirt on her and it simply does not exist.
That crazy white chick, Tilda Swinton, played a mean-looking Archangel in Constantine, but since archangels tend to fight wars for God, they have to be mean-looking I suppose. Angels, on the other had, are sweet-looking and terribly inoffensive. She is sweet, sweet-looking, motherly, totally inoffensive and really, really fit. Anyone who dislikes her is a mean little shit and deserves to be kicked in the head by a donkey.
You must have seen the photos on the internet when she finished that marathon. Sure she took several hours more than everyone else, but so what? I haven't run a metre since I bid adieu to the hallowed grounds of my beloved Masaku. I suspect the only marathon you have run is the one from your place of business to the doors of that annoyingly loud, smelly, hooker-ish joint that sells alcoholic beverages for which excise is yet to be paid and nyama choma whose providence would exercise your mind if you ever bothered to consider it. She looked genuinely excited to have done it. If she was faking that thousand-watt smile, she is a better actor than all those pale-skinned Oscar winners we suffer on screen these days. (OK, Lupita is hardly pale-skined, but still...) What really tugged at the one heart-string I have left was the radiant, joyous smile her husband had for her when he met her at the finish line. That man was prepared to give her anything she demanded right there and then!
And then there's the reason she is running marathons and half-marathons and mini-marathons: preventing the deaths of mothers during childbirth. He predecessor loved children, especially girls. She spoke out often and forcefully for their protection and care. But this one loves the family as a unit and she knows that it is fucked if the mum is dead. You must be a royal shit if you can't even admit that a mom is the family; without her, the boys will be rough-edged rungus with the subtlety of a nuclear weapon and the girls will look increasingly like the dad's gateway to hundreds of cows. The Beyond Zero Campaign is important. It is a critical weapon in safeguarding and securing the family unit. If you're not going to give money to it, that's your selfish prerogative but keep any negative comments you have about it to yourself.
Margaret Kenyatta is the mother of our nation. I'm sure she never, ever wanted this job; Kenyans have a nasty habit of treating their mothers like shit, after all. But she is and she is doing it with style, poise, grace and that unbridled joy she demonstrated after the London Marathon. Thank God she is not a politician; thank God she is a mother who cares about other women and doesn't appear to be the African caricature of Marie Antoinette. Thank God!