Who is she to be who she is?

I don't care what you say, my friend, but injera is the vilest tasting thing that I have ever had the displeasure of enduring for the sake of social courtesies. I would endure a hundred tonnes of it if it meant that I did not have to suffer through another selfish and indulgent justification for why my government continues to let me down. I would have injera every day for the rest of my life - breakfast, lunch, supper, in-between-meals snacks - if it meant that I would not have to go through another I-hate-Njoki-Chege blog post.

If you have not been paying attention, this is not your grandfather's Kenya. You know? The one where Mother's Union was not the nom de guerre for seriously unsexy women's panties, where no woman left her home without a head-scarf, an unfashionably long dress, covered-up arms, petticoat and stockings of the non-fishnet variety. This is not your grandfather's Kenya where he was the cock of the walk and his crow was law. It is definitely not your grandfather's Kenya where a woman who had somehow managed to sneak past standard three was looked at with great suspicion.

Supposedly "liberal" Kenyans on Twitter, #KOT, can't seem to accept the fact that in a world where all people are created equal, the right of a woman to be incorrigibly disagreeable is as unfettered as that of the man who would dare to not only notch his bedpost as proof of his golf game, but would spend precious time setting down on his blog his Rate Card and what it takes for you make it on the Score Board. It seems that it is perfectly okay for a man to describe in detail, salacious and not, what would make a perfect mate for him; it is anathema for a woman to engage in the same shallow standards'-setting as the man.

Not every man with an outstanding golf game is Tiger Woods or Kenya's version of Adonis of ancient mythology. Truth be told many of the avatars relied on by these golfers belie harsh, disfiguring truths. It is entirely that the golf game they describe in vivid fashion on their online bully pulpits is as mythological as Adonis himself. So it is difficult to understand why they can make up stuff as they go along and not some twenty-something woman with an eye on a big payday. Isn't that what we wanted for ourselves when we entered the Digital Age: an opportunity to cash in at the earliest age and retire to blissful notorious obscurity?

For many men with the wherewithal, and they will deny it till the cows come home, their feinted love and respect for the female and feminine members of their families is as ephemeral as the morning mist, quickly blown away when they log onto their online accounts in their online avatars. The misogyny that they have bottled up all day spews onto their keyboards and touchscreens like so much molten lava from a volcano that has finally and violently eschewed dormancy. They will, with inventive cruel glee, twist the typewritten words of the objects of their envy and anger, they will do so with attention to maliciously salacious detail, and they will ask for the online misogynistic horde to march in lockstep with them because, after all, who is she to be who she is?