Father’s Day: Financial tips for dads

On the third Sunday of June every year, the world stands to applaud the important role that fathers play in their children’s lives. Fatherhood comes with joys, smiles, stern warnings and discipline as well as responsibilities in form of a child who will determine a man’s financial choices, beyond himself, as long as both the child and the dad have breath.

Here are some ten tips to help you navigate those daddy financial decisions:

  Be a good money model for your children: Home is the place where children learn about money, form attitudes about it and learn how to manage it, all from observing their parents. Most of us don’t get taught about money in school, yet we inadvertently become our children’s first teachers as far as far as money is concerned. Money management is a very important life skill, because we deal with money every single day of our lives, so as we teach our children how to navigate life, we should not forget to equip them with the right money management skills. If you want to empower your children financially, start by empowering yourself with the right knowledge that you can then pass on to your children. You can learn this from the internet, YouTube, taking classes, etc. Don’t let your children fumble in the dark and take that fumbling into adulthood, start teaching them the right things about money as early as possible to give them a head start.

It is not just about you:Men love themselves above everything and everyone else. For this reason, they prioritise their financial needs and wants over everybody else’s. That is a good thing – we ought to love and take care of ourselves first before we can do the same to others, even our loved ones. But at the same time, there needs to be a balance. As you take care of yourself, remember that you have a family. Today, we are focusing on fatherhood, so remember you have children and they have needs. As you allocate money to your needs and wants, don’t forget to do the same for your children, who rely on you for sustenance.

Your children are your responsibility, take care of them:  When the children come, whether you are married to their mother or not, you do not need a court to remind you that you have children you’re your DNA and your blood flowing down their veins and that these children have needs and that those needs require money to take care of. Whether you feel you as if you don’t have enough money to take care of your children, you don’t have the luxury to decide whether or not to take care of your children. Once the children have come into this earth, and as long as both you and they have breath, you need to constantly ask yourself, have my children eaten? Have they gone to school? Are they wearing clothes? Do they have a roof over their heads? Am I doing my part and my best to provide for my children regardless of my relationship with their mother? You should. 

Plan ahead; have financial goals – short-term, medium term and long-term – not just for yourself, but for your children too. What financial needs will your children have at every stage of their lives? Start planning for these costs and saving and investing for both major and minor inevitable financial goals, so that you will be able to take financial responsibility once the bills come due. Do not leave it until the last minute, where you might struggle with the temptation to let the children’s mother “handle it”. 

Your presence is more important than presents: You cannot buy your children’s love. Your children may not remember what you bought them, but they will remember how you made them feel. So, create warm memories with your children – sometimes this involves spending money, for instance taking them on vacation, but sometimes the most memorable moments have nothing to do with expensive toys, lunches or trips to amusement parks. Playing and running around with them, reading them a book or doodling with them might be the best thing you can do for them, that money can’t buy. Let your children know that money and things, though they may make some things in life easier, are not a prerequisite for happiness. 

Make sure you have health insurance for yourself and the kids. At the very least get your family on NHIF which now covers both in- and out-patient care. Medical bills can drain your finances, making it difficult to save and achieve other important financial goals. 

 Build an emergency fund with three to six months’ worth of living expenses saved up to cover you in case of an emergency that threatens to wipe out your resources, and undermines your ability to take care of yourself, your family and your children.

You might want to get life insurance which would help cater for your dependents’ needs if you died or got disabled before they are old enough to take care of themselves. Or at least have a contingency plan in the event that you were no longer able or available to take care of your children. If your death or incapacitation would throw your children into destitution, find ways to to mitigate this “worst-case-scenario.”

 Plan for retirement. Your children are not a guaranteed retirement plan, so don’t act as if they are. Have your own plan for financial survival once you get too old to actively earn a living; you need to be able to survive in the event that your children and everyone else abandons you. If your children choose to support you financially during your twilight years, it will be a bonus.

Remember you are not the Red Cross. Other people may have plans for your money, but put your needs and those of your family first. Don’t become the sacrificial lamb who takes on financial burdens of people who refuse to become financially responsible. Do not sacrifice your family at the altar of misplaced generosity.

Happy Father's Day!

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This post is un-African

Source: Masterfile.com

 

While I was away someone invented the afronometer and put mostly men in charge of it. And there is one peculiar thing about the afronometer: when it comes to making progress towards treating women with dignity and allowing them to exercise rights that were previously denied, it is rarely ever on the women’s side.

I have met with the afronometer when someone is arguing about the un-'Africanness' of gay rights, which is another debate altogether. Most times the afronometer is thrust forcefully upon me during discourse about why some things about the way women are treated need to change. As soon as I open my mouth to make a case for progress, someone somewhere, usually a man, blurts out: But that is so un-African!

Source: Africanholocaust.com

So I was not surprised to read an article on the Marriage Bill where a lawyer from the East Africa Law Society, no less, was quoted as having said that lawyers needed to advise Members of Parliament against the Bill because it is, wait for it, un-African. Never mind that he did not explain what was so un-African about it, or perhaps the reporter was only too happy to have gotten the perfect quote out of him, that he did not bother to put him to task to explain what about the Bill fails to measure up to the African standard. Other leaders, among them Kakamega senator Bonny Khalwale called on parliament to africanise the Bill.

What is African? How African are the clothes that you wear, the products that you use, your education, your religion,  your gods and so forth? If you were to examine every little thing about your life and culture, how much African would your afronometer find in it, or is 'Africanness' the convenient card we pull out to stand in the way of change that our minds have refused to process? A lot has changed since the origin of the African man.

Source: Superstock.com

We have adopted some cultures and assimilated them into ours, discarded some and retained others, and by so doing we have shown that culture is not a static phenomenon. It is dynamic -- constantly changing with the times. We pick some, drop some and get on our way. That is why our views on marriage and the place of men and women in it are being reviewed to be in sync with the realities of this time. In any case, I would say that the Marriage Bill has recognised  what some men would call African culture fully, by officially embracing polygamy. But the clause that would have men’s boxers in a twist is probably the part where they have to get the consent of their first and other wives before bringing in new wives, and other such ‘un-African’ measures, whereas before they could do whatever they pleased without seeking anyone’s consent. The only men who should be running scared about the Marriage Bill are those whose treat women without decency, respect and dignity. Those who have been treating women with dignity, know that the Bill is just a physical reminder of what they have known to be right all along. 

And for those whose argument against the Bill is its 'Africanness' or lack of it: to say that something is un-African is a fallacy. If anyone has a problem with a law, a custom or anything else, he should state why that thing is a problem and argue out his case instead of hiding behind 'Africanness' only when it suits him.

Read a copy of the Marriage Bill, 2013 here, so that you can make an informed and objective contribution to the Legal and Justice Affairs parliamentary committee as it holds it's public hearings on the Bill around the country, this August: http://goo.gl/E6WKGZ

 

Foray into the Zanzibar night

Zanzibar at last: Part 2

Read part one here

The best time to experience Zanzibar, at least during Ramadhan, is in the evening. The days may be dull, humid and dreary, but the island comes alive at night, more so at Forodhani. I discovered this three hours after setting foot on the island; by then I had parted ways with my German companions, found my host, Ahmed and cruised around the island in his car; met Muumin, a local tour guide who would be showing me around during my stay, gone to my room, freshened up and napped and was now ready to get a proper taste of the island.

 My initial impression on arrival was that, Unguja looked nothing close to what I had dreamt. I had always imagined that it looked somewhat like Lamu, with narrow sandy streets and buildings that took one back in time to the days of the sultans. What I saw instead were streets that could have been anywhere – the exotic feel I had expected was going to be a mirage, but I could live with that. What I did like about it was the hospitality and friendly brotherliness of everyone I met - it all made me feel at home. I also liked that my room had a balcony and window overlooking a neglected building – not much of a view, but the few palm trees towering over it and the houses surrounding it built in the traditional coastal design gave me a sense of being on an island.

  Muumin came to get me at 7pm after iftar (breaking the fast). We would be walking to Forodhani Gardens, the nightly centre of attraction, through the city centre and the labyrinth of narrow roads through Stone Town and into the food market at Forodhani. Earlier, that evening as we docked at the harbour, there had not been much activity going on at the gardens, but after sunset, the area came alive with a bustle of activity from food vendors, tourists and locals swarming the gardens to get a piece of the action. The warm orange light from the gas lanterns and sizzling sounds off the grills added to the lively atmosphere that interspersed beautifully with a breeze from the sea. Muumin and I shuffled around the stalls, he making small talk with the food vendors, while I sampled what I would have for dinner. I settled on a Zanzibar pizza, freshly-squeezed sugarcane juice and a bunch of deliciously red Shokishoki –an indigenous fruit from the lychee family, with a tasty white pulp, for dessert.

 I watched as the vendor rolled out the dough, put it on the grill and made the pocket-size pizza. Then I sat on the edge of the sea wall overlooking the waterfront and savoured my meal of choice. This sure had to be a people-watcher's paradise, I thought, as I took in the splishing and splashing of the young men and boys diving and swimming in the cool waters below. Muumin explained that in keeping with abstaining from worldly pleasures during the holy month of Ramadhan, people could only take a dip at night. He suggested that I also cool off in the sea and made as if to give me a mock push over the edge and into the waters below, as I squealed in frightened laughter. 

After dinner, and as we made our way through Stone Town again Muumin regaled me with tales of Zanzibar and why the young men were fed up and wanted independence from Tanganyika. He left me after making sure that I was safely inside my room, and tired I curled right into bed and drifted to sleep. Muumin would be back in the morning to take me sight-seeing around the main Island.

Part 3 coming soon.

 

The struggle to find a fitting name

                               f -e-l-e-p-i-p-h-a-n-y

I would never marry a man who couldn't get my name right. Instead, I'd dump him in the box of people who contort straightforward names and insist on adding letters to a name that is already complete. Mine is one of those clear-cut names, but like any other, it is often subjected to unnecessary distortion.

I once wanted to change my name. Not to anything simpler, but to something that would get me into heaven.

I must have been about six years old or so, and I had just read one of those doomsday booklets. From the message in that pamphlet, one thing stuck and terrorised my naive brain no end: those whose names were not in the Book of Life were thrown into the flaming fire, and there was weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I already knew that fire was not something you wanted to be immersed in for eternity; and I thought my mum had deliberately set me on the path to hell by choosing to give me a name that was not in the Book of Life (which I assumed was the Bible). Why did my siblings and everyone else in the family, except me, have a name that was in the Book of Life? I had to do something fast before Jesus came back, as then it would be too late to get my name in and I would be thrown into never-ending fiery torment, complete with an ever-present horned devil turning up the coals with his fire fork to keep the heat at its peak.

The knowledge that Jesus was "coming soon", made me even more desperate. However, I couldn't ask my mother for a new name, nor could I change my name behind her back, because as anyone who grew up during my time as a child can attest, an African mother's decision was final and the thought of questioning it was enough to make the contents of my ready-to-leak bladder stream down my trembling legs into an unwelcome puddle.I just had to wait it out, and hope that Jesus delayed the Second Coming, until after I had succeeded in getting myself a name like Mary. Thankfully, age intervened and I discovered that the Bible was not the book in which my name had to be for me to be let through the Pearly Gates.

Nevertheless, even after I figured out that the Book of Life was something other than the Holy Bible, I still flirted with the idea that I could have had a better-sounding, sexier, more glamorous name. But with billions of possible forenames to choose from, I suffered from the paralysis of unlimited choice and I let it go. I have since come to terms with my name and even began to love it.

Going back to my roots

I am a woman of many names - originally named after my aunt and my great aunt before her. Traditionally (among the Kikuyu), children are named after their ancestors according to a laid-down naming system, with little or no alteration. Most of those who had been on earth before me and my peers, and whom we were named after, had unexciting forenames like Loise, Esther, Mary, Naomi, Priscilla, Anne ... but by the time I popped out, my mother's generation was already experimenting with more exotic names like Yvonne (this sounds very plain now), so I did not take my great aunt's full name as was the norm, but it was still mine to have and the really old folks refer to me by her first name, Loise. It was the name on my birth notification, before my mother was hit by a wave of inspiration and found a better name - the name I struggled to love and accept for a better part of my life. I have always loved my middle name, though; I'm convinced that no other name would make a sweeter-sounding replacement. My love for my middle name had my heart racing when I toyed with the idea of dropping my English name so that I could be true to my roots and be fully "African".

I also went through a phase of matching up the names of the guys I was interested in or dating, with mine, to see if they rhymed or went well together when put together. I also checked if the men's names would sound awesome when appended to the names I had in mind for my future children. Then in defiance of tradition, I decided that I did not have to adopt the name of the man I married. If he was too fussy, I would hyphenate it to include his while maintaining my original name in a double barrel that almost worked for everyone. This is also the time when I questioned why men couldn't take their wives' name instead.

I have flirted with changing my name on many occasions, but I didn't and now I'm kinda stuck with it, unless something really drastic happens and I have to change my entire identity. What surprises me is that almost every American celebrity you read or hear about has had their name changed at least once. This is especially true for those in the arts. Most times it is usually because their given names could supposedly not work in the world of the arts where image matters. They needed a more salable name.

I would not trade my name for anything now. I have become accustomed to it, and even like the sound of it, and if a man can't get my simply simple name right, I would probably marry him, but only if there was something funny about the way he couldn't get it right.

One last thing:

Before I was baptised at around age five, I took baptism classes as was the tradition before the all-important Anglican (Christian) ritual could be performed. On the eve of the ceremony, at the rehearsal, a lay leader took us, the baptism candidates, through D-day's programme and demonstrated what would be expected of us. We did some role-playing just to get it right: the lay leader acted as the priest while we responded to his prompts in our capacities as baptism candidates. And so it went:
  
Lay leader:  Mũtungatĩri akoria, "wĩtagwo atĩa?" Nawe ũgacokia [na rĩtwa rĩaku]: "Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri." 
(The priest will ask your name and you will answer e.g. My name is Josephat Karuri, and the minister will proceed to baptise you with that name that you have proclaimed.)

Having listened carefully, I was picked to go first.

Lay leader: Wĩtagwo atĩa? (What is your name?)

Me: Jĩtagwo Josephat Karũri?
(My name is Josephat Karuri! [said with enthusiasm to an audience which immediately burst into roaring laughter]

Thankfully, I got my name right during the actual baptism, otherwise Josephat Karũri would be part of my already long name.

One Day I Will Write

Lately I've had episodes of wisdom and flashes of enlightenment that have me thinking it would be a good time to start writing my memoirs.

An apt title would be One Day I Will Write About This Place but Binyavanga Wainaina beat me to it with his critically acclaimed memoir. Though I have not read the book yet, the title alone is enough to get me interested. It has a nice nostalgic ring to it; the kind of nostalgia that would give me a literary high.

The East African edition published by Kwani Trust, is being launched in two days and I am already expectant.

I have read a few autobiographies and certainly The Long Walk To Freedom by Nelson Mandela left an indelible mark. But as I mentioned at the beginning, this year I have experienced events that have challenged me to shift from a memoir reader to a memoir writer.

It began in March. It was a dark month that I would rather sweep under the carpet and act as if it never happened. But something tells me that the March story has to be told at some point.

Now that I mention it, it began way before the third month, with events that lined up like stars to decide my fate. It was a steady downward spiral, sprinkled with an assuming attitude that saw me admitted to hospital.

Yeah, apart from giving me three days experience in a hospital bed, and wishing every moment that this was not happening. I met a loving, but sick mother of another young lady like myself and her words got me thinking. I got a reassurance of friendship and that of a mother's love, that would require a lengthy tribute in itself. If I have never appreciated my mother, that is when I truly understood the turmoil of motherhood and the love that tempers it.

That is a story I tell in bits because I am not ready to tell it fully. But one day I am going to write about it. I have bookmarked it in my mind and I will tell that story fully because I know it will be a balm to another person.

Reflecting on this makes me understand why, many times, the subjects of my writings want to hold back on sharing painful memories. No one wants to open wounds and shout to the world that they  were less than perfect, but the thing is that when you do, the healing begins.

Sentimental stuff is made of this, but what is life without a dose of crazy?

In my memoir I will write about dating con artists. For a person who could easily be awarded an honorary diploma in relationship expertise, by virtue of my work, I have had my fair share of hilarious drama in that area. I'm not sure where to start without breaking into endless laughter, so I'll save it for the memoir.

There are so many other stories of struggle, of triumph and defeat; comedies, epics, dramas and running over. It will make a thick book to tell this story.

Everyone has a story, which when shared will touch another life by way of entertainment, growth and in many other ways. Those who tell their stories find meaning and healing.

This is my story, what's yours?

Celebrating New Year again – the Chinese way

Chun jie kuai le!

Two weekends ago I had the pleasure of joining the Chinese community in Kenya in celebrating their new year. I had already marked New Year, a few weeks back, with a large portion of the world, which follows the Gregorian calendar. But there is something uplifting about new beginnings, so I did not hesitate to join the fray again.

The ceremony was to begin promptly at four, but it seems we have a lot in common with the Asian tigers when it comes to timekeeping. Two hours into the scheduled time, we were still waiting for the event to begin, and when it finally did, I almost walked out in protest. It turned out that we had been waiting for a Kenyan foreign affairs official -the chief guest- to arrive, before the ceremony could begin. That sort of got the Chinese off my list of  ‘African timers’. However, they still failed, in part, for not distracting the audience with entertainment during that long wait before the real act began.

After a few speeches, the cultural showcase finally began. I am big on culture, so I was looking forward to some exciting performances and I wasn’t disappointed. Art appreciation knows no language barriers, so despite my faltering grasp of Chinese, the language of the day, I was fully taken in by the performances. The dancers had electrifying moves that made the audience want to join them on stage, the singers had silky voices that penetrated deep into the soul and the overall oriental energy on display was captivating.

Why can’t the Chinese celebrate New Year with the rest of the world?

Unlike the Gregorian calendar, recognised by most of the world as the official measure of years, the Chinese calendar is based on a combination of lunar and solar movements. To harmonise the two, an extra month is inserted once every few years, just like an extra day is added every leap year on the Gregorian calendar. That is why the Chinese New Year falls on a different date each year.

New year’s day falls on the first day of the new moon after winter. For the Chinese, New Year is not just a one-day affair. It is a 15-day festival, also known as the spring festival that is marked with pomp, colour and festivity. During this festival, the colour red is used prominently because it is believed to attract good fortune. The crowning moment is the last day during which the lantern festival is held.

Like in other cultures, New Year among the Chinese is a time for family reunions.  Family members come together to celebrate, feast, and give thanks for the old and new year,  and to mark a new beginning.

Many rituals and symbols of good luck accompany the celebrations. One that struck me is the one where all houses are spring-cleaned from corner to corner in readiness for New Year. This ritual is supposed to remove any bad luck lurking in the house and open up the house to good fortune. I bet no Chinese house would be featured in the How Clean is Your House reality TV show. And of course the festival would be incomplete without the fireworks,dragon dances and parades on display throughout the two-week festival.

I did not wait long enough for the ceremony to end, but I left with the knowledge that 2011 is the year of the rabbit – a far cry from the ferocious year of the tiger that was marked last year. But docility is a welcome retreat from the bold, aggressive and unrelenting approach of the past year. People born in this year i.e. rabbits are believed to be keen, wise, tranquil, sneaky, fragile and fashionable among other traits. If I were Chinese I’d say this is going to be a calm year when some of the most dazzling works of fashion will be created. So my Chinese gene is yearning for an impressive Jimmy Choo collection some time this year.