Black Make Sense

I sing aloud to songs. And to the craziest songs. In my car, in my house, in your house, my office, his plane, your car, your pub. Like Macy Gray’s ‘I try’. I am sure this little fact makes me something in this over-analysed world we live in. Perhaps I wasn’t breast fed on weekends. But I don’t give a damn. Even if all the kids in the world are at danger of dying for lack of damn, and I have all the damns in my pocket, I wouldn’t give a damn, to paraphrase Mr. Chris Rock. I sing aloud to some songs. Like Snoop’s Lodi Dodi. All Biggie tracks. Franco. I sing aloud. Tracy Chapman. Bob. Marvin Gaye. Matchbox. Turbulence. Maxi Priest. Mr. Cheeks.

I am singing aloud to Billie Ocean. He is saying, he can’t take it any more. He is innocent, innocent, guilty of nothing, he resents that he was put in a prison without water, pressure, pressure. I am having my first alcoholic drink in 8 days. Am almost back into Kenyan territory, but for a small problem. No road, and my passport is with some immigration official. This, despite the fact that I am the one who wrote the book, ‘Never Give Anyone Your Passport’. Another small problem is lack of aircrafts, an acute shortage of. But there is Guinness in this roofless bar. And 32 cats. The small domestic variety, cats, looking at me. Am eating liver, beef, goat meat and some chicken. And on my third very cold Guinness and singing loudly with Mr. Ocean.

The 32 cats are here for a reason. There are many flies and mosquitoes here in wild Africa, gathered around this camp because of human activities. As a result, there are many lizards and gecko, big and many. Cats keep the population of these reptiles in check. A very delicate balance, each small animal on our planet playing its role unknowingly, diligently. Meanwhile, man destroys forests and holds political rallies the next day.

Today is the first time I am hearing songs I have heard before, in 8 days, first time I am even seeing a beer. And first time I saw a mirror in 8 days. Yap. That was scary. Mirrors. Faces. The part of the body we can’t see, but that others see first and use to judge us. I saw a hairy bearded African man with hungry sunken eyes. I don’t know who that is. But it has been a tough 3 days trip to this place. The last 8 days have aged me considerably. I am fighting to be home by Christmas. By all indications, I will make it.

The last 3 days have been interesting. In the book ‘Alchemist’, the writer suggests that life is a journey with meaning. Everything that happens, does so for a reason. Not for me, in my life things just happen.

One of the reasons I undertook this unusual journey is to collect information and develop contacts for a tour product me and some friends are developing. Lost. A tour for the unusual tourist who wants to go to places no one has gone before. A tour that takes you to meet people rather than only animals. How many times can you go to Diani Beach, room 563. You’re 30 years old, you’ve already done it 10 times. And you get a chance to give to poor communities, directly. And track your aid directly forever. It’s a big dream. A combination of my development work experience and my many travels. But now I need to get back home.

I started my journey home by climbing this huge rock in the middle of town X. Me and the crew of 10 pus who I go with everywhere. I had been avoiding this part of the tour because the rock is steep, I have the wrong shoes, and a new self appointed sheriff of this town had insisted that I must carry a gun. Yap. An AK47. Its heavy and the magazine is full. Worse, everyone is tense around me. You see, I have not been trained at all on how to use it. They’re scared, quite rightly so, that I may fire by mistake. I am also scared of this possibility more than they know. But the neighbouring tribe had apparently sent signals that they want some cattle. RBG, the chief real warrior told us the other day, when he was high on some plant he chews. It makes him see things. RBG is so called because he has killed 161 men from this neighbouring thieving tribe. He doesn’t count women and children, because he regrets it. RBG stands for his favourite weapon, the RPG, rocket propelled grenade. RBG. Small witty chap with the eye of an eagle. He carries an AK like mine, but his is decorated with yellow and red beads. So gay this killer.

So we all had to arm. And they gave me a Kalashnikov. To be honest, I like the look a little. A very tiny little. I took some pics but not sure I want to share them. Ok ok, if you insist. There you are.

To climb slippery steep rock in centre of town with leather sole shoes and armed automatic rifle was not in any of my 14 ‘lists of things I want to do’ this year, two thousand and mine. But I did. Without incident. At least not the the fatal type. A little worse, in my opinion. Some piece of shit. No, pieces of shit. If there is something I can’t stand, its human faeces, or any size, race or religion and in any place other than the deudonum. This rock gives a good view of the whole county, and is used for tourist type sight seeing, but also to tell if the enemy is planning mischief. It is also the chief toilet center of this town. You can poop, while enjoying a good view. Uber. Africa.

So we climb for those 2 reasons. To check that all is right ahead of the journey. And for me to see.

To get to the top of rock, we had to pass by a set of huts, that had weak skinny stinking naked people lazing outside. I was told that this was the TB ward of the town’s hospital. TB ward is a couple of huts. You’re basically unattended to, and sort of isolated, not really, people have to pass here to get to the shit rock hill. Half this shit is yours anyway. The last hut, near the rock hill was a small hut, smily kid with the largest head I ever saw. Cephalo-something. He and his mother are outcasts. She gave birth to a monster. Only my watch reminds me that it is less than 10 days to 2010, not 1810.

Then the rock. No, just before the shitty rock, a swarm of giant blue flies take flight. They’ve been, I don’t know, doing something to some pieces of meat the old woman and her big headed son have placed on some plant to dry. By now, am so sad and angry, I am breathing through all orifices. Am not sure who am angry at. But I am also wondering what I did to be so lucky. So spoilt. To be complaining about traffic jams in Nairobi. Back home in Nairobi we would sit in posh pubs and complain that police road blocks are a bother. They slow down traffic by 3 minutes, enough time to, I don’t know, listen to a full song on our Ipods. Ipods we bought on our trip to Melbourne last xmas. Some people have nothing at all. Yet I never heard them complain. I am so spoilt.

The view from the top was almost worth the shit. Just almost. When I tried to enjoy it and ponder the meaning of life, boy X walks up to me sheepishly. We’re supposed to hire a vehicle today and start the journey. I gave him cash 2 days ago. He either (a) used the money, (b) it was stolen, or (c) didn’t get a car. My heart doesn’t even sink; I am resigned to any and all possibilities. I even expect that he might tell me that my Kenya does not exist. That I was born and bred in this town, but have been having illusions of a place called Kenya that no one had heard of. That I am mad, thinking that there was a place where I had 268 friends on facebook. That it was all in my mind.

His news was even grimmer. The previous night, they had gone to the governor’s house to seek permission to leave town, to escort me. And found that his satellite TV system was working. And being good denizens, naturally they felt bad. Who wouldn’t. And after feeling bad, they thought they can help.
Surely, the governor needs to be happy. And with your satellite TV system down you can’ t be happy? Can you?

I say, no. But that happens often enough even in Europe, I point out.

He says yes.

Ok, so?

He tells me that he promised the governor that I can fix it. I say ok. No problem, just tell him I will not, coz I cannot. Boy X starts trembling. Everyone is sad. Even RBG, he is looking at the horizon with his always sad gaze. He has empty evasive eyes. Small frame. And one bullet per person is his motto. Bullets cost a quarter USD here, he doesn’t like waste.

I look around, look at my gun. My leather shoes from Italy, the red ones. I look at the general direction of my country. If it exists. I tell them not to worry. To encourage me, they remind me that I can fix most things. Since I have been here, I have fixed a Thuraya Satellite phone, made a VCD player into a DVD player, installed AVG free anti-virus on the priest’s 1999 Pentium 2 PC. I also put for him a picture of his mother as the desktop. I also fixed the County’s Ford’s lighting system and transferred pics from a digital camera to my laptop. I nod sadly at these facts. The evidence is against me.

So are we leaving today?

He says, yes, has paid for car, owned by governor, it’ll pick us from governer’s house. Let’s head to governors house so that we finish early and set off. That stretch between ‘our’ tribe and the next is ‘not good’ thugs and rebels.

We’re going in a convoy of several cars since all 11 odd people are coming?

No, we’re all fitting in one car. Ha ha, he laughs to himself.

So am at governor’s house. This might as well be the house the house of Mugabe. We might easily be in a house in Muthaiga. Old Muthaiga. Splendour. Riches. Affluence. Opulence. Grandeur. Hardly 2 minutes walk from the most extreme poverty I ever saw.

Governor. Like his palace, he is grand. A lot of light blue shiny cloth was used to make his outfit, many curtains are locked in that outfit. Many flags. Thick fingers emerge from somewhere in the shiny blue outfit and greet me warmly. A warm sincere smile. He calls me brother. Sit down brother. Thick fingers open a refrigerator and extract 3 green cans of 7UP, cold. He offers me one, boy X one and one for hisself. First cold drink am having in 8 days. My hands are shaking. Or would you rather have some water he asks. I see a jug of warm water resting on his glass coffee table in front of us. The contrast is stark, my choice is surely obvious to such a great man as the governor.

A cold soda! What! I shout YEAH! Jump out into the backyard and do summersaults, back flips, side dancing like Jonah Lomu and the All Blacks First XV team during the 1995 Rugby World Cup in South Africa. I like to move it move it! I like to move it move it. Who da man! Yawhooooo! Huuuraaaaay! Who’s your daddy? Eh? Who’s your dadddddddy! Eh? Soda baridi! Harambeeeeee! Nyayo! Then I dance like those lions that dance kayamba Africa songs on TV, like that fat cartoon that dances in that old Barclays (hereafter reffered to as anti christ) TV ad, tout le monde est bina. Lke that pointi who dances in Awilo’s coupe coupe bibamba, je m’appelle, coupe coupe bibamba.

I do none of that. As calm as possible, I grab the cold can with a firm grip and nod importantly. I sit and calmly open the can, calm but with enough strength to break open a G4S armoured car, or maybe to close a G4S van, opening them seems pretty easy. I say am fine, how is he. It’s a pleasure to finally meet him. I see boy X from the corner of my eye, he opted for the warm water. He is mad. I think it is because the mechanics of opening a can would embarrass him and he would be sent to the lions. The rest of the gang have been asked to wait outside in a beautiful large cool grass thatched out house, where, I guess, the governor meets dirty people. His dirty people.

Its 8 days since I had a cold soda at JKIA. Its not even 10.00 am, but outside the temperature is hotter than hell. Not hell on a normal day, hell on the day Lucifer and his assistants have been emailed that some thieving politicians are coming. That they are great sinners. Burn them proper the email says. Though I wonder why Satan, who likes sinners, would want to burn them. I guess he is just a bad boy, burning his friends and enemies alike. Evil bad boy this satan guy.

Anyway I need to drink this soda badly. Some of you know how I drink soda, if and when. One gulp down is the only way. So you can imagine in these circumstances how urgent the matter is. Governor is uber talking, talking too much. Boy X is trembling. Am holding a can. 2 servants hang around in case we need anything. We have cold sodas, surely what else can we need in life. Governor opens his can noiselessly, lifts is thick neck and downs it. He he, we’re gonna be pals with this guy for life. Pals for life PLF. I relax in my seat, twist my neck from side to side like a wrestler. I mutter under my breath some abusive Kuria words, ‘nyankundo, abantu bano nabakangi’, harmless insults at no one, lift the can faster than I want to, close my eyes and pour it into my systems. Gai fafa. I open my eyes, fart and burp at the same time. Bliss. Yash pal fafa.

Then the moment passes. I come to my senses. I look around boy X is attending to some urgent matters on his hand. He has focused all his attention to his open palm, which is now placed so close to his face, he must be able to see even the veins deep inside. I thank him for this distraction.

The 2 servants however, may they arrive in hell the same day as the thieving politicians. The buffoons are looking at me open mouthed. Making the situation worse than it already it, it at all that is possible. Governor, on the other hand staring at me with an expression that is hard to read. I am not sure how or what I feel. My body feels very very fine thanks for asking. The soda is doing rounds in my pipes cooling everything and making me feel very very good thanks for asking.

My mind, am not sure. I am holding the green can in my hand, I look at it and now realise I had crashed it during that loud public orgasm I had just had. It is resting on my slim hand. I also get an urge, like boy X to study the patterns of my slim hands. But I resist. We are waiting for something. Tension. Then suddenly, another loud burp bbrrrrrrrup aaarghaa. Then a good noisy fart, buuuuuuprrrr.

No no, relax, its not me. It’s the governor. He then bursts into loud laughter. And we all laugh with him. At him, by him and for him. We open our mouths wide, lean back into chairs and laugh loud. I am semi-skilled at loud laughing, some people would even call me a pro, but these chaps are formula one laughologists. So we laugh. Governor’s thick fingers wipe giant tears off his face, my slim fingers wipe tears off mine. We laugh ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaa. Out of breath. Ehe ehe eh ehaaaaaa haaaaa haaaaaa…. Waaaaa ha ha ha haaaaaaa uuuuha hahahahahaaaaaaaa. Wala haaa aaaaa aaaa. Like an engine refusing to start. Tears, sweat.

It’s a bit obscene. A bit like illegal carnalities, Idi Amin and 3 girls, when everyone is exhausted, nude, panting, sweating, spent, now soberer (All this of course I read somewhere on the net). A little discomforting. Shyness. ‘What next’ is written in caps, all over the walls, ceiling, floor, and is playing on the CD and showing on TV. What next.

Not so hard. You don’t become a governor just like that. You’re good at handling every situation. We overcome this quickly. He starts chatting. As I guessed, we’re best friends for life. We talk about Alexandria, Egypt. Kinshasa, DRC. Marlyland. Alaska. Medicine. Law. Olympics. Philosophy. Literature. Religion. Tennis. Film. World War 2. He is well read and has travelled the world. We talk about Mandela, Winston Churchill, Mohamed Amin, Gandhi. Lebanese cuisine. Oil trade. Terrorism.

Boy X, his head is shifting front and back like a pendulum. I see from the corner of my eye, and know that he is asleep, fighting to keep awake. I have a silly mind that is always looking for something funny in everything. I read somewhere that whatever you look for in life, you’ll see it everywhere. If you’re looking for sadness, you’ll notice all the sadness in everyone. If you’re looking out for happy faces, you’ll see plently. Even physical stuff. If you’re looking out for how many red cars there are, on that day you’ll see many red cars.

My silly mind is always looking out for funny stuff. A skinny African boy trying to keep awake, head moving back and front is funny by most standards, whether you’re saved or not. So I say to mind, don’t look at him. That’s the other thing never to tell my mind. Oi! Now tears are flowing freely, sweat is trickling down my meaty ribs. I am laughing so hard on the inside, waiting for the smallest joke so that I burst out. Nothing. He is telling me that presidential jets are given an allowance of 4000 feet above and below, for security reason. Eh? I put a finger in my mouth, suddenly interested in my dentures, hiding the grin that is about to take over my whole being. The laughter that wants to burst like a My chubby tummy is heaving like am going to have a fit, an orgasmic fit. From the corner of my eye, Boy X’s head went back and hit the posh seats. That was the trigger.

Bwaha aha ahahaahaaaaaaaaaa! My friends, I laughed. Nilicheka. Nikacheka. Nikacheka.

I have no idea why. An annoying therapist pal later told me it was relief, mixed with unrelief. You know how they talk therapist. Anger with non-anger. Happination mixed with sadnation. Poverty living with right next to great riches. The contrast of life. Only in Africa.

If you’re wondering, the decoder, I fixed it.