10 provincial towns, 5 poor countries, 3 weeks
The driver who picked me at the airport spoke neither English nor Kiswahili. He didn’t speak French either. He was fluent in aggressive driving and muttering nothing under his breath. He is the most polite man I have ever met to date.
It was an awkward greeting. We shook hands and each one muttered his own rubbish to himself. Then walked to the car. He did not help me with my bags. He drove me aggressively to my hotel. Luckily the receptionist spoke English. She told me not to open my windows. She also told me that an English Premier league team had beaten another English Premier league team in a football match. I know nothing about soccer, so escape at high speed to my room, 605, far from the lifts thankfully.
I had seen government security chaps at the hotel’s reception. They always dress in smart cheap suits but what really what gives them away is the Gideon boots, haute couture. Now I see one has taken a room next to mine. Every time I come to this country, they confuse me for their most serious security threat. Their intelligence is poor. For one, am obviously not a threat to the government of this highly indebted poor country, HIPC. Secondly, if I can tell am being secretly trailed, then you’re doing a poor job of secretly trailing me. Thirdly, they always get my nationality wrong, that means they think am a different person every time they see me, ie they have no records. Fourthly, they spend too much government funds trying to get me drunk, then get drunk before me and start disclosing state secrets. This time they told me the big man has a Gulf Stream, twice as expensive as our man’s Fokker. 55,000 feet easily this thing.
Il vaut mieux être seul que mal accompagné.
Vraiement. My room cost 75 USD. Only one other room is taken in the whole floor, but the bar is full from 1600hrs. Its 1530hrs, so I throw my bags into the 75 dollars room, and this time I use the lift down. At the lobby, I meet my driver. I feel guilty for having kept him waiting for me for more than a minute. He spreads out his hands showing unusually white palms. He means, ‘so, what’s the plan’ in his own language. I offer him a drink in sheng (he can’t understand), “niaje, si ucome nikubuyie barley moja, speedy ni ya?’ He folds his hand as if holding a mobile phone, and lifts this imaginary phone to his ear. I think he is asking me if I have a phone, I shake my head, and mouth 'no'. He asks ‘Nairobi?’ while pointing at the ceiling, I look up, and say no, I don’t own a mobile phone. I don’t have one. The receptionist laughs loudly at this. She had been listening and watching this short local drama series silently but now gave herself a supporting role. ‘eh! no one can’t have-u a mobile-y phone-u ‘ she says. They exchange rapid African with the driver. It’s a northern dialect. Shortly the man is busy juggling 3 phones in his unusually white palms and SIM cards being thrown from one hand to another with celerity. Shortly, he hands me an expensive Korean phone. Like a ventriloquist, he gestures with his hand as the receptionist behind us talks. It’s a confusing image. A lady’s voice coming from behind me as this man gestures. In short, it’s a prize giving ceremony. The chap has made an electronic offering to welcome me to the 21st Century. He is giving me a phone. I protest by shaking my head and pocketing. He slips it into my jacket and a female voice behind me announces that Aku will be back tomorrow morning at 0830hrs. We need to start the journey early. All this time I did not know his name. Aku. I inquire, no, its not short for something, it’s the long form of his name Ak. I find that so uber. In this country, they don’t shorten words, they make them longer. Sui generic.
Aku disappears into the emptiness in very fast slow motion like Kanda King. He is muslim, he doesn’t drink alcohol, the loquacious receptionist tells me.
With my new phone and number, I walk into the bar to drink with spies. Its now 1605 and the bar is full. It has been redone since I last saw it. Ultra modern, flat panel screens, stainless steel stools, glass barrels with young Africans, 4 per table, talking on their phones. Or sending texts. An international news network shows Germans celebrating 20 years since the Berlin wall came down.
I study the bar and notice 2 new lagers in small green bottles and ask for them. This prompts the barman to give me an update of the beer industry, market intelligence on how all the brands are doing. He knows too much to be just a barman, and I add him to the list of spies. So now there are 4 in this bar. If you add me, that’s 5. But am no spy. Not in that sense. I am here to spy on the work of some people we want to work with. We suspect they are not what they say they are. And just like the other young Africans in the bar I start playing with my new phone. In foreign countries, I usually don’t drink the same drink twice, and I don’t drink anything I have drank before, until I have drunk everything I had never drank before and only then can I drink the same drink twice. Yap.
At 2010hrs, I have had enough lagers and overheard enough apocryphal tales. They’re all talking about the same thing. Their new cars and how fast they are and how they clocked 2 hours flat from the capital to the mining town. They also talk about the football that is played in England. I open the glass door and step into the street. This neo crowd is sad. They fill their loneliness with phones, alcohol and sports. I want to meet real people.
I walk the length of the longest street, looking for my favourite restaurant in this bucolic city. They serve South Indian food. For a Nairobian, walking in comfort and without fear is annoying. I am used to fear and I miss the adrenaline, the danger of walking from my desk to the toilet in Nairobi. Someone could attack you with a fundraising card. Or a grenade. Here, I walk fearlessly, with my new phone at hand. Finally, I find the hotel. I chat up the owner, he went to school in Parklands. We talk about Nairobi. This chap cooks at the restaurant, sells phones, cars, and mattresses to take care of his 4 kids and his cousin who is also his 17 year old wife. I seat on the terrace and observe the crowd. There is a theatre nearby, a group of middle aged Africans are walking out. They discuss the play they just watched animatedely with European accents and get into shining European cars.
Les fautes sont grandes quand l'amour est petit.
I order thengai sadaam, makhani chicken, diced, the chutney was made of tamarind, coconut, peanuts, dal, fenugreek seeds, and cilantro coconut & vegetable sauté, I also order a side dish of sambar and a beer. Here, unlike Kenya, all beer is served cold. Desert was palpayasam. Hot food, cool breeze, cold beer. My bliss is short lived however, a man walks to the table and asks if he may sit as he pulls a chair. I acquiesce to his request grudgingly with a polite smile. He is soon joined by a pretty plump lady in her 30s. He suddenly shouts, ‘praise the lord’ startling me, I drop my fork and puts my hands in the air, surrender. She answers a soft ‘amen’.
I catch bits of their conversation. She works in a government department, and he is a pastor, suitor and wedding consultant. He has just escaped a wedding planning meeting to meet her. He presents it with all the drama of prison break but this information doesn’t seem to impress her much. He asks her if she has been living according to the bible. She says yes. I sip my beer. He asks if there are new deals in her government department. She’ll let him know, but her new director is from another tribe, it will not be easy to do deals this time she says. Can he come to her place tonight, no, her mother is visiting. Long silence, during which he is staring at my beer as if it might turn into a highly venomous serpent and bite him. I sip again and start plotting an escape from this duo. They’re happy and sad. And lonely. Corrupt and religious. Hungry and full. I walk back to my hotel room with this sad thought in my mind. I fall asleep listening to an international news channel, and the silent noise of the Japanese air conditioner. I check the time and notice its 30 minutes to midnight, I also remember that it was my birthday today.
Monday, February 1, 2010
What's The Point Again?
What’s the point?
I thank you for not turning up for my birthday party. There wasn’t any space for you. Actually, there wasn’t any space for me either. I thank you for the gifts, the gift of love, and also for the gift of hate. As Pope Sean de Paul II used to day.
I woke up early. It must have been just before 1600hrs. Jumped into the dark shower room for a cold one and was so fresh and so clean clean in 30 minutes. I put on my old robe, Johnson baby powder and Roadster cologne by Cartier. Stepped out the room, stopped short, oh no, I went back in, I’d forgotten my AK 47 and a grenade. Things I never leave my room without after the Mau incident.
First thing I noticed was people, many. Something was amiss. Right outside my room, this stranger walks over to me, he says he is Mr. George Facebook, the owner of FB. First he says sorry for crashing my party, then says happy birthday. My party? Happy birthday? Actually, he says HB, that’s facebook language for happy b-day. Later when he is very drunk, he reveals his plan to reduce all languages to only the letters of the alphabet. This will reduce the energy spent on thinking, printing, insults, the benefits will be enormous he says. Less violence, fewer wars, it will also contribute to reduced carbon emissions and save the environment (or E) and avert climate change, CC. He then politely tells me his main point. ‘pls to go on CNN and AJ (Al Jazeera) and ask your fans to text…’ me on my YU line. He informs me that he has lost 300 gazillion million billion thousand dollars, my fans have sent so many b-day wishes, FB has crashed or as he says, ‘F H C’.
I push him aside and step into the old wooden stairs. I meet no one all the 3 floors down. Not even my butler Jeffrey. The silence from my garage is suspicious too. The old lex, coups, 2 bimas and 3 benzes are all quiet. I usually leave all my cars’ engines running (since practice makes perfect). Also just to spend more money. My bankers had complained that I need to spend more so that they can have space to put other people’s money. My cash had filled their vaults.
My 11 dogs are fed on gun powder, so they’re never quiet, bark all day all night like sub machine guns (SMGs) in the Democratic Republic of Somalia (serious, that’s what is written on Somali passports, and yes, they do have passports. I was double shocked too). So mes dogs, they bark in unison, having been trained by the crew from Tusker Project Fame, including Ian. But they’re quiet. I hold my gun tighter.
Don’t get me wrong, I know something is amiss, but I am not scared. Those of you over 12 years old recall that incident some years back, when I exhibited courage under fire. I was in an Emirates flight to Kitale, direct. Then we were hijacked by a bible-wielding young woman. She threatened to convert all of us to her radical sect of Christianity if the pilot did not land her in the middle of Mau forest. There is nothing as bad as a religious eco-terrorist. I had had some experience with these in uni. They would pee all over the toilet seat and spat while speaking.
Everyone has panicked, including the waiters and waitresses. Though when you serve food at 39,000 feet above sea level, we call you a steward, or hostess. I look at the poor passengers, they all love their various gods but are not keen on a face-to-face meeting today. I knew I had to do something to save them. The answer was Jesus. Prayer. I stood and said 47 (AK) Hail Mary’s while looking at her straight in the eye. An old trick I learnt from the movie ‘Exorcist’. My mother also used to do this every time she found me listening to Tupac’s ‘Hit ‘em Up’. She is so East side, wouldn’t take a diss on Biggie. She would then play Biggie’s ‘Who Shot Ya’ very loudly on her more expensive stereo.
I was on the 10th Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with you, and yet, nothing. The eco-terrorist was as determined as ever. No one was willing to give up their faith just to save a Mau, they would rather die (?). Since we were over the Mau, we would crash and destroy the big water tower in the middle of Mau and subsequently everyone would die of thirst. That would be the end of water. Dasani bottles would be sold empty. Beer would only have barley and hops. Powdered sodas. The fish in that aquarium in Klub House would have to fly around in that glass cage since there would be no water. We would all be overweight with bad skin since we can’t have the recommended 8 glasses of warm water every day, with a slice of lemon inside to help us lose weight and have good skin. They would be no water baptisms; it would only be baptism by fire. I was beginning to get terrified too. Next to me was the old lady from the TV Show Mother-In-Law. She said something that I will never ever forget in my life. ‘Help us’. That was the trigger, I knew I had to use the ultimate weapon. I sang ‘Kuna Dawa kuna dawa, kuna dawa kuna dawa’ I started clapping and swinging from side to side like in a kikuyu wedding, 2 steps left, pause, then 2 steps right, pause. I even span around twice. In club class, we had plenty of leg room for anti-dancing. Saint arap Moi, Saint Saitoti, pray for us.
Back to the here and now. I step out the last step at the ground floor. Lo! Alas! My unkempt lawn, the pot-holed road to the gate, as far as the eye can see, everything, everywhere, people, full of humanity. I hear one loudest HAPPY BIRTHDAaaaaeeeeoooooaaaawy! Everyone I don’t know is here. Plus a few familiar faces; Janet Jackson, John Gakuo and the magician from kini macho. I am telling you, the biggest crowd since Kanda Bongoman’s infamous Nyayo Stadium concert. Bigger than Reinhard Bonke’s crowd, bigger than ODM’s final rally at Uhuru Park before Kibaki stole the election that was followed by post election violence PEV which now Ruto says Raila didn’t win. Even bigger than that day when I threw a bash and Tim invited all his buddies, his pals outnumbered mine ratio of 300 to 1 and only 300 people attended. Everyone was here, clearing agents, former G4S staff, jicho pevu crew, that patikana host who looks at the wrong camera, the lady who killed General Kazini, Papa Wemba, mama Wemba, Wemba himself, and his sister Gwen Wemba.
I am literally pushing through people like in a number 145 githurai kahawa KU matatu pre-Michuki rules (PMR). The place is crowded like those number 111 KBSes that used to take me to high school. I was rarely dropped to school, I used public transport. My therapist says that is why I am obsessive about taking Zo to school daily, personally. I was once in a meeting in Hong Kong, I flew back to Nairobi just to drop him to school then flew back. The meeting was over when I got back. Up to now I don’t understand why I was sacked. My therapist said that my upbringing would make me an obsessive-compulsive, aggressive-inaggressive, active-inactive, present-absent, good-bad father. Confusing terms that don’t make sense. I stopped seeing him when I realised he was asthmatic. How can someone with such a problem be able to sort out my problems.
Crowds mobbing me, ‘hey Charlie, you’re the greatest industrialist, local investor, DJ (CM), inventor, journalist and international man of action, greater than mike power of Guinness kubwa’.
All nationalities, Congolese, Ugandans, Eritreans and coasterians. Japs, Indians and Luos. Aussies, brits, and former Kenyans now settled in the US and haven’t visited Kenya in the last 12 years. But they send money. And they blog regularly about the need for change. Some of them have even completed their first degrees.
Giant cake, it is 12 feet wide and 19 feet high. Bigger than the egos of my friends from back in the days who became celebrities and their memory failed them. I used to meet them at nakumatt ukay at midnight everyday and each time it went like:
‘It is me, Charlie? Marwa? Remember me? Class mates for 4 years? Registration number AK47 007 JB? Remember? Heeeeey, you can’t kumbuka? (I now switch to some fancy old sheng/slang) back in the days, sneaking to carni na ashu mfukoni, Ukazusha na makarao wakakurusha ndani? Visions? Bubbles?’
By this time a small crowd is gathered. People are staring. I turn to face the crowd, addressing no one in particular,
‘serious, ninamjua. Aki, we were in the same class’.
The attendants in nakumatt are now lol-ing live live. I give up. After that I event, I started going to nakumatt with a folder full of old photos, copies of certificates, report cards, evidence that I was I knew this celebrated ex-human being. To show the attendants and the small crowd.
Now of course I am in the limelight, I made it big and no one forgets me. I have done many things. Averting that terrorist attack on Mau for instance. However, as a result of this fame, I have developed a very short memory and cannot recall anyone from back in the days when we had only capital and metro fm. After my first appearance on beer project shame, my memory got worse. I can’t even recall my real name. People call me buda, mzee, mkubwa, munene, chief, uncle (ankal) and boss (personal favourite). Now when you meet me and I don’t recognise you, don’t get mad, pity me.
Back to the party, I am walking around nodding at people. Being a good host. DK is in the corner holding a vodka bottle in one hand and someone’s soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend in another, drank and stripped down to his boxers. This boy hates clothes. Tim is talking Spanish to a future ex. It’s an old trick this one, talk to a girl in a language she can’t understand. It is very hard to sustain a debate in a language you don’t speak, that’s why Saitoti was a good VP. Noko is demonstrating to Gatimu’s date how hand cuffs work. I linger a little here; a small sneeze and her clothes would surely fall off. Gangsta is telling Rakesh he can clear&forward 30 containers in a second ‘walai buda’. Don is telling Blakki that the leather seats in his new car, each seat is made from a different cow, but from the same family. They soon start talking about Subarus and the English Premier league. That’s how they have fun.
KAU is bragging that he was so drank, he has no idea how he drove all the way to Kitengela. It is my party, and I am filled with a sad happiness. I am full of emptiness.
Generali is telling some strangers that he just came from SA that morning. ‘I thought the World Cup had started’ he says and they all laugh. Sadly, it is true. He went to a stadium in Cape Town on 20th November 2009 and sat and waited, and after 3 days, finally gave up and went back to his hotel room. His older sister was sent to bring him back home. Generali has never been the same after his cat died in 2001. He comes from an extremely wealthy Kenyan family, his father stole land and money together with our national hero and first president Jomo Kenyatta in the 1960’s. They now changed the name from ‘stealing’ to ‘corruption’ on the advice of their lawyers. In heaven, they’ll argue that the word ‘corrupt’ is not in the 10 commandments and escape eternal damnation.
The party is kicking. As in K.I.C.K.I.N.G! or just K if you’re FB. Dr. Alban is shouting ‘no more wicked people what is it, one love’. The crowd is ecstatic. I put my hands together like in catholic prayer, I lift them up slowly as I shake my waist and look sideways, smiling. Try this dance move at home. Your hands are moving up as you move down and shake your waist with slow rapidity and with vigour. But am not good at dancing. As usual, am dancing to the next song. And waiting for the next birthday.
Though I still don’t get the point.
I thank you for not turning up for my birthday party. There wasn’t any space for you. Actually, there wasn’t any space for me either. I thank you for the gifts, the gift of love, and also for the gift of hate. As Pope Sean de Paul II used to day.
I woke up early. It must have been just before 1600hrs. Jumped into the dark shower room for a cold one and was so fresh and so clean clean in 30 minutes. I put on my old robe, Johnson baby powder and Roadster cologne by Cartier. Stepped out the room, stopped short, oh no, I went back in, I’d forgotten my AK 47 and a grenade. Things I never leave my room without after the Mau incident.
First thing I noticed was people, many. Something was amiss. Right outside my room, this stranger walks over to me, he says he is Mr. George Facebook, the owner of FB. First he says sorry for crashing my party, then says happy birthday. My party? Happy birthday? Actually, he says HB, that’s facebook language for happy b-day. Later when he is very drunk, he reveals his plan to reduce all languages to only the letters of the alphabet. This will reduce the energy spent on thinking, printing, insults, the benefits will be enormous he says. Less violence, fewer wars, it will also contribute to reduced carbon emissions and save the environment (or E) and avert climate change, CC. He then politely tells me his main point. ‘pls to go on CNN and AJ (Al Jazeera) and ask your fans to text…’ me on my YU line. He informs me that he has lost 300 gazillion million billion thousand dollars, my fans have sent so many b-day wishes, FB has crashed or as he says, ‘F H C’.
I push him aside and step into the old wooden stairs. I meet no one all the 3 floors down. Not even my butler Jeffrey. The silence from my garage is suspicious too. The old lex, coups, 2 bimas and 3 benzes are all quiet. I usually leave all my cars’ engines running (since practice makes perfect). Also just to spend more money. My bankers had complained that I need to spend more so that they can have space to put other people’s money. My cash had filled their vaults.
My 11 dogs are fed on gun powder, so they’re never quiet, bark all day all night like sub machine guns (SMGs) in the Democratic Republic of Somalia (serious, that’s what is written on Somali passports, and yes, they do have passports. I was double shocked too). So mes dogs, they bark in unison, having been trained by the crew from Tusker Project Fame, including Ian. But they’re quiet. I hold my gun tighter.
Don’t get me wrong, I know something is amiss, but I am not scared. Those of you over 12 years old recall that incident some years back, when I exhibited courage under fire. I was in an Emirates flight to Kitale, direct. Then we were hijacked by a bible-wielding young woman. She threatened to convert all of us to her radical sect of Christianity if the pilot did not land her in the middle of Mau forest. There is nothing as bad as a religious eco-terrorist. I had had some experience with these in uni. They would pee all over the toilet seat and spat while speaking.
Everyone has panicked, including the waiters and waitresses. Though when you serve food at 39,000 feet above sea level, we call you a steward, or hostess. I look at the poor passengers, they all love their various gods but are not keen on a face-to-face meeting today. I knew I had to do something to save them. The answer was Jesus. Prayer. I stood and said 47 (AK) Hail Mary’s while looking at her straight in the eye. An old trick I learnt from the movie ‘Exorcist’. My mother also used to do this every time she found me listening to Tupac’s ‘Hit ‘em Up’. She is so East side, wouldn’t take a diss on Biggie. She would then play Biggie’s ‘Who Shot Ya’ very loudly on her more expensive stereo.
I was on the 10th Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with you, and yet, nothing. The eco-terrorist was as determined as ever. No one was willing to give up their faith just to save a Mau, they would rather die (?). Since we were over the Mau, we would crash and destroy the big water tower in the middle of Mau and subsequently everyone would die of thirst. That would be the end of water. Dasani bottles would be sold empty. Beer would only have barley and hops. Powdered sodas. The fish in that aquarium in Klub House would have to fly around in that glass cage since there would be no water. We would all be overweight with bad skin since we can’t have the recommended 8 glasses of warm water every day, with a slice of lemon inside to help us lose weight and have good skin. They would be no water baptisms; it would only be baptism by fire. I was beginning to get terrified too. Next to me was the old lady from the TV Show Mother-In-Law. She said something that I will never ever forget in my life. ‘Help us’. That was the trigger, I knew I had to use the ultimate weapon. I sang ‘Kuna Dawa kuna dawa, kuna dawa kuna dawa’ I started clapping and swinging from side to side like in a kikuyu wedding, 2 steps left, pause, then 2 steps right, pause. I even span around twice. In club class, we had plenty of leg room for anti-dancing. Saint arap Moi, Saint Saitoti, pray for us.
Back to the here and now. I step out the last step at the ground floor. Lo! Alas! My unkempt lawn, the pot-holed road to the gate, as far as the eye can see, everything, everywhere, people, full of humanity. I hear one loudest HAPPY BIRTHDAaaaaeeeeoooooaaaawy
I am literally pushing through people like in a number 145 githurai kahawa KU matatu pre-Michuki rules (PMR). The place is crowded like those number 111 KBSes that used to take me to high school. I was rarely dropped to school, I used public transport. My therapist says that is why I am obsessive about taking Zo to school daily, personally. I was once in a meeting in Hong Kong, I flew back to Nairobi just to drop him to school then flew back. The meeting was over when I got back. Up to now I don’t understand why I was sacked. My therapist said that my upbringing would make me an obsessive-compulsive, aggressive-inaggressive, active-inactive, present-absent, good-bad father. Confusing terms that don’t make sense. I stopped seeing him when I realised he was asthmatic. How can someone with such a problem be able to sort out my problems.
Crowds mobbing me, ‘hey Charlie, you’re the greatest industrialist, local investor, DJ (CM), inventor, journalist and international man of action, greater than mike power of Guinness kubwa’.
All nationalities, Congolese, Ugandans, Eritreans and coasterians. Japs, Indians and Luos. Aussies, brits, and former Kenyans now settled in the US and haven’t visited Kenya in the last 12 years. But they send money. And they blog regularly about the need for change. Some of them have even completed their first degrees.
Giant cake, it is 12 feet wide and 19 feet high. Bigger than the egos of my friends from back in the days who became celebrities and their memory failed them. I used to meet them at nakumatt ukay at midnight everyday and each time it went like:
‘It is me, Charlie? Marwa? Remember me? Class mates for 4 years? Registration number AK47 007 JB? Remember? Heeeeey, you can’t kumbuka? (I now switch to some fancy old sheng/slang) back in the days, sneaking to carni na ashu mfukoni, Ukazusha na makarao wakakurusha ndani? Visions? Bubbles?’
By this time a small crowd is gathered. People are staring. I turn to face the crowd, addressing no one in particular,
‘serious, ninamjua. Aki, we were in the same class’.
The attendants in nakumatt are now lol-ing live live. I give up. After that I event, I started going to nakumatt with a folder full of old photos, copies of certificates, report cards, evidence that I was I knew this celebrated ex-human being. To show the attendants and the small crowd.
Now of course I am in the limelight, I made it big and no one forgets me. I have done many things. Averting that terrorist attack on Mau for instance. However, as a result of this fame, I have developed a very short memory and cannot recall anyone from back in the days when we had only capital and metro fm. After my first appearance on beer project shame, my memory got worse. I can’t even recall my real name. People call me buda, mzee, mkubwa, munene, chief, uncle (ankal) and boss (personal favourite). Now when you meet me and I don’t recognise you, don’t get mad, pity me.
Back to the party, I am walking around nodding at people. Being a good host. DK is in the corner holding a vodka bottle in one hand and someone’s soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend in another, drank and stripped down to his boxers. This boy hates clothes. Tim is talking Spanish to a future ex. It’s an old trick this one, talk to a girl in a language she can’t understand. It is very hard to sustain a debate in a language you don’t speak, that’s why Saitoti was a good VP. Noko is demonstrating to Gatimu’s date how hand cuffs work. I linger a little here; a small sneeze and her clothes would surely fall off. Gangsta is telling Rakesh he can clear&forward 30 containers in a second ‘walai buda’. Don is telling Blakki that the leather seats in his new car, each seat is made from a different cow, but from the same family. They soon start talking about Subarus and the English Premier league. That’s how they have fun.
KAU is bragging that he was so drank, he has no idea how he drove all the way to Kitengela. It is my party, and I am filled with a sad happiness. I am full of emptiness.
Generali is telling some strangers that he just came from SA that morning. ‘I thought the World Cup had started’ he says and they all laugh. Sadly, it is true. He went to a stadium in Cape Town on 20th November 2009 and sat and waited, and after 3 days, finally gave up and went back to his hotel room. His older sister was sent to bring him back home. Generali has never been the same after his cat died in 2001. He comes from an extremely wealthy Kenyan family, his father stole land and money together with our national hero and first president Jomo Kenyatta in the 1960’s. They now changed the name from ‘stealing’ to ‘corruption’ on the advice of their lawyers. In heaven, they’ll argue that the word ‘corrupt’ is not in the 10 commandments and escape eternal damnation.
The party is kicking. As in K.I.C.K.I.N.G! or just K if you’re FB. Dr. Alban is shouting ‘no more wicked people what is it, one love’. The crowd is ecstatic. I put my hands together like in catholic prayer, I lift them up slowly as I shake my waist and look sideways, smiling. Try this dance move at home. Your hands are moving up as you move down and shake your waist with slow rapidity and with vigour. But am not good at dancing. As usual, am dancing to the next song. And waiting for the next birthday.
Though I still don’t get the point.
Stay Alive - Bee Gees
Side Mirror Ya Ndege
Lying is a process of altering reality and expressing it to some other party. Stealing the truth from others. There are many reasons why we lie.
1. To save a marriage – I did NOT have sexual relations with that woman.
2. To save a reputation – I DID have sexual relations with those women, all of them
3. To save money – Sema buda, niko home na familia, leo siwaki, good night
4. To save time – Chief, another call coming, si I’ll call you back
5. To earn money – looks exactly like you, aki this is your child kabisa, ona hiyo kisogo
6. To earn respect – I resigned, got tired of that place
7. To earn a drink – Charlie? Ati what? Me? That chick? I know her vizuri sana from Braeside, ebu wait you see.
8. To make Sanko, K-Tray and Zo happy – I am superman, I can fly
9. un-deliberate lies – do you know uncle Charlie can fly? Yes, he can.
Other lies are, ‘this is on discount best price vithout Wi. A.T’, ‘boss, this is Made in Japan’, ‘mimi na apa ya kwamba…’, ‘let’s have one last drink’ and, ‘it wasn’t me’.
Ritcher scale liar
Strange chap. He is fat. Actually, when I think of it, he is not ati thaaaat fat. He is just big. Light skinned, dark around the eyes and lips. When I join the table, there is a matchbox in his hand. It quickly disappears. No idea why some people are ashamed of the fact that they smoke. He is wearing a navy blue very very very big LA Lakers sweat shirt. And it looks very very cozy and warm. It’s a quality that he has lent it. And he has his hands crossed against each other in front of him. You know how you sometimes cross your hands together, fingers of one hand into the fingers of the other. Then your thumbs rest on each other, slapping each other playfully, rapidly, distractingly. Well, for this guy, his hands are floating on the navy blue LA Lakers sweat shirt. He has a fluid liquid big tummy. Very strange, very big. It protrudes outwards and sideways, and also looks hard, stiff. His fat fingers rest gingerly on this thing. Floating.
There are 4 other people on the table when I join. I have been in this country for only a few hours, but can tell these are 1st generation highly skilled workers, most in the late 20s, mainly from Africa and Asia. He is older. From the story, I calculate that he must be 36. He wears the face of an 18 year old overweight girl, on the body of a 60 year old diabetic. Very confusing this image. The others seem to regard him with some awe. He is the centre of attention in this bar that has 20 tables. All the tables are full, 7 inside, about a dozen outside, a very cold wind is blowing. He talks without moving any part of his body. His lips, his hands, his whole body is still. But I notice a very rapid high frequency movement below the table. He is shaking his left leg at a very high speed. Only his left leg.
He is telling us about an earthquake. He was on the 14th floor when it happened. That it had happened for 3 days consecutively and he had not noticed. Apparently because he had a lady in his bed throughout this time, with whom they were too busy doing something else, something we do when dressed like we’re going to shower. Looking at him, this fact is hard to picture. Anyway, I listen on. I sit and order a drink, no one pays attention to my intrusion. His eyes are fixated on some imaginary pole protruding from the floor in the middle of the table as his stiff lips narrate this story. I get the image of a corpse telling a story. A shiver, I sip my milky beer. Actually, my lager is not milky at all. I realise that my healthy table mate sort of gives everything a healthy milky quality. Even saliva tastes like a milk shake when you sit next to him. I puke on the inside at this thought.
So anyway, an earthquake, he says. My mind drifts off, am thinking of how am beginning to hate JKIA. Then I hear my name. “so Charrrlllle, how is Kenya” he asks without looking at me. He is still staring at the middle of the table. “How is Uhuru, Mboya and Kipchoge?” totally unrelated random Kenyans. Or perhaps he knows something. Maybe Kipchoge was running so fast because he knew that Tom Mboya was Uhuru’s dad and so a motive for murder. And now I know, am an accomplice. And now Mwalimu Mati will start tarnishing my name. Now I feel like running too.
He slowly shifts his gaze to me. Only the eyes move (ebu try it at home). I look back. All the other immigrants look at me. Am silent. Its one of those questions that are said in a manner that tells you, please shut up and listen to me. The way Jimmy Gathu treats us in a bar near my place. I feel like taking a milky sip, but I resist. I feel the weight of 12 eyes on me. He takes a sip. Am silent. Watching him, but, am thinking of Westlands. That I should visit Haandi restaurant at the Mall soon as I get back. Makhini chicken with garlic naan. I also think about the earthquake sex story and smile, inwardly, at its unrealness. My silence makes him uneasy, and he sips again. This makes me happy. Actually, he clears his one pint glass in a gulp. This makes me worried. Waitress appears like magic. She is the only person in this tropical city that is bigger than him. So far at least. He makes a joke to her, about how hard sex between them would be, him and her, and suggests that the Kenyan (yours truly) would be a better sex mate. Now I can’t resist taking a sip, a large-ish loud sip. Actually, I flush the milky stuff down.
It’s becoming very hot in the 11 centigrade clear night.
Lying is a process of altering reality and expressing it to some other party. Stealing the truth from others. There are many reasons why we lie.
1. To save a marriage – I did NOT have sexual relations with that woman.
2. To save a reputation – I DID have sexual relations with those women, all of them
3. To save money – Sema buda, niko home na familia, leo siwaki, good night
4. To save time – Chief, another call coming, si I’ll call you back
5. To earn money – looks exactly like you, aki this is your child kabisa, ona hiyo kisogo
6. To earn respect – I resigned, got tired of that place
7. To earn a drink – Charlie? Ati what? Me? That chick? I know her vizuri sana from Braeside, ebu wait you see.
8. To make Sanko, K-Tray and Zo happy – I am superman, I can fly
9. un-deliberate lies – do you know uncle Charlie can fly? Yes, he can.
Other lies are, ‘this is on discount best price vithout Wi. A.T’, ‘boss, this is Made in Japan’, ‘mimi na apa ya kwamba…’, ‘let’s have one last drink’ and, ‘it wasn’t me’.
Ritcher scale liar
Strange chap. He is fat. Actually, when I think of it, he is not ati thaaaat fat. He is just big. Light skinned, dark around the eyes and lips. When I join the table, there is a matchbox in his hand. It quickly disappears. No idea why some people are ashamed of the fact that they smoke. He is wearing a navy blue very very very big LA Lakers sweat shirt. And it looks very very cozy and warm. It’s a quality that he has lent it. And he has his hands crossed against each other in front of him. You know how you sometimes cross your hands together, fingers of one hand into the fingers of the other. Then your thumbs rest on each other, slapping each other playfully, rapidly, distractingly. Well, for this guy, his hands are floating on the navy blue LA Lakers sweat shirt. He has a fluid liquid big tummy. Very strange, very big. It protrudes outwards and sideways, and also looks hard, stiff. His fat fingers rest gingerly on this thing. Floating.
There are 4 other people on the table when I join. I have been in this country for only a few hours, but can tell these are 1st generation highly skilled workers, most in the late 20s, mainly from Africa and Asia. He is older. From the story, I calculate that he must be 36. He wears the face of an 18 year old overweight girl, on the body of a 60 year old diabetic. Very confusing this image. The others seem to regard him with some awe. He is the centre of attention in this bar that has 20 tables. All the tables are full, 7 inside, about a dozen outside, a very cold wind is blowing. He talks without moving any part of his body. His lips, his hands, his whole body is still. But I notice a very rapid high frequency movement below the table. He is shaking his left leg at a very high speed. Only his left leg.
He is telling us about an earthquake. He was on the 14th floor when it happened. That it had happened for 3 days consecutively and he had not noticed. Apparently because he had a lady in his bed throughout this time, with whom they were too busy doing something else, something we do when dressed like we’re going to shower. Looking at him, this fact is hard to picture. Anyway, I listen on. I sit and order a drink, no one pays attention to my intrusion. His eyes are fixated on some imaginary pole protruding from the floor in the middle of the table as his stiff lips narrate this story. I get the image of a corpse telling a story. A shiver, I sip my milky beer. Actually, my lager is not milky at all. I realise that my healthy table mate sort of gives everything a healthy milky quality. Even saliva tastes like a milk shake when you sit next to him. I puke on the inside at this thought.
So anyway, an earthquake, he says. My mind drifts off, am thinking of how am beginning to hate JKIA. Then I hear my name. “so Charrrlllle, how is Kenya” he asks without looking at me. He is still staring at the middle of the table. “How is Uhuru, Mboya and Kipchoge?” totally unrelated random Kenyans. Or perhaps he knows something. Maybe Kipchoge was running so fast because he knew that Tom Mboya was Uhuru’s dad and so a motive for murder. And now I know, am an accomplice. And now Mwalimu Mati will start tarnishing my name. Now I feel like running too.
He slowly shifts his gaze to me. Only the eyes move (ebu try it at home). I look back. All the other immigrants look at me. Am silent. Its one of those questions that are said in a manner that tells you, please shut up and listen to me. The way Jimmy Gathu treats us in a bar near my place. I feel like taking a milky sip, but I resist. I feel the weight of 12 eyes on me. He takes a sip. Am silent. Watching him, but, am thinking of Westlands. That I should visit Haandi restaurant at the Mall soon as I get back. Makhini chicken with garlic naan. I also think about the earthquake sex story and smile, inwardly, at its unrealness. My silence makes him uneasy, and he sips again. This makes me happy. Actually, he clears his one pint glass in a gulp. This makes me worried. Waitress appears like magic. She is the only person in this tropical city that is bigger than him. So far at least. He makes a joke to her, about how hard sex between them would be, him and her, and suggests that the Kenyan (yours truly) would be a better sex mate. Now I can’t resist taking a sip, a large-ish loud sip. Actually, I flush the milky stuff down.
It’s becoming very hot in the 11 centigrade clear night.
Six African Men
We were seated outside, my stool was sinking in the soft sand. I had to keep lifting and shifting it to the quiet amusement of my hosts. A warm breeze, a swarm of bees, birds chirping and my stool sinking into the ground and my host. Actually it is my hostess and her battalion, 3 teenage boys holding kalashnikovs lazily, pointing at me.
Let us go back to the beginning. I had been in this country for one week, in this remote town for 3 days. Am not superstitious at all, but I had been having ghost poop for a while and knew this visit would be fun. You know when nature calls and you answer, you sit and push then stand up to inspect the brown results and find nothing. Then you check under, around, the ceiling, nothing. The soft brown cake has swam away, too eager to join the rest at the water treatment plant out of town. You shake your head in amazement and flush to send away the lazy tissue that can't swim away on its own.
So in this small town, like all small towns in Africa, I need to know the big boys. Its always the bank manager, the doctor in charge of the local hospital and the illiterate man who owns a petrol station and a hardware shop and has a lorry. The old Irish priest, the headmaster of the school and head of the town’s police station. It was the same here and I knew them, and they knew me, we drank together in the illiterate rich man’s club everyday, all of us. Lager for all, but for the priest who drank single malt whiskey from his country. They’re all past 55 years old and treat me like a younger cousin they respect. I suspect the real reason they respect me is because I am Obama’s cousin. I have no idea why I told this lie, but to my credit, I made him my cousin when he was only a senator. Many other Kenyans made him a close relative only after he was sworn in.
The police chief would fill his mouth with lager, hold it for a few seconds then swallow. An annoying ritual by any standard, civilian or military. He sat with us, but didn’t really. His chair was always a little far away from the table, his back halfway to us, usually facing the entrance, or a window. It wasn’t really a window, strong sandy wind had forced the club to remove the glass and replace with bricks. So it was actually just a wall. He avoided eye contact, spoke little and had a very low threshold for jokes, often bursting into loud laughter when I repeated internet jokes. I once told them the old one, ‘if we take a bath to be so fresh and so clean clean, how come towels get dirty?’ (I wish they spoke Kiswahili, it sounds much better in Kiswahili). I said this at those rare times when he was facing me, and his mouth was full of beer when he laughed out loudly. Ai ai ai.
The Irish priest was sipping Irish whiskey, he smiled loudly, wrinkling his old face. He stopped his glass half way to his mouth and I knew he had a story to tell. I think he was laughing loudly on the inside at the cop’s beer that now was all over me rather than at my joke. The Irish priest is good company since he is a good story teller and full of humour told with a faded Irish accent. I have never heard him talking about his church. He is big, like an ex-heavy weight champion and full of practical jokes too. He once filled the cop’s glass with whiskey. Luckily this time shy cop was facing the door when he spat.
The rich unschooled chap was the real story teller. He was put on earth to talk and took this task with seriousness. He took himself and everything else too seriously. He was a topic stealer, any thing you say, he takes it over and explains it. You don’t know these things, let me tell you. He knew everything this man.
The bank manager had managed this branch for 30 years. He was always complaining about something but always optimistic. ‘This government is useless, power cuts, power cuts every day. But I think from next year things will be better’
The rich man picked the topic and went away with it. ‘Power? You people don’t know the whole story Eh. Why do you think the president went to the US? Eh? It was for the safety of our security’ He used words like that, safety of security, move towards progress. He once observed, in an enlightened moment, that women make better mothers than men, ‘you see us men, we don’t have breasts, how would we breast feed babies? Eh?’ He also observed correctly that men have rough voices that wouldn’t be very effective at soothing a distressed baby.
The doctor told me he is a vet. Humans are just animals he would explain. Infact medical doctors have it easy since humans can explain in detail how and where they are sick he would say. I made a mental note not to fall sick in this town.
The head teacher was a colourless character who called everyone by their surname. Mr. Marwa. The rest never called each other by name. You would know they are talking to you when they look at you. Most of the time they just talked at everyone and no one. To themselves.
That’s what we do, humans, we talk to ourselves in the presence of others. We like good listeners, someone who listens and says very little, someone to hear us talk to ourselves.
I’ll talk about the rebel another day. Am tired.
Let us go back to the beginning. I had been in this country for one week, in this remote town for 3 days. Am not superstitious at all, but I had been having ghost poop for a while and knew this visit would be fun. You know when nature calls and you answer, you sit and push then stand up to inspect the brown results and find nothing. Then you check under, around, the ceiling, nothing. The soft brown cake has swam away, too eager to join the rest at the water treatment plant out of town. You shake your head in amazement and flush to send away the lazy tissue that can't swim away on its own.
So in this small town, like all small towns in Africa, I need to know the big boys. Its always the bank manager, the doctor in charge of the local hospital and the illiterate man who owns a petrol station and a hardware shop and has a lorry. The old Irish priest, the headmaster of the school and head of the town’s police station. It was the same here and I knew them, and they knew me, we drank together in the illiterate rich man’s club everyday, all of us. Lager for all, but for the priest who drank single malt whiskey from his country. They’re all past 55 years old and treat me like a younger cousin they respect. I suspect the real reason they respect me is because I am Obama’s cousin. I have no idea why I told this lie, but to my credit, I made him my cousin when he was only a senator. Many other Kenyans made him a close relative only after he was sworn in.
The police chief would fill his mouth with lager, hold it for a few seconds then swallow. An annoying ritual by any standard, civilian or military. He sat with us, but didn’t really. His chair was always a little far away from the table, his back halfway to us, usually facing the entrance, or a window. It wasn’t really a window, strong sandy wind had forced the club to remove the glass and replace with bricks. So it was actually just a wall. He avoided eye contact, spoke little and had a very low threshold for jokes, often bursting into loud laughter when I repeated internet jokes. I once told them the old one, ‘if we take a bath to be so fresh and so clean clean, how come towels get dirty?’ (I wish they spoke Kiswahili, it sounds much better in Kiswahili). I said this at those rare times when he was facing me, and his mouth was full of beer when he laughed out loudly. Ai ai ai.
The Irish priest was sipping Irish whiskey, he smiled loudly, wrinkling his old face. He stopped his glass half way to his mouth and I knew he had a story to tell. I think he was laughing loudly on the inside at the cop’s beer that now was all over me rather than at my joke. The Irish priest is good company since he is a good story teller and full of humour told with a faded Irish accent. I have never heard him talking about his church. He is big, like an ex-heavy weight champion and full of practical jokes too. He once filled the cop’s glass with whiskey. Luckily this time shy cop was facing the door when he spat.
The rich unschooled chap was the real story teller. He was put on earth to talk and took this task with seriousness. He took himself and everything else too seriously. He was a topic stealer, any thing you say, he takes it over and explains it. You don’t know these things, let me tell you. He knew everything this man.
The bank manager had managed this branch for 30 years. He was always complaining about something but always optimistic. ‘This government is useless, power cuts, power cuts every day. But I think from next year things will be better’
The rich man picked the topic and went away with it. ‘Power? You people don’t know the whole story Eh. Why do you think the president went to the US? Eh? It was for the safety of our security’ He used words like that, safety of security, move towards progress. He once observed, in an enlightened moment, that women make better mothers than men, ‘you see us men, we don’t have breasts, how would we breast feed babies? Eh?’ He also observed correctly that men have rough voices that wouldn’t be very effective at soothing a distressed baby.
The doctor told me he is a vet. Humans are just animals he would explain. Infact medical doctors have it easy since humans can explain in detail how and where they are sick he would say. I made a mental note not to fall sick in this town.
The head teacher was a colourless character who called everyone by their surname. Mr. Marwa. The rest never called each other by name. You would know they are talking to you when they look at you. Most of the time they just talked at everyone and no one. To themselves.
That’s what we do, humans, we talk to ourselves in the presence of others. We like good listeners, someone who listens and says very little, someone to hear us talk to ourselves.
I’ll talk about the rebel another day. Am tired.
Who We Are
A day to xmas 20 oh nine, I was having a drink with this couple in a popular Nairobi pub. This married people and I, we sat on the high stools talking and watching, watching other couples talking and watching us. This lovely couple, the lady had picked me from the airport 2 hours earlier, taken me home and brought me here.
[Two things notable here, one, that is the only way to get me, physically, since I don’t have a phone (poverty). Two, that’s how bad this couple wanted to have a drink with me, this odd couple.]
I look at them, attractive African female, not pretty, not beautiful, attractive. And him, regular looks made better by the millions of money he has. Married they are, but not to each other. The arrangement is they tell their respective spouses that they are with me, then they be with me. Usually in this popular Nairobi outdoor carwash turned pub. He drinks American whiskey, she drinks foreign lager from a small green bottle, I drink anything costly. They would buy me 2 drinks, then leave us there, me and the drinks, the glasses half empty, sometimes half full, disappear to a nearby hotel for extra-marital activities, come back for more foreplay, have 4 more drinks, disappear for a second round of infidelity, come back, we drink, they pay (I once paid, serious), one of them drops me home. Their spouses secure in the fact that they were with a good old friend.
I don’t know why I do this.
He has no email address, would talk about business and soccer only. This was his staple. This didn’t interest her, she likes talking about love and relationships. I, well, I don’t really matter. They’re both wealthy business people, well educated, Christians, referring regularly to holy scriptures in unholy places planning unholy things. Well traveled but surprisingly narrow single minded views on many things. As parochial as a parish priest.
Occasionally they would speak in their mother tongue. I understand every word, this they don’t know. They would say nothing really. It always sounds like you’re saying very important serious stuff when you talk in some African languages.
I met her at my barber shop 11 years ago. It has been a platonic friendship since day one, not for lack of effort on her part though. I was a student, she was just back from doing her 3rd degree in the US, came back with her husband and 2 daughters and had just started her business. We formed an odd friendship. Now I know her very well, yet I don’t know her, I don’t know her values, what she stands for. It is an empty friendship. She has no passions, no favourite book, no favourite song, crazy about no sports, nothing, plain. We would meet, she would talk a lot, listen very little, then hug and then each would depart for various destinations. The only thing I know for sure that makes her very annoyed is husbands who cheat on their wives. And she knows everyone who is sleeping with everyone in this town. Everyone.
(Zo wants me to go jump with him, I swear! He’s asking if Michael Jackson is a girl, you can’t do anything with a 4 year old boy in the house. Michael is singing ‘Who Is It’, that part where he shouts, ‘don’t be judgin’ don’t be juuuudgiiiin’)
So where was I. I think I like her because of this fact. The fact that she can hate what she does without seeing it. She is completely blind to the fact that she does what she hates, So human. So uber.
So keeping with tradition, on this day, we had a drink. I am having some fancy brandy, 18 years old brandy (barely legal, in a sense). Its costs an arm and a leg, but not my limbs thankfully. He was telling us how he had made a deal with some company and his bribe was some 6 million shillings. He was taking his family to some Indian Ocean Island for the holidays. He also told us that his favourite English premier league club was beaten 3-nil a few days ago. Then he told us he hates Kalenjin politicians, they’re corrupt and don't get the job done.
She told us that a female ex-MP who was in school with her is having an affair with a senior public figure. She was a slut even in high school we’re told. I talked about my trip, they seemed very interested, in a way that a hungry rugby player would be interested in listening to the chef at Red Sea restaurant explaining where he buys the hot spices for Zigni, an Eritrean delicacy.
Shortly, they left for what they really came here to do. But not before he told me that there is money to be made in that country I was from. He is always telling me about making money, this man with a large, black, oily face. His face is always oily, oily in an expensive way. You can make money if you do this or that he always says. Am not interested in making money. I just want to live forever, hurt as few people as possible, die after 800 years and be cremated. Why do people think everyone wants to make money, do deals.
I looked at my costly glass of costly brandy. Reflecting on this year that is about to end. 2 thousand and mine. Then looked around at the beautiful people of Nairobi. The festive season, you could feel it. Everyone’s faces was shining. Glowing. Someone waves at me, a pretty girl, a fairly common occurrence, I wave back. Then she walks over, I smile and stretch my hand, then she walks right past. She was waving at someone at a table behind me.
A drunk man staggers dangerously towards a car. Two waiters whisper loudly to all of us that he is a surgeon. He gets into his 2 litre Bavarian and drives dangerously into the jungle that Nairobi’s night life is. Nothing I hate like drunk driving. I have lost 5 friends so far to drunk driving, one to suicide, one to malaria (imagine!) none to AIDS. So DUI is my biggest foe. I sip.
The couple return, the man visibly tired, and a hint of regret on his face. Poor chap. The expression that must have been on Einstein's face after the first bomb landed. The lady has a glow. The glow Einstein must have had after a meeting with his cousin. Mine was exasperation. Unwilling abettor to this clandestination. Culpable as both must be in someone’s eyes.
They talk in mother tongue. Give him your car, I’ll drop you she says. Poor chap, painfully hands me his Benz. Am uncertain which caused him greater pain, handing his prized machine to his mistress’ male platonic friend, or whatever plans she had for him. I suspect the latter. They leave. I take 2 more shots and drive home under the influence.
[Two things notable here, one, that is the only way to get me, physically, since I don’t have a phone (poverty). Two, that’s how bad this couple wanted to have a drink with me, this odd couple.]
I look at them, attractive African female, not pretty, not beautiful, attractive. And him, regular looks made better by the millions of money he has. Married they are, but not to each other. The arrangement is they tell their respective spouses that they are with me, then they be with me. Usually in this popular Nairobi outdoor carwash turned pub. He drinks American whiskey, she drinks foreign lager from a small green bottle, I drink anything costly. They would buy me 2 drinks, then leave us there, me and the drinks, the glasses half empty, sometimes half full, disappear to a nearby hotel for extra-marital activities, come back for more foreplay, have 4 more drinks, disappear for a second round of infidelity, come back, we drink, they pay (I once paid, serious), one of them drops me home. Their spouses secure in the fact that they were with a good old friend.
I don’t know why I do this.
He has no email address, would talk about business and soccer only. This was his staple. This didn’t interest her, she likes talking about love and relationships. I, well, I don’t really matter. They’re both wealthy business people, well educated, Christians, referring regularly to holy scriptures in unholy places planning unholy things. Well traveled but surprisingly narrow single minded views on many things. As parochial as a parish priest.
Occasionally they would speak in their mother tongue. I understand every word, this they don’t know. They would say nothing really. It always sounds like you’re saying very important serious stuff when you talk in some African languages.
I met her at my barber shop 11 years ago. It has been a platonic friendship since day one, not for lack of effort on her part though. I was a student, she was just back from doing her 3rd degree in the US, came back with her husband and 2 daughters and had just started her business. We formed an odd friendship. Now I know her very well, yet I don’t know her, I don’t know her values, what she stands for. It is an empty friendship. She has no passions, no favourite book, no favourite song, crazy about no sports, nothing, plain. We would meet, she would talk a lot, listen very little, then hug and then each would depart for various destinations. The only thing I know for sure that makes her very annoyed is husbands who cheat on their wives. And she knows everyone who is sleeping with everyone in this town. Everyone.
(Zo wants me to go jump with him, I swear! He’s asking if Michael Jackson is a girl, you can’t do anything with a 4 year old boy in the house. Michael is singing ‘Who Is It’, that part where he shouts, ‘don’t be judgin’ don’t be juuuudgiiiin’)
So where was I. I think I like her because of this fact. The fact that she can hate what she does without seeing it. She is completely blind to the fact that she does what she hates, So human. So uber.
So keeping with tradition, on this day, we had a drink. I am having some fancy brandy, 18 years old brandy (barely legal, in a sense). Its costs an arm and a leg, but not my limbs thankfully. He was telling us how he had made a deal with some company and his bribe was some 6 million shillings. He was taking his family to some Indian Ocean Island for the holidays. He also told us that his favourite English premier league club was beaten 3-nil a few days ago. Then he told us he hates Kalenjin politicians, they’re corrupt and don't get the job done.
She told us that a female ex-MP who was in school with her is having an affair with a senior public figure. She was a slut even in high school we’re told. I talked about my trip, they seemed very interested, in a way that a hungry rugby player would be interested in listening to the chef at Red Sea restaurant explaining where he buys the hot spices for Zigni, an Eritrean delicacy.
Shortly, they left for what they really came here to do. But not before he told me that there is money to be made in that country I was from. He is always telling me about making money, this man with a large, black, oily face. His face is always oily, oily in an expensive way. You can make money if you do this or that he always says. Am not interested in making money. I just want to live forever, hurt as few people as possible, die after 800 years and be cremated. Why do people think everyone wants to make money, do deals.
I looked at my costly glass of costly brandy. Reflecting on this year that is about to end. 2 thousand and mine. Then looked around at the beautiful people of Nairobi. The festive season, you could feel it. Everyone’s faces was shining. Glowing. Someone waves at me, a pretty girl, a fairly common occurrence, I wave back. Then she walks over, I smile and stretch my hand, then she walks right past. She was waving at someone at a table behind me.
A drunk man staggers dangerously towards a car. Two waiters whisper loudly to all of us that he is a surgeon. He gets into his 2 litre Bavarian and drives dangerously into the jungle that Nairobi’s night life is. Nothing I hate like drunk driving. I have lost 5 friends so far to drunk driving, one to suicide, one to malaria (imagine!) none to AIDS. So DUI is my biggest foe. I sip.
The couple return, the man visibly tired, and a hint of regret on his face. Poor chap. The expression that must have been on Einstein's face after the first bomb landed. The lady has a glow. The glow Einstein must have had after a meeting with his cousin. Mine was exasperation. Unwilling abettor to this clandestination. Culpable as both must be in someone’s eyes.
They talk in mother tongue. Give him your car, I’ll drop you she says. Poor chap, painfully hands me his Benz. Am uncertain which caused him greater pain, handing his prized machine to his mistress’ male platonic friend, or whatever plans she had for him. I suspect the latter. They leave. I take 2 more shots and drive home under the influence.
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.
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.
An Accident
I am scared. Very scared.
I have been concealing certain facts, acts. I have been lying. No, not to you, you’re not that important, been hiding it from me.
You see, I left that place 2 days ago. Today, I had 3 important meetings, and I just couldn’t be bothered. My intentions were all good from the beginning, pass by my old pal for many years and mechanic at Da Great Corner, fix my car’s indicators, then start the meetings from 10.00 am to 4.00 pm. My mechanic is very talkative and informative. I like this. He knows everything about everyone important. And he tells it to me. I doubt he tells people about me, am not important. But you never know. You never know.
Anyway, I get there and change my mind about everything, including the law of gravity. And the meetings. I suddenly realise life is short, I have known Mech since 1999, have only seen him twice this year, let me spend time with him. Am phoneless, so unreachable, the meetings will just unhappen. Very bad for me and for my meetees. But such is life.
So he tells me about all of you. What you have been up to. He fixes cars in posh places. And seems to know a lot about lifestyles of the rich, the almost, and the pretenders. He bought me nyama choma and told me about your bad habits. We laughed, nodded our heads, shook our heads, ate roasted meat, picked our teeth. Drank lager. A ritual as old as Kenya.
Then my mind, as minds often do, drifts to an event that happened three earlier. An event that I had pushed away, hidden from myself. It just came back, in black and white, slow motion, just like that.
The accident. The nasty road accident.
I was in country X. visiting, exploring the possibility of setting up a ‘Lost’ type tourist expedition. Country X is deep in Africa. I actually visited 3 countries X, Y and Z. Anyway, its 3 minutes to xmas, and its mad rush to get back home. Am competing with highly paid UN staffers from Pakistan, South Africa, Norway for limited seats on few planes, no roads, flooded airstrips, rebels, cattle rustlers, rogue government soldiers, Lebanese traders, Somali truck drivers. Contract workers from China and from all over East and Southern Africa.
Flashback to when we left governor’s palace. We left at 1pm, 11 Africans in a small European car, steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, driven on the wrong side of the road. We got our first flat after 16 kilometers, roughly 3 hours after departure. We replaced it, drove on. An hour later we met another car. They had a puncture, didn’t have a spare tyre, we gave them our 2nd spare tyre, jack and spanner and drove on. 2 hours later, we got a flat tyre. We had no spare tyre, no spanner, no jack. We were in enemy territory. We would spend the night here. In the car.
Am sitting alone in the back seat of the car. Looking at the ceiling. Reptiles and insects. The geckos here were raped by crocodiles. Of that am certain. Maybe not, when I put on my legal cap, the evidence is that it was consensual. The geckos here willingly conceived with crocodiles. If a male croc jumped on a female gecko, even doggy, surely it would kill it. Again, perhaps reptiles wouldn’t do doggy, a mammal style. Anyway, the offspring are giant geckos that behave like their mothers. Walking on walls, ceilings upside down. Chasing insecta and arachnids.
The group is outside by the fire. Talking animatedly in African. Cleaning their firearms. I would be much safer out there than with these reptiles. I join them. An insect, with GPS and night vision, flying at mach 2, took off from 10 feet away, straight into my ear. I suspect it is the stick insect that I once saw in the bathroom and I insulted it. Something going into your ear, against your will, there can not be a worse violation of your personal space. It went straight in. and is now doing some traditional dance. It’s a very very bad feeling, I thought I was going mad. I just sat and tapped my feet loudly and at high frequency. I consulted boy X.
‘An insect was being chased by a bat, it entered my ear, and was followed by the bat, now they are fighting inside my ear.’
‘ha ha, that is not possible, it is all in your mind’
‘yes, they are in my mind, at least very close to’
‘that is not possible. Can you feel them? How can a bat fit into your ear? Anyway, just put your finger there and they will die’
‘put my finger where? Am serious, something is in my ear. Don’t you have a traditional cure for this? A herb that kills insects and blind mammals that enter someone’s ear? I am sure it has happened before’
‘no, it has not happened before. Don’t think about it’
‘how can I not think about it and they are in my brain.’
After that they ignore me. They’re cleaning guns. We’re by the fireside waiting for nothing. They talk their language, exchange jokes and laugh. I feel like running and screaming. Like shaking my head. There is an insect in my head. I exaggerated about the bat. They ignore me. I turn slightly so that my ear is facing the fire directly. Perhaps the light would attract the bug to leave my ear. It is now quiet. But I can feel it. I feel like peeing, but nothing comes out.
The night is incident free. They talk the whole night. Roast meat, eat, talk. I have warm ribena and very old digestives in my bag. I think about them. I can also smell them I think.
Morning, 4 am, they decide we’ve got to drive on. So we driving on. With a flat. We’ll get help by 9am they say. We’re doing at most 10kph. They’re talking. We get a second flat, both rear wheels. We’re driving on rims. Argh. The most annoying sounds. Klucku klucku putttu puttttu forever, without moving. I see funny animals by the road. Tortoises. Giant snakes. Wild goats.
At 9-ish sharp-ish, we get to the rivers. 7 river beds in a series, dry one minute, flowing madly the next minute. No bridges. We also have them in Northern Kenya. I once had to wait 6 hours for a river to dry, before we drove on in our air conditioned white land cruisers. Oh, that was heaven compared to this. That was like being at the Carnivore, on a fully paid for end of year staff party, they don’t have Dasani, you have to drink Keringet. What an inconvenience.
By the 3rd river bed, luckily all dry, we see the truck they were counting on to rescue us. A large blue canter like pick-up truck, with an open back, full of construction workers. The truck is carrying big blue plastic water drums. Empty. They’re obviously coming to the river bed for water for construction. The Chinese driver is alone in the front cabin. Topless casuals smiling at the back. We’re also smiling. They’re gonna rescue us. We’re gonna join them in the back of the truck and drive way from these problems. I’ll be in Nairobi well before xmas. We’re on this side of the river, they on the other side. About 100 metres away. We’re both coming down to the river.
Suddenly every goes fast forward, then slow motion, then pause.
The blue truck is in flight. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, welcome aboard flight BT 101. The blue plastic drums are in the air. All is still. On pause.
Then god pressed the Play button. The one with a small triangle facing the right. Maybe heavenly remote controls are slightly different.
Screams. Grown men screaming. Not the ones in the truck, the ones with me. The ones in the truck are high in the air, screaming too, but only very loudly, with deep voices you don’t ever want to hear. Ever ever in your life. It’s the sound of your uncles screaming. Your older brothers. Your dad crying like your niece. Mucus flowing. UnAfrican. Topless black bodies. They believe they can fly, but they don’t believe they can touch the sky. One guy jumps quite well, much higher than all of them. This is a sky-toucher. Black men can jump. Shortly.
Shortly, another short pause. Like the distraction in a play when the actors would change the set and their costumes. Then press Play again. Now its screams of agony, pain, anguish, horror. Presently, the black topless bodies are covered with some white powder, white cement, the previous occupant of this truck was white cement. They look like ghosts. White faces with tears drawing black lines down unchubby cheeks. and strange sounds from their mouths. Sounds that we sinners will make in the hot flames of the clubs in hell. They look like wasinde, bukusu boys heading to or from mukhebi, the circumcisor, faces covered white with clay, but a msinde would never scream. Its almost funny, only almost.
Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton, these days we have gravity. 9.8m per second per second. Now they have all landed back into the truck, onto the blue drums, on the green grass. But they’re still screaming. The truck is parked on its side. Even graduates of Kenchic Driving School in Uthiru park better. Ghosts. Have they all died and are now ghosts, spooks, I am terrified.
We’re now running towards them. Actually, they all run, am sitting in the car holding my black bag. They come back with bleeding Africans. Move! Move! Be careful! Throw all bags out! Do you have water! Bring bring! My warm ribena and my old digestives.
Then I see the body. Actually, I only see the legs. It’s the black man who thought he can jump. His torso is under the truck. His legs are kicking weakly. He had jumped off the truck successfully, the truck fell on him shortly afterwards with equal success.
Then it is fast forward again. We’re, no, they, are running back towards the truck. They’re shouting. Balaba? Dolado? Baldo? Dlalo? Hal? Ok? Ok? Then they each hold tight, one, two three Lift! And they lift with all their strength. And the truck is being lifted, not resisting. They’re freeing the man from his heavy burden. Three of them are pulling him carefully from under the truck, the others are lifting the truck. His legs are not kicking now. Balaba! Dolado! Dlalo? Hel! Eh? Ok. We’re , no, they are doing very well.
Then a sound. A deep guttural sound from the man who was preventing the truck from touching the earth. He made a sound and a sudden movement. A wild strong jerk. Everyone was startled.
Not good.
The truck holders let go, the body pullers let go. I have no idea what they thought it was. They jumped backwards making their own sounds. Eiye! Walaldo! Reverse long jump gold medallist, all of them, chote.
They let go of the truck. The others let go of the man. The truck’s side met the man’s face casually. A casual meeting at low velocity, the papers would report. I heard only one deep hgruuuuuuugh from the man. They had pulled some of the body, so truck met head at low speed. When Sally met Harry. When Truck Met Head.
I hear he was a cook at the construction company’s camp kitchen, this was water for lunch. His head was smashed. Not a way to get ahead in life. He will never be the head of that kitchen. Some people thought he was too headstrong. Nevertheless am sure the pastor said he was a good man, now singing sad songs with MJ.
I have been concealing certain facts, acts. I have been lying. No, not to you, you’re not that important, been hiding it from me.
You see, I left that place 2 days ago. Today, I had 3 important meetings, and I just couldn’t be bothered. My intentions were all good from the beginning, pass by my old pal for many years and mechanic at Da Great Corner, fix my car’s indicators, then start the meetings from 10.00 am to 4.00 pm. My mechanic is very talkative and informative. I like this. He knows everything about everyone important. And he tells it to me. I doubt he tells people about me, am not important. But you never know. You never know.
Anyway, I get there and change my mind about everything, including the law of gravity. And the meetings. I suddenly realise life is short, I have known Mech since 1999, have only seen him twice this year, let me spend time with him. Am phoneless, so unreachable, the meetings will just unhappen. Very bad for me and for my meetees. But such is life.
So he tells me about all of you. What you have been up to. He fixes cars in posh places. And seems to know a lot about lifestyles of the rich, the almost, and the pretenders. He bought me nyama choma and told me about your bad habits. We laughed, nodded our heads, shook our heads, ate roasted meat, picked our teeth. Drank lager. A ritual as old as Kenya.
Then my mind, as minds often do, drifts to an event that happened three earlier. An event that I had pushed away, hidden from myself. It just came back, in black and white, slow motion, just like that.
The accident. The nasty road accident.
I was in country X. visiting, exploring the possibility of setting up a ‘Lost’ type tourist expedition. Country X is deep in Africa. I actually visited 3 countries X, Y and Z. Anyway, its 3 minutes to xmas, and its mad rush to get back home. Am competing with highly paid UN staffers from Pakistan, South Africa, Norway for limited seats on few planes, no roads, flooded airstrips, rebels, cattle rustlers, rogue government soldiers, Lebanese traders, Somali truck drivers. Contract workers from China and from all over East and Southern Africa.
Flashback to when we left governor’s palace. We left at 1pm, 11 Africans in a small European car, steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, driven on the wrong side of the road. We got our first flat after 16 kilometers, roughly 3 hours after departure. We replaced it, drove on. An hour later we met another car. They had a puncture, didn’t have a spare tyre, we gave them our 2nd spare tyre, jack and spanner and drove on. 2 hours later, we got a flat tyre. We had no spare tyre, no spanner, no jack. We were in enemy territory. We would spend the night here. In the car.
Am sitting alone in the back seat of the car. Looking at the ceiling. Reptiles and insects. The geckos here were raped by crocodiles. Of that am certain. Maybe not, when I put on my legal cap, the evidence is that it was consensual. The geckos here willingly conceived with crocodiles. If a male croc jumped on a female gecko, even doggy, surely it would kill it. Again, perhaps reptiles wouldn’t do doggy, a mammal style. Anyway, the offspring are giant geckos that behave like their mothers. Walking on walls, ceilings upside down. Chasing insecta and arachnids.
The group is outside by the fire. Talking animatedly in African. Cleaning their firearms. I would be much safer out there than with these reptiles. I join them. An insect, with GPS and night vision, flying at mach 2, took off from 10 feet away, straight into my ear. I suspect it is the stick insect that I once saw in the bathroom and I insulted it. Something going into your ear, against your will, there can not be a worse violation of your personal space. It went straight in. and is now doing some traditional dance. It’s a very very bad feeling, I thought I was going mad. I just sat and tapped my feet loudly and at high frequency. I consulted boy X.
‘An insect was being chased by a bat, it entered my ear, and was followed by the bat, now they are fighting inside my ear.’
‘ha ha, that is not possible, it is all in your mind’
‘yes, they are in my mind, at least very close to’
‘that is not possible. Can you feel them? How can a bat fit into your ear? Anyway, just put your finger there and they will die’
‘put my finger where? Am serious, something is in my ear. Don’t you have a traditional cure for this? A herb that kills insects and blind mammals that enter someone’s ear? I am sure it has happened before’
‘no, it has not happened before. Don’t think about it’
‘how can I not think about it and they are in my brain.’
After that they ignore me. They’re cleaning guns. We’re by the fireside waiting for nothing. They talk their language, exchange jokes and laugh. I feel like running and screaming. Like shaking my head. There is an insect in my head. I exaggerated about the bat. They ignore me. I turn slightly so that my ear is facing the fire directly. Perhaps the light would attract the bug to leave my ear. It is now quiet. But I can feel it. I feel like peeing, but nothing comes out.
The night is incident free. They talk the whole night. Roast meat, eat, talk. I have warm ribena and very old digestives in my bag. I think about them. I can also smell them I think.
Morning, 4 am, they decide we’ve got to drive on. So we driving on. With a flat. We’ll get help by 9am they say. We’re doing at most 10kph. They’re talking. We get a second flat, both rear wheels. We’re driving on rims. Argh. The most annoying sounds. Klucku klucku putttu puttttu forever, without moving. I see funny animals by the road. Tortoises. Giant snakes. Wild goats.
At 9-ish sharp-ish, we get to the rivers. 7 river beds in a series, dry one minute, flowing madly the next minute. No bridges. We also have them in Northern Kenya. I once had to wait 6 hours for a river to dry, before we drove on in our air conditioned white land cruisers. Oh, that was heaven compared to this. That was like being at the Carnivore, on a fully paid for end of year staff party, they don’t have Dasani, you have to drink Keringet. What an inconvenience.
By the 3rd river bed, luckily all dry, we see the truck they were counting on to rescue us. A large blue canter like pick-up truck, with an open back, full of construction workers. The truck is carrying big blue plastic water drums. Empty. They’re obviously coming to the river bed for water for construction. The Chinese driver is alone in the front cabin. Topless casuals smiling at the back. We’re also smiling. They’re gonna rescue us. We’re gonna join them in the back of the truck and drive way from these problems. I’ll be in Nairobi well before xmas. We’re on this side of the river, they on the other side. About 100 metres away. We’re both coming down to the river.
Suddenly every goes fast forward, then slow motion, then pause.
The blue truck is in flight. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, welcome aboard flight BT 101. The blue plastic drums are in the air. All is still. On pause.
Then god pressed the Play button. The one with a small triangle facing the right. Maybe heavenly remote controls are slightly different.
Screams. Grown men screaming. Not the ones in the truck, the ones with me. The ones in the truck are high in the air, screaming too, but only very loudly, with deep voices you don’t ever want to hear. Ever ever in your life. It’s the sound of your uncles screaming. Your older brothers. Your dad crying like your niece. Mucus flowing. UnAfrican. Topless black bodies. They believe they can fly, but they don’t believe they can touch the sky. One guy jumps quite well, much higher than all of them. This is a sky-toucher. Black men can jump. Shortly.
Shortly, another short pause. Like the distraction in a play when the actors would change the set and their costumes. Then press Play again. Now its screams of agony, pain, anguish, horror. Presently, the black topless bodies are covered with some white powder, white cement, the previous occupant of this truck was white cement. They look like ghosts. White faces with tears drawing black lines down unchubby cheeks. and strange sounds from their mouths. Sounds that we sinners will make in the hot flames of the clubs in hell. They look like wasinde, bukusu boys heading to or from mukhebi, the circumcisor, faces covered white with clay, but a msinde would never scream. Its almost funny, only almost.
Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton, these days we have gravity. 9.8m per second per second. Now they have all landed back into the truck, onto the blue drums, on the green grass. But they’re still screaming. The truck is parked on its side. Even graduates of Kenchic Driving School in Uthiru park better. Ghosts. Have they all died and are now ghosts, spooks, I am terrified.
We’re now running towards them. Actually, they all run, am sitting in the car holding my black bag. They come back with bleeding Africans. Move! Move! Be careful! Throw all bags out! Do you have water! Bring bring! My warm ribena and my old digestives.
Then I see the body. Actually, I only see the legs. It’s the black man who thought he can jump. His torso is under the truck. His legs are kicking weakly. He had jumped off the truck successfully, the truck fell on him shortly afterwards with equal success.
Then it is fast forward again. We’re, no, they, are running back towards the truck. They’re shouting. Balaba? Dolado? Baldo? Dlalo? Hal? Ok? Ok? Then they each hold tight, one, two three Lift! And they lift with all their strength. And the truck is being lifted, not resisting. They’re freeing the man from his heavy burden. Three of them are pulling him carefully from under the truck, the others are lifting the truck. His legs are not kicking now. Balaba! Dolado! Dlalo? Hel! Eh? Ok. We’re , no, they are doing very well.
Then a sound. A deep guttural sound from the man who was preventing the truck from touching the earth. He made a sound and a sudden movement. A wild strong jerk. Everyone was startled.
Not good.
The truck holders let go, the body pullers let go. I have no idea what they thought it was. They jumped backwards making their own sounds. Eiye! Walaldo! Reverse long jump gold medallist, all of them, chote.
They let go of the truck. The others let go of the man. The truck’s side met the man’s face casually. A casual meeting at low velocity, the papers would report. I heard only one deep hgruuuuuuugh from the man. They had pulled some of the body, so truck met head at low speed. When Sally met Harry. When Truck Met Head.
I hear he was a cook at the construction company’s camp kitchen, this was water for lunch. His head was smashed. Not a way to get ahead in life. He will never be the head of that kitchen. Some people thought he was too headstrong. Nevertheless am sure the pastor said he was a good man, now singing sad songs with MJ.
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