Mamu

Unlike most areas of this beloved city of ours, it was not uncommon to hear noises and yells at this time of day. 5 AM is not the best time to hear someone shouting and screaming their lungs out. Makes you shudder, makes you conscious…is my phone safe? Am I carrying anything expensive?
Where I come from, this was the norm. This was my local gym, a sanctuary where all who were obsessed with the bulges in their bodies came to meet and exchange ideas on just how to bulge even more. A temple where men and women came to give offering to their bodies, no pun intended. While the rest were asleep, some came out to play.
The yells were unnecessarily loud that day. There must have been at least 10 people in there. I enter and find only two. To say these men were huge is a big understatement. I had only come across such human beings when watching Mr. Olympia. One of them, the slightly smaller one, had a deep voice, terrifying. He made the crickets outside silent as he spoke. ‘Mamu, njoo unipe support’. The bigger, but shorter guy, who I now knew as Mamu, walks over and they start the count to 6. A weight I assumed could encapsulate 4 of Me. I wonder what the other guys voice sounds like, he being bigger and all. He finally speaks, ‘Utasimama hapo ama umekuja kutizi’. How could such a huge guy have such a small voice? I don’t say it out aloud I only think it. I realize that I had been staring at the huge blocks for a while now. I didn’t want a beating so I start struting my steps.
I find it extremely difficult to find any weights. Unknowingly, I find myself, again, staring at them. I didn’t know this, but around there, especially around those times, people lifted weights at the pleasure of Mamu. The two had taken hostage of all the metal plates in the gym. Through my eyes it looked like Mamu was training for some Strongman competition, so I asked. From time to time, I pull out my slang of the cabinet and give it a slight dusting, ‘Mzito, tournament iko when?’ ‘Nina gig fulani hapo Club Rumourz on Friday’(Notice the ‘z’, all cool spots have a ‘z’). The guy was a bouncer.
I wonder how it all started. Did he one day think, ‘Let me build this muscles of mine for no apparent reason?’. The next time he thought, ‘Why not just stand outside this night club for a night’. Before he realized it, he was addicted to the night breeze and silence. Was that how he probably got hired? Or was he, probably, in the family business that dated back generations? He probably had a family. A daughter and two sons. I wondered what he would do were his 16-year old daughter walk up to Club Rumourz with a fake ID?
Before long, the gym was packed, 8 or so people at such an hour wasn’t all too shabby.
To me, he was just a bouncer and noise maker in the wee morning hours. To others, however, he was a trainer, he was a motivator and some even a mentor. Mamu was the voice to the weak in the gym, he heckled as you lifted weights. He was the strength to the weak, he gave you support when you started failing. He even gave out training regimes to his mentees. Around there, Mamu was a living legend to the 6AM gym crowd.
So, finally, I say hi to him. I wanted him on my side. Nothing could go wrong. I could finally get to access those 25 AND ABOVE only night clubs. I had an inside man. I still didn’t respect Mamu though. He was all about talk. I didn’t once see him lift weights. The bench is free for the first time that morning. I’m facing the roof, I make sure the weight is well aligned, I lift the weight. The weight doesn’t seem to want to go up. My arm seems even more lazier. The weight is on my chest. My chest starts losing air. I start gasping for air. Just as I am walking towards the white light, the weight goes up with unnerving ease. Mamu looks down at me and in the same small voice asks, ‘boss uko sawa?’.

Code of Politics

Nothing infuriates a programmer than code that just won't run. I tried all the tricks I knew until I was convinced that this just wasn't the right path for me or maybe it just might have been the hunger. Lunchtime was fast approaching. I make my way to the kanjo vibandas right next to central police station. It wasn't the best time of the month for my pocket so it had to suffice. I am met with kindred spirits there. This was the true KFC. Kanjo Food Court as some would call it(only me). This was a place where the real hard workers of Nairobi CBD came to hold a feast. Nduthi drivers would drop their customers there as they both walked in and shared a meal. You would buy a mtumba boxer from a hawker at globe round-about only to find her spending your money on matumbo fry. Programmers who aren't so good also tend to flock the premise.
 The thing about the real workers of Nairobi is that they like to eat and are not at all shy about it. The sight of someone stuffing a whole chapati or in the very least half in one mouthful is not uncommon. I felt at home there. I could finally be myself.
Being quite popular, the place is almost always full. The only available position was next to a young lady. I couldn't quite see her well but I could make out her complexion. She was light. The seat was in a position that faced her. I wasn't too thrilled about sitting next to her. The table was narrow and the sitting position on such an arrangement would make it look like a date. It just hit me that she was the person I had earlier seen stuffing a whole chapati into her mouth. I wasn't about to explain to my would-be discoverers why my date was stuffing an entire chapati into her mouth. But I had to eat!So I sat.
You know you frequent a place a tad too much when the waitress hits you with, 'ya kawaida?'. My usual poison came. Just as I was about to eat, the chapati-stuffing mouth opens. It was the first time I had seen her face. I was too busy rush-eating before anyone saw me with my 'date'. She tells me that she is having a bad day. She says that she had just buried someone she knew. I offer my condolences. My curiosity gets the better of me and I ask who the deceased is. She names a renowned Governor who had just passed away. I was adept with current news so I immediately knew she was talking about the Nyeri Governor. She says how her home and the late Governor's share a fence. Show me someone who does not share a rural home fence with someone in the government and i'll show you someone who is not Kenyan. She talks so passionately about politics, you might think she is a politician. She mentions how she was an athlete until the end of 2014. She was an aspiring 1500m runner. She mentions about the five stadia promised by the government of the day that she had hoped would better the sporting community of Kenya. Stadia, which up to date, have not been constructed. She tells me how she lost her uncle to malaria, a disease that is treatable, in December 2016. The doctors went to strike and the rest was history. She mentions of how she has two children. One was a schoolmate of mine taking a course in commerce and the other one had just joined class one. She had all her hopes in the elder son graduating and taking the smaller brother through school. With the lecturers on strike, she wasn't even sure where she'll get money for the next term's fee. She says that she thought that the only laptop her young son would get would be a plate of hot githeri on the top of his lap.
I then ask her if she would be voting come August later on this year. I thought I had her figured out due to her rural home. But her answer is she didn't know. The sitting government had failed on its promises and the opposition wasn't all too convincing. For now she was only worrying about how to get to August...alive and well. We had connected on another level. I was in awe of her thinking. She had the thinking of ten grown members of parliament.
As she was leaving, she orders for a nduthi. At this point I'm left in astonishment. As the motorbike pulls off, she says some words that prove inaudible to me so I ignore it. Just then the waiter comes up to me and says, 'amesema utamlipia'. And to think I was almost asking her for twitter handle.   

still 27

You stagger home in the middle of the night. As the Uber you and your friend chartered pulls off you try to find your balance. The analogy of one step ahead and two steps backward is no longer an imagination to you. You are living it. You gather what’s left of your center of gravity and trot slowly to the front door. You call your brother to open up but he walks up behind you and in astomishment whispers ‘nilidhani wewe ulikuwa home? Hata nilikuwa nakupigia’. You call your sister but she is also mteja. You dare not call the owner of the house. Your brother starts telling you about the crazy night he has had, of the ladies he danced with, the binging he has had, to the cops he has evaded. Everything suddenly becomes funny. You try to contain the laughter, even try to force your mouth shut with your hands…you try to breathe out, then in again but the bugger is far too elusive, he escapes without notice. You find yourself rolling on the floor probably laughing your ass off…but the skinny jeans keeps it in place. Your brother weirdly enough does a good job at keeping his laughter at bay whilst trying so very hard to whisper ‘shhhhh!utaamsha watu!’ His ‘whispers’ finally get the job done. A light in the first floor turns on. Your eyes see the light, your ears hear the door opening, your heart senses the tension, but the brain…the brain is still at 1824, maybe. The door opens and the laughter bails on you. Probably knew that things were now out of hand. With a stern face the older gent standing at the door says, ‘I want you to move out of this house next week’ and walks off.

That was not funny anymore. An exuberant grin turns to a frown, a drunk mind turns sober, the legs? The legs were still trying to find their center of gravity. You want to claim you know your rights but you realize that no primary school playing ground was being grabbed, you are 27 years old and the old gent is your father!

You are bent on showing this old man that you no longer need him, you pick up your phone and google, ‘bedsitters in Nairobi West’ because your friends live there, it’s closer to town…in case of njaanuary you can walk to town, you can stumble into bed at any time of day or night and greatly because it’s very close to 1824. You stumble upon a lot of offers. You are in awe at the photos. The prices? Drop your jaw even further. So you decide to make a call. The receiver is a lady. You are happy because ladies are usually genuine. She tells you the house is still vacant. But she tells you that she has just shown it to someone who is rushing to the bank to pay as you speak. So you panic, your body turns cold and limp for a second. Your fantasies of binging to 3am in the morning and stumbling into your own at 3.30am with a catch are slowly fading away. Not the fantasies…anything but the fantasies. Just before all hope is lost she offers you a glimmer of hope, ‘If you can pay before they pay then I can send my driver with the key to you.’-they all have drivers. A glimmer of hope, however slight, proves sufficient. You are not about to bid farewell to your 1824 fantasies in 2017. You have the money, she is a lady, she speaks so well, she has a driver, she must be genuine….did I mention she has a driver? Anyone with a driver is legit.
So you take a leap of faith, and hope to God that someone catches you. MPESA CONFIRMED. You can now take a breath. You have a place to call yours. You inform the lady that you have indeed completed the transaction awaiting the key from the driver. The lady promises to send the driver. You hold your position. An hour passes, the lady says the driver is still coming. Two hours, three hours, four hours pass by, by the fifth hour you cannot get through to her and the driver is still not here. Maybe she is in a receptionless place and the driver is stuck in traffic…but you realize that it is a Sunday and you are in Nairobi.So you pin a donkey tail on your back and you stagger again back to Syokimau with your legs still wobbly. And you? You are still homeless, still 27.

pay the doctors

I was awoken by the repetitious chant, ‘ni chuki ndio nahisi’. Someone somewhere woke up feeling quite religious. Then suddenly the music stops. The curtain becomes a lot more circlic. It seems like everyone was standing up. Pin-drop silence. I guess that’s just what we do as humans. When we wake up and all we can do is stare at the white ceiling board above us. We look ahead and all we can fathom is the blue attire we have on. We try to laugh but all that manifests is a dry and rather scary cough. We try to smile but inside us is nothing but gloom. A sadness that comes from the rather aching wound on your shoulder, an uncomfortable stomach, a body that’s ready to give in at any moment. More than that, it’s the heart that gets you. The cards say ‘get well soon’ , ‘there’s no stronger person in the world’ , ‘speedy recovery champ’, but you….you are tired. You don’t wish to recover neither get well. But what gets you the most is the thought of not seeing the senders of the cards ever again. And how will these card senders feel once I’m gone? You heart sinks even further into an abyss, one of sadness and solitude. One which no hope exists.
The prayer is rudely cut short by the cough. Yes, that very dry and rather scaring one. The cough doesn’t seem to reduce. But the cousin or aunt just increases her volume to enable the Almighty hear her better…or maybe…just maybe the cough induces partial deafness. The prayer is suddenly brought to a halt by a continuous high pitched sound. A sound similar to the one you get in your ear after you alight from a loud matatu. It never spells any good fortunes. It’s a warning that your eardrums are in peril. But I was not alighting a matatu…and there wasn’t any loud music in the hospital or was the aunt a little too loud? For a moment there, I could not tell. This was definitely not in my ear.
The nurses frantically rush in. ‘Clear!’ ‘Clear!’ ‘Clear!’ . The aunt now breaks into tears. I can’t see her, but she is getting closer. Wheel sounds are too. A bed is wheeled past me. The aunt follows behind held afloat by her brother or uncle.
He had just come in yesterday. He didn’t even have a chance to complete his last prayer. He was on his last ‘Hail Mary’. He would have wanted to get a chance to see the flowers that were sent to him, eat the not so tasty hospital food, read the cards he had received. Maybe his cards had a better message, maybe written from the sender’s heart and not bought from the hawkers outside the hospital.
He would have wanted a chance to tell his mother and father how much he loved them and how thankful he was for the years he had had with them. Maybe he wanted to tell his siblings how he would get back on his feet as soon as possible and be there for them no matter what.
Maybe he had a wife, a few kids,..kids who, by the sheer definition of their ages, we not allowed into the ward. He most definitely would have wanted to hold them in his arms, kiss their foreheads and whisper into their ears, ‘daddy will be ok’. He would have so much liked to look at his wife in the eyes, get lost in them as he always had. Kiss her, hold her tightly in his arms, because it was the only place he found solace.
He definitely would have liked to finish his prayer. He would have liked a better defence before St. Peter.
What he would say, were he to wake up right now, was to tell the government to pay the doctors. Had there been a doctor in sight, then maybe, just maybe, he would not have the headache to deal with so much maybes. He would read his cards and stumbled upon some cash even. He would hold his kids and they would know they are safe. He would finish his prayer…St. Peter wouldn’t have to see him on that day.