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.

       

Happy New Year

It’s a chilly Saturday evening. It’s chilly because the dark is slowly creeping in. It always has to be chilly at this time of day. The atmosphere is the complete opposite, it’s warm. ‘mulooongo….ahooo, mulooooongo…ahooo’. Music is playing, the music is loud, noisy. No one seems to be bothered as bothered as I am. On the contrary infact, they seem to like it. They are exuberant, ecstatic. They are clustered in tiny groups of 5-10 men and women. They form a circle, a bit rudimentary, sometimes an oval and maybe even a triangle at worst. They take turns, each stepping up into the middle of the circle, when they feel touched. They strut their moves…what they don’t notice is that their moves be similar. Amidst the exuberance, I notice a lone figure seated in the shadows. Sipping on something from a metal mug. It looked like tea from a far. Kindred spirits had finally met. I went and sat next to him. He welcomes me with a glass of whatever he was sipping. I had taken tea before, tea had milk, this didn’t. This was not tea. He introduced himself as Wanjala.Wanjala looks atleast 24. I could tell from the look on his face…it was not written…but his face didn’t look young. Wanjala looked somewhat sad, fed up with life in fact. I try to make conversation, I made the mistake of asking why so blue.Wanjala doesn’t know where to start so he starts from the most reason. Wanjala says how he has gone to three different high schools. He says how he has sat for his KCSE for the third time. He does not tell me his results but I figure they are not noteworthy. He thought that he had finally mastered secondary education but then Matiang’i happens. Wanjala says how he is going to be a father in the coming year. Wanjala says how he is not prepared, he doesn’t know the first thing about taking care of a child. He is excited. That was written all over his face.Wanjala tells me about all the problems he has. He says how he had planned to drown all his sorrows on that chilly Saturday evening but his poison proves to be, well, not potent.Midnight reaches very fast. Wanjala puts down his not so potent drink, excuses himself, takes up a long stick, gets to his hut and strikes the s**t out of his roof. Wanjala believes this drives away the evil spirits from the ending year. A countdown ensues, 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1. A new year has started. Wanjala has driven away the evil spirits. He still sips on his not so potent drink. He is not alone this time. He had hop. Hope that things will work out in this new year. Things will be different, Matiang’i will not interfere in his business, he will pass his exams, his drink will become potent.Happy New Year 2017 everyone.
Like and don’t be afraid to share.Its a new year.

Hope for luck

I recently found myself in a not so flashy part of Nairobi. With the bad roads coupled with the poor driving skills possessed by the residents of this great city, one finds it hard to avoid the company of a mechanic. This time I had lost a side mirror. Whether or not I remember how or who lost it was unimportant, but one thing- it was lost, second thing-it had to be replaced. So i park the vehicle at Kirinyaga road, a place not so unfamiliar to the fellas of my generation as i had learnt earlier. When you stole your paroz car for a ten minute pleasure ride then suddenly a tree appears in front of you, thats the first place you run to before your old man arrives from upcountry.
This time however i hadn't stolen the ride. i was under commission by my paro. I alighted the car and a hoard of guys rushed towards me. they were all wearing overalls, different colours;mostly grey though. you see all these greasy hands rushing towards you and suddenly you recall of all the stories you have heard of people being conned of their money. you are suddenly afraid, but you do not show it, because you think they can smell fear. 'boss nikuuzie tyre?', 'boss nukufungie hiyo bumper?', 'boss nikufungie hiyo kioo?' . at least one of them had impeccable observation skills. he had already passed the interview. i realise that most if not all had a kyuk accent, because thats what we learn living in the streets of nairobi, how to tell apart different communities, which one is yours and which one is not.
'Mzito, niaje, Nataka mtu wa kunifungia hii kioo'. mzito, a word, a noun, that i always used to make myself look a bit streetwise. You hope it works. 'wagwan, nifuate'.you let out a smile, inwardly though, you know it has worked but you don't him calling your bluff.
so the guy detaches the side mirror and i follow him. We pass through alleys, streets, fruit stands and mombasa just to get there. long story short, i lost my bearing. The road was so muddy but you have to follow his steps. your shoes get muddy but they are on their own. you don't want them finding out that you are not one of them- and not streetwise, because they will bite...your pockets.
He hands me over to some other guy there working with fibre, as they called it. He quickly assesses the damage and says 'Hii nitakufanyia soo tano' . As soon as he opened his mouth, i thought, huyu ni wa ingo. My radars were on fire. So I try to convince him to give me a good deal, which we meet halfway.
This fella is so engrossed in his work but a colleague comes and asks in luhya, 'jana ulikula?'. He replies in the negative. I felt like I was back in Kakamega. To make it better, they were all sipping tea, I felt at home. I couldn't help but pity this guy for not having had supper the previous day. The other fella also replied in the negative when the same question was possed. All of them had not eaten. It took quite sometime to realize they were talking of Sportpesa. They talked of how 'Chievo Verona iliwaangusha jana' and another interjected on how 'Barcelona iliunguza bet juzi'. One thing so outstanding is that they had even lined up bets for that very day, that very night. They talked of which games were in the Jackpot that weekend. Which were sure wins and which were tricky. They didn't make a lot of money, but the little they had they did try to multiply it. They heard of low bodaboda riders winning 26million and farmers winning 10 million. They believed that someday, the same gods that make them lose their bets will also open their jackpot bid. They dream that one day they will carry the huge dummy cheque and will ask to give an interview on citizen tv and will first thank the Almighty, he will look to the camera and will send greetings to his parents in Funyula. He will encourage his fellow dreamers to keep on betting, he will assure them that their day is coming and just to persevere.
I guess that's what makes us human. The belief we have in our choice, the ability to dream, to think of a better tomorrow regardless of the wretched present.
He had finished the sidemirror in no time. He didn't even need any luck to do it. As I paid him, I reminded him not to forget us when he won the Jackpot like the rest and to invite me to Funyula later on that year to celebrate his good fortunes. 

Dear Christian

Dear Christian,

I woke up at 3am today. It was silent, it was cold. I almost thought I heard the sound of my blood flow in my veins, but turns out to be the wind slowly caressing my bedroom window. Your name came up first, I shrilled, just a bit, I didn’t know why. I wondered when you would come, I wondered how you would look like, I wondered whether I would be ready. I wondered whether I was living right by you.
The terms of the contract are very clear should you decide whether or not to sign into it. A lifetime my precious, is what one expects, however long, however short.

You are coming at a very early time, I had planned on it though. Many a night I wondered just how good looking you will be, just how smart you will be. It still remains a secret well hidden from me. But I intend to find out.
Your mother is half scared to death, it is allowed, because it is she who has to bear most of the burden. It is she who makes the most sacrifice. Only she. But I have to be strong, for two. Hold her hand when she feels scared and make her see that everything will be fine. Give her a shoulder to lean on when she feels down. I am scared too, but the mere thought of seeing you smile makes it all the worthwhile.

Sleepless nights are coming up for me. That is one thing that I do not dread. You deserve the best in the world. You deserve to get whatever you would like from Santa Claus. The Easter Bunny will bring you all the chocolate you can eat. I will only ensure that they get your letters.
A bed of roses is what your world should be. But thorns are a part of roses too. The beauty about thorns, my dear, they can always be cut off. I will be your superhero, your Batman, your Superman, your Spiderman. Because I intend to fight for you until I can fight no more.

A speech of the horrible place that the world you are getting into seems a tad too much for your pretty little ears, for now. The world under the cover of the dark seems like a treacherous place, but with the coming of the light in the morning, so does hope.

As I look into her eyes, big hazel eyes, I get lost in them, I get reassurance myself, I feel safe, I feel complete. I always tell her that if you had half the brains my mother thinks I have, half the beauty she has, a quarter of the those pristine eyes and her heart of gold?The world would surely fall at your feet.

With lots of love,

Dad

Say it

That was the end of the road. He had to say something. She turned and gave him warm hug…he liked it. He always enjoyed the sensation he had when their chests were pressed that close together. He looked into her eyes. Her big eyes. He thought how beautiful they were. He remembered how the eyes had first attracted him to her. He always kept it to himself. He just stares blankly into her big beautiful eyes… he does not realize it but he gets lost in them. She looks so very pristine, with her hair, braided, pushed neatly toward the back save for two…the two lonely strands…one atop each eye, hovering, and sometimes crossing each other…beautiful, he thought. Her red lips just sat there…he fought every wish of his body to plant a kiss right there….how could he? They were in public…and that was Kenya. He came back to his senses…well half of his senses. It was 10 o’clock on a Monday evening. He was nowhere near his home…no closer to his bed. He was carrying luggage…a big black suitcase. It seemed small…but looks deceive. It weighed him down, literally. It was heavy…but he wrestled with it as though his very existence depended on it. He had to try…he was not the strongest guy in the world…he always doubted if he could even make the top half…but try was all he had to. He was a shadow of what he used to be before he met her. He ate different, he walked different, he talked different…he was different. He was oblivious of it. He thought of the one thing he wouldn’t do for this belle standing in front of him…he found only one, he would never leave her. In a moment of weakness he wondered just if she would do the same for him. That if she held him as dear just as he did. If she would catch a grenade for him, or maybe just a stone. His own conscience betrayed him. Cursed him out. Spat at his thoughts and called him stupid for having them. His conscience knew better, he thought. In his mind he had a good thing, despite the grapevine he heard. He only cared about one person’s opinions. He wants to tell her that she is the best thing that has happened to him yet. He wishes to tell her that she is and always will be the better part of his day. He wishes to tell her that as he looks into her eyes, it is like the very first time he looked into them. It dawns on him that 3 weeks without seeing her would seem an eternity to him. He wishes to tell her that he would miss her…very much. But he doesn’t say it. He wishes to tell her that she meant the world to him. She has his heart and he knows this. He doesn’t say it. He has the words, he has the courage, he has the moment but the heart, he is without. The heart to take what would ensue after he said those three letters. The heart to be in love alone. He hears his name. What a lovely voice. He has been rescued from her eyes. It has been 5 minutes and he just stood there. She hears her ticket number called out. She starts to let go…he doesn’t want her to but he has to. Time was running out, he had one last shot…he arranged his words, mastered up his courage, took a deep breath,”Goodbye!”. She walked away, gracefully. He hoped it wasn’t the last time he saw her. He was gutted at himself, ashamed if you may. He promised himself that he would do things differently next time, but would he really?

The struggle

I sat there staring at the wall. I had just gotten home from school, a hard day it was. I was expected to sleep. On my bed I sat, thoughts flooding my mind. It was mid august. August was always a hot month…well, not cold. The experts warned us to expect cold weather…and they were right..,it was freezing….but I sat there…exposed, weak, vulnerable. I had taken off all that I had clad…it was freezing…but I didn’t feel the cold…it had taken up residence in my heart. I put on some music. At that moment I craved for something melancholic. It is said that feeling the pain, accepting, embracing it, if you may, actually helps with the healing. I figured a melancholic song would do the trick. So I pushed aside the usual. I am big fan of Micheal Jackson… but I just didn’t feel like a smooth criminal nor Billie Jean and there was obviously nothing thrilling in my current predicament. I adored Trey Song’s work. He always had your back when you wanted to move in slow motion…never could nor can let you down when all you wanted to do was put your hands in the air if she was spending the night. But not this time…this time was different. None of them was on my side.So much expectation was heaped onto me. The society…our society. I couldn’t cry…how could i? I was termed a man, and so did the terms come with the package. “Men shouldn’t cry”…”be a man”…the society’s words lingered. Where others would try to find solace in a bucket of icecream, a movie, a box of tissues and all the melancholic sobs the person could manage, I was forced to suck it up.I chose to try find this solace in good old RnB. Rhythm and blues had a way of making you feel better when you heard of someone having it a bad as you…or even worse. I chose to go with  Bruno mars…he told me I needed morphine to get the pain away. As easy as they come, and so will they easily go.I threw some Ed Sheeran into the mix. I was a mess inside out…searching for a sweet surrender with no end. He had some good and not so good advices. It was alright to cry, he said, don’t wipe your eyes, the tears only remind you that you are alive. It was alright to die…that’s the only thing I hadn’t tried.   Then there was NeYo, then there was the backstreet boys, a little bit of Adele. I stopped at Adele because of obvious reasons.
The dark, cold room was quiet…the music was in play. They say that when you are exuberant you hear the lyrics but you understand the message when feeling low. I did not hear a word. I was too clouded. My brain could not fathom what had just happened. I asked how but mostly WHY!I thought I knew this person…I thought had this person’s loyalty, earned it infact, I thought I had this person’s admiration…you think you know someone. One moment you are flying, the next you are hurtling down to the ground. I had already crashed. I was hurting, betrayed, disappointed, wounded. It was all new to me…my heartbreak virginity had been taken from me in such a gut-wrenching fashion. No Rnb track could ever prepare you for the feeling you get after such betrayal nor would it give you satisfying solutions as to how you would cut that feeling off. Life didn’t come with instructions so you sit tight and watch as life unravels the surprises it has set for you.
You realize that it’s almost 3 o’clock and you have an assignment due at 8am the very next day. You are disoriented, cold and hungry. You spend the next half hour under that hot shower but it doesn't seem to remove the coldness that is inside, you try to eat but you are unable. The only thing logical to do is snuggle up…but the sand man denies you the pleasure of his warm embrace. You are laying in bed, tossing and turning. The devil creeps in, furnishes you with a spectacular idea of getting even. The wheel turns so quickly, he says, here is a way to ensure your side is on top the next time. Against the wish of every muscle in your body, you push the idea aside. A tear escapes your eye. Curse my left eye, he was much too weak. You pray to your lucky stars that you manage to hold on through that night.
Some say that love is a river, that drowns the tender reed…A razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. I say it’s a game, that only the strong get the podium finish. It causes to change, do things we never dreamt we would…it excites…it takes us to the moon…it renders us vulnerable…it hurts. But you still go out looking for it…because it’s the only thing you know. The pain experienced in searching for love does make it all worthwhile when it is eventually found.