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Part One
'Sometimes things fall apart so that better things can fall together' Marylyn
Monroe.
Today I had to jav (use a Matatu) in the morning on my way to start a pristine
phase in my life. I had slackened if I compare the far I have reached in
comparison to proletariat mates who got an early reprieve of self reliance. I
had been lax and content or maybe I had regressed if matters employment are
concerned. My use of a Mat was strategic. It was spurred by the fact that when
you are a rookie you need to depict the true stature of one and heutzutage I
took a Mat.
Flash Back and it is on a Thursday of the
previous week when I got a call. It was from KEPSA. A certain lady who I don’t
remember introducing herself called and asked me to attend a training camp in
Kabete. After the nitty gritty I got the message. Kabete it was for a lolling
former campus morph who was now a driver for hire. I offered my services freely
provided you paid for gas. Free like the Lord has oxygen to his beloved
mankind. I had applied through trial and error all the prospective jobs till I
got tired and lackadaisical. However, I was upbeat but selective in application
though.
I informed few, it
was not a prospect I was buoyant about. But it was an experience I was eagerly
awaiting as a means to jumpstart a new venture of being useful to society and
the country and all who ever cared. Hitherto, my bravado had been punctured and
this opportunity is something I had to seize.
When I informed my
peeps, they became happy, in Primary composition lingo – as happy as a lark. I
know that’s lame. There are pupils who can do better by coming up with better
words than I have but again, it has to do with many years of being out of that
institution.
I recall my mum
advising sagaciously, “When you go there, do anything they say. It may be a
test of how humble you are. Even if it means washing the ablution blocks, just
do it.”
That did remind me
of the good old days in Lazz High. We used to koroga dem ‘abolu’
like it was a hobby while still freshmen in High school. Mwas in Nairobi Half
life only does a tad of what we had to endure and it makes him a novice in
comparison to our amateur standards then. But we made it. Though I was kind of
lucky coz I was in charge of form ones in my hostel and that meant supervision
and less of washing. I did delegate the tasks but sometimes guys would be all
over me and once in a while I had to wash the blocks.
Today I was stir
awake with my young bro, a high school scholar in search for an elusive success
in exams. It is 0500hrs. I am used to 24hr clock by default. Ever had of the
anecdote of the lass who plied her business in a red light district and got
confused when a young soldier told her that the last time he had received the
services was in 1956 and it was the year 2010. The time then was 2000hrs.
Reason why my wrist is not bedecked in Emporio Armani, Rolex, Omega or Alpina
is a story for another day. Bob Colymore spent a cool 800 Gs on one if gutter
press are truthful in their insinuation. I love this man’s flair.
0730hrs was the
time I had had to be in Kabete. So I had presumed if I did my things before
six, I could make it in time or on time. Of course I had all my documents
ready. It was like a routine to have them being a hustler. Photocopies and The
Originals (not the series).
0550 I did exit
from the house. I had to take two ‘Nganyas’, One to town and the next one from
town to Kabete. I never carried or wore any pullover or jacket as it was not
that cold. (I rue not having).
I arrive in town
thirty minutes later. It is a journey that takes you five minutes via a PC. But
with mats and it is a weekday, I oblige. I am in search for the Alchemist. You
only tire when you’ve talked to him and he had shown you the art
of turning gold into stone. Sorry stone into gold.
In town, the Kanges
(Bus conductors) know that young dudes and dudettes are headed to Kabete.
“Technical fifte Technical fifte.” I am right. Star Bus it is. I
take a seat and off we go. We never pass by my alma mater, I swear this could
have been disastrous. Good that we headed straight into Westie, the country’s
entertainment capital. We arrive in Kabete, it is 0700hrs.
The last time I was
in Kabete was like 3 years ago. As an amateur car expert, a novice had hired my
services to go and aid him in making a decision on whether to procure a car he
had in mind or not. It was the same car I drive to date so I could not vouch for
one. Such kind of cars are pesky and though economical, they are not a symbol
of status on the road. No sane Nairobi lady in her right senses can date a man
with one. Ladies, try men in Bavarian Monsters they know how to care. You are
sure you will be in able hands.
I am at Kabete technical training institute. Approximately 3500
youth are in the process of changing their destiny aujourd’hui. Kabete, I can't
seem to find the right diction that properly captures the depiction of this
institution. Notice the words kind of form a rhyme scheme.
I came here for the experience. It's not that I am desperate.
Okay. I must admit I have been a desperate psychic blogger in search of new
experience.
Here I see many youth. Boys dressed in suits, boys in jeans, boys in sports
shoes, boys who have gone to the gym, boys in high-end fake Chinese phones and
some in cheap Finesse phones. Boys listening to music via headphones. Boys
chatting. Boys who rival Bob Marley hairwise. And yes boys who have contacts.
One is talking of how his area councilor hooked him up with the papers for
applying. Are they not called MCAs?
I also see girls. Yes, this is the best bit. My heart beats fast.
I am elated. I notice a girl wearing red lipstick. Of late red lipstick has
made the average girls stand out in crowds. I see young girls, just out of
teenage rampage and those still reeking of high school githeri. They are
chatting. I listen to the music on the loud public address system. It captures
my attention. I love music. On this occasion however, it sounds like I am a
hopeless fellow. The music is gospel. It is synonymous to what Bahati sings
about. Cries here and there. These are what I consider dirgic songs. ‘Soon and
very soon we are going to see the king’ and ‘Bwana u sehemu yangu’ are played.
I resign. You know you are playing the Russian roulette. Is this a do or die
venture?
Two girls seated behind me talk. Talk talk talk till I listen.
Nothing much to write home about just girly issues.
I see girls like Saartjie Baartman. Reminds me of Kim Kardashian.
She exploits herself as the new Hottentot Venus. Talk of her breaking the
internet with her recent nudes and having done the pics for free. I see girls
who have shaved like Ballo. He has been a waste to the former EPL giant.
Methinks these girls should join the likes of Vera or Huddah. But first Buoart
should provide them the requisite taciturn approval and Ghafla the essential
marketing to prospective clients. They know the socialite business like porters
know how to make good concierges. If you are never given the green light by the
two you will probably find yourself in Kabete. Yes, waiting for whatever comes
may.
