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Wednesday, 29 April 2015
WHY MEN HAVE MIGUU TOOTHPICK
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
GHETTO: A LAX LIFE THAT HURDLES
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The
only time I remember living in a posh suburb was when I was in campus. State
House Road and Mamlaka Road. Both signifying closeness to the seat (read State
House and Power) and your way to opulence (Kile, Riverside and Chiromo). Albeit
living in this aura was quite serenading (nice and flashy and sleek cars,
unadulterated air, trees, birds and tarmacked roads not forgetting
skyscrapers).
One of the most synonymous aspects that is associated with the Ghetto is a stream or a distributary flowing to major a river.
One of the most synonymous aspects that is associated with the Ghetto is a stream or a distributary flowing to major a river.
Immediately
after campus, I went to the Ghetto but never lasted because obligations and
nini ninis arose. Kusema ukweli hio maisha ni ngori, si ati nini.
It was not rosy. Life in the Ghetto needs nerves and patience. It requires one
who never cares. Ghetto massive, big up to all those who live in the Ghetto.
Ghetto in Kenya is synonymous to areas like Kibera, the Mukurus, Mathare,
Getho, Zimmer and Yes, Kijijis (found in posh areas and in upper middle class
vicinities) and other places that have sprouted over time.
I
presume the current place where I am residing does not qualify for a Ghetto (in
the meantime). It has an expansive backyard garden (rare in most Nairobi
homes), located in a gated community with cloned mansionettes and there are
apparently very few or no Dukas (Those kiosks that sell retail products, most
guys like doing bulk purchase in this hood).
I
decided to go back to the Ghetto, I did some days and the luxury of this middle
class vicinity drew me back. Free Wi-Fi, Hot Water (Reliable) in a bathtub as
you shower or in showers that are fitted with radio, Security is assured
(The sentries are my buddies most of them are Maasai during the day), Gated
community, Well aerated vicinity with swaying trees and chirping birds with plush
back and front balconies, Fly chics, Insane sports cars and SUVs, English
speaking children- (you feel guilty talking to them with your pathetic patois
because you cannot coherently construct sentences sometimes when you get used
to too much sheng), No ado and of course nice food and drinks. You feel good
but in reality, you have this urge to go back to the hood (read Ghetto and
savor life).
Ghetto,
I have a feeling living in the Ghetto gives one the inkling of how to cascade the
journey of life into prosperity upon decision. I am writing this at the comfort
of a place where cable TV showcasing elegance in terms of architectural designs
in houses makes you feel like. 'I will be there'. Ever watched ‘Million Dollar
Rooms or Spaces.’
Ghetto
is also called Mtaani. Those who live
in the leafy suburb rarely refer to their places of residence as mtaani, unless they have gone to social
places where guys from mtaani reside.
In
mtaani, I have a barber who knows
what I want in terms of a nice shave. We usually talk in Sheng (lugha ya mtaa) and he charges not more than a cent (French
numerical) for the service. But on the other side of town, a good shave in an
exclusive barbershop which offers facials and massage and manicure and pedicure
if willing is quite expensive but I check in occasionally (financials bana, am jobless and getting money is
tricky).
I was born in a Ghetto like setting. Every time I go back to the hood where I was born, I usually feel like it is the same as nothing has changed much. When I want to escape from the boredom of seeing very few people in what is an uptown setting that has given me reclusive tenets, I usually break the monotony by going ghetto. Alright, ghetto has many people.
“Dawa ya kunguni, mende na moskito na panya. Tunauza pia memory card, Safaricom, Orange na Airtel line.”
Say that in the voice of a Kiuk guy with a small soprano voice and you get the irritation most guys go through. This is because most vendors use radios to broadcast their wares when selling their stuff. So bedbugs are prevalent in Nairobi.
In mtaani, most people are usually mobile in the evening. Motorists struggle with humanity for the way especially on roads that sell food and necessities. In places like Kayole where there is a sea of humanity, the cacophony of hooting vehicles surely will force you to indulge. What with nosy neighbours who know you like the back of their palm. Especially the wives. Of course you share facilities like bathrooms and toilets. That means if you are a Casanova, timing when the men of the houses are not around, you can ‘pita nao’ since most idle having no much to do after finishing household chores.
Most ladies because of being housewives engage in gossip and will surely tell you the falsehoods and rumours that are bedeviling the ‘ploti’. I forgot to say that most people live in ploti in the ghetto. Mark you, if it is a high-rise building, the foul stench emanating from dump floors because guys have to hung their clothes within the building will wreak havoc on your nose and throat if new. Not forgetting the smelly poo from the shared Indian toilets. Guys are so used to the situation that they feel there is no discomfort.
Again, the nondescript owners ensure they build substandard flats and the rent you pay is just enough to make you stay longer. Most building are even inhabited while still under construction. In fact, if it is your first time, you will have to drink a lot of water to cushion the salivary glands from releasing too much saliva unnecessarily because you want to spit. Living on the ground floor is a no-no. It is the dumping ground as much as it becomes very cold in the evening. Again, it is very dark living on the ground floor and if you have no watch, you may think it never dawns. You always extend your sleep till 11 am. Why? You never easily see the sun inside these buildings unless you go outside them. The ceiling is just high enough. If you are a tall bugger, I feel your pain.
Indeed, there is only one window that serves each room. Electricity is usually limited to some minutes after dusk apart from Sunday in some areas. Luckily, Kenya Power came up with the sole meters and most end up being loaded with tokens just enough for sustenance because of liquidity issues. Life is a real hustle amid the low standards characterized by a kadogo economy.
Food outlets where mandazis and chapattis are cooked using solid fat and sold in the open are many. Orenge, a meal made up of the legs and head of cows are in plenty. Those who sell mutura and intestines by the roadside notwithstanding the risk posed by such hazardous tendencies in a bid to get a life come up each day. I used to drink supu but middle upper middle class residence has restrained me. You look at the person selling the stuff, (his fingers, clothing and general hygiene) you just say it is alright. Life is a hustle. Mama Mbogas have gotten new business ideas, they no longer sell fresh vegetables only, they have divested as a result they also do cooked githeri, mbocho (or is it mbosho) and njahi and whatever else I have not mentioned. When you have Sh.70, you buy can 3 chapattis at Sh.30, beans at 25, one onion and two tomatoes cook and eat. The remaining beans can be stored or relished with rice.
In the ghetto, purchasing things on credit is a lifestyle. The shopkeeper knows who pays and never pays. They know those who are liquid and those who struggle to make ends meet.
Those who cannot buy newspapers frequent food joints where prices are customer friendly. A trap most hotels use (The kina mama boi hotel, and nini ninis) is a newspaper which is called Gazette. Never mind that a hotel is a place that is supposed to offer accommodation. I don’t know whether to call these premises; restaurant, food joints or cafes. Inside, the walls have ceased from being their original colour to something with dark stains on cream paint. You enter inside and notice that the aura is sooty but still buy chai and mandas. The lady who serves touches the food with her hands but you are like haisulu.
The fish mongers perhaps are the lucky ones, they price their fish at exorbitantly high prices you are left sulking because the fish also has high demand. But there is always that lady who sells her fish at lower prices. However, there is a caveat, you risk buying stale fish with a rotten head.
You must have roho ngumu to make it in the ghetto.
But in the ghetto, though many have TV which they bought during the period when analogue broadcasting was still operational, few have set top boxes and pay TV because they are still adamant. They are not sure of the best alternative given that most decorders are not genuine in their thinking. Radio is their preferred mode of catching up with the latest news. Pay TV operators like GoTV are proving unreliable even after purchase by many people.
In areas predominantly Sap (inhabited by Agĩkũyũ), the radios are usually tuned to the local stations, likewise in areas where Luos, Kambas, Luhyas and which other major tribe lives in the ghetto (I don’t know- Somalis!!!). As such, children in some ghetto speak fluently in their mother tongue than those in middle class areas who are forced to do Queens English. In Mathare for instance, a mother probably from Siaya who came in because her man is working in Kariobangi light industries knows no other language apart from jeng. When she speaks in Kiswahili, you can tell her origin, he patois is heavily accented. Same applies to some old folks from either Muranga or Kiambu huko ndani kabisa.
The generation of the aged found in slums have seen better days. They are the most despondent lot. Some own plots and they never want to go back to the rural areas because people farm and they are used to petty cash they can easily get. Their living standards are deplorable, some however are bulky in weight. You know most ghettos have this outfits like mungiki, sungusungu, chinkororo and I don’t know which other ethnic outfits that sometime terrorize the landlords and residents. Some of those old men and women found living in the ghetto are their leaders. Sometimes I wonder how they operate because you never see them doing anything, just walking in the hood amorphously without any real engagement. Some are members of the office entitled to sell land. They gonga guys and use the amount to maintain their lifestyles. They act as middlemen because in the Ghetto people are issued with allotment letters instead of title deeds.
The number of churches that are found in ghetto will astound you. Where I sometimes stay, there are not less than ten churches. There is one for the Legio Maria, which is quite distinct and others with sometimes ten or twenty people. One with three people in a 4 by six room did astonish. Many are churches cum saccos. After church they hold crusades anywhere open near a place where people like to frequent. Someone thinks he will be the next big thing on TV or ending up with a big church. That point you realize why Lupita’s sentiments, “Your dreams are valid” is actually realistic. Who knows perhaps they may open the biggest church and end up smiling all the way to the bank.
What’s worse is that there are goats loitering all over. Some people heard that there is a big market for pigs and have since ventured into the lucrative business. The stench that comes from plots that are rearing those animals is very pesky. Since they have no regard for hygiene, most people never procure the services of garbage collectors. Mounds of wate are all over. They direct the waste outside especially the animal waste using trenches they did to let out the waste. When the animals decide to snort or bleat, mayie denda, you would think you have an abattoir in your vicinity.
Enterprises are also all over. The main roads have houses with businesses being the sole trade taking place. The number of Mpesa shops are so many. Likewise shops selling electronics and the dukas. While in middleclass hoods there are many newspaper vendors, in the Ghetto, one serves a population of over ten thousand people. It’s like people just have to do business. Newspapers are not that important.
Supermarkets are in plenty. Those that are actually shops but you can select what you want inside.
However when it rains in the Ghetto, it never becomes rosy. Roads develop small pools and what’s worse is walking on a road that has been turned into a porridge like surface. You can easily enter into sludge or fall in the water when not careful because the untarmacked surfaces are very lethal if you shoe soles are untreaded well. Water snakes away because there is no proper drainage along the roads.
In the evening, because most places are either swampy or riparian, you will hear crickets chirping and frogs croaking. Undeveloped plots with small thickets house these animals during the rainy season. And they usually compete in making noise.
I was born in a Ghetto like setting. Every time I go back to the hood where I was born, I usually feel like it is the same as nothing has changed much. When I want to escape from the boredom of seeing very few people in what is an uptown setting that has given me reclusive tenets, I usually break the monotony by going ghetto. Alright, ghetto has many people.
“Dawa ya kunguni, mende na moskito na panya. Tunauza pia memory card, Safaricom, Orange na Airtel line.”
Say that in the voice of a Kiuk guy with a small soprano voice and you get the irritation most guys go through. This is because most vendors use radios to broadcast their wares when selling their stuff. So bedbugs are prevalent in Nairobi.
In mtaani, most people are usually mobile in the evening. Motorists struggle with humanity for the way especially on roads that sell food and necessities. In places like Kayole where there is a sea of humanity, the cacophony of hooting vehicles surely will force you to indulge. What with nosy neighbours who know you like the back of their palm. Especially the wives. Of course you share facilities like bathrooms and toilets. That means if you are a Casanova, timing when the men of the houses are not around, you can ‘pita nao’ since most idle having no much to do after finishing household chores.
Most ladies because of being housewives engage in gossip and will surely tell you the falsehoods and rumours that are bedeviling the ‘ploti’. I forgot to say that most people live in ploti in the ghetto. Mark you, if it is a high-rise building, the foul stench emanating from dump floors because guys have to hung their clothes within the building will wreak havoc on your nose and throat if new. Not forgetting the smelly poo from the shared Indian toilets. Guys are so used to the situation that they feel there is no discomfort.
Again, the nondescript owners ensure they build substandard flats and the rent you pay is just enough to make you stay longer. Most building are even inhabited while still under construction. In fact, if it is your first time, you will have to drink a lot of water to cushion the salivary glands from releasing too much saliva unnecessarily because you want to spit. Living on the ground floor is a no-no. It is the dumping ground as much as it becomes very cold in the evening. Again, it is very dark living on the ground floor and if you have no watch, you may think it never dawns. You always extend your sleep till 11 am. Why? You never easily see the sun inside these buildings unless you go outside them. The ceiling is just high enough. If you are a tall bugger, I feel your pain.
Indeed, there is only one window that serves each room. Electricity is usually limited to some minutes after dusk apart from Sunday in some areas. Luckily, Kenya Power came up with the sole meters and most end up being loaded with tokens just enough for sustenance because of liquidity issues. Life is a real hustle amid the low standards characterized by a kadogo economy.
Food outlets where mandazis and chapattis are cooked using solid fat and sold in the open are many. Orenge, a meal made up of the legs and head of cows are in plenty. Those who sell mutura and intestines by the roadside notwithstanding the risk posed by such hazardous tendencies in a bid to get a life come up each day. I used to drink supu but middle upper middle class residence has restrained me. You look at the person selling the stuff, (his fingers, clothing and general hygiene) you just say it is alright. Life is a hustle. Mama Mbogas have gotten new business ideas, they no longer sell fresh vegetables only, they have divested as a result they also do cooked githeri, mbocho (or is it mbosho) and njahi and whatever else I have not mentioned. When you have Sh.70, you buy can 3 chapattis at Sh.30, beans at 25, one onion and two tomatoes cook and eat. The remaining beans can be stored or relished with rice.
In the ghetto, purchasing things on credit is a lifestyle. The shopkeeper knows who pays and never pays. They know those who are liquid and those who struggle to make ends meet.
Those who cannot buy newspapers frequent food joints where prices are customer friendly. A trap most hotels use (The kina mama boi hotel, and nini ninis) is a newspaper which is called Gazette. Never mind that a hotel is a place that is supposed to offer accommodation. I don’t know whether to call these premises; restaurant, food joints or cafes. Inside, the walls have ceased from being their original colour to something with dark stains on cream paint. You enter inside and notice that the aura is sooty but still buy chai and mandas. The lady who serves touches the food with her hands but you are like haisulu.
The fish mongers perhaps are the lucky ones, they price their fish at exorbitantly high prices you are left sulking because the fish also has high demand. But there is always that lady who sells her fish at lower prices. However, there is a caveat, you risk buying stale fish with a rotten head.
You must have roho ngumu to make it in the ghetto.
But in the ghetto, though many have TV which they bought during the period when analogue broadcasting was still operational, few have set top boxes and pay TV because they are still adamant. They are not sure of the best alternative given that most decorders are not genuine in their thinking. Radio is their preferred mode of catching up with the latest news. Pay TV operators like GoTV are proving unreliable even after purchase by many people.
In areas predominantly Sap (inhabited by Agĩkũyũ), the radios are usually tuned to the local stations, likewise in areas where Luos, Kambas, Luhyas and which other major tribe lives in the ghetto (I don’t know- Somalis!!!). As such, children in some ghetto speak fluently in their mother tongue than those in middle class areas who are forced to do Queens English. In Mathare for instance, a mother probably from Siaya who came in because her man is working in Kariobangi light industries knows no other language apart from jeng. When she speaks in Kiswahili, you can tell her origin, he patois is heavily accented. Same applies to some old folks from either Muranga or Kiambu huko ndani kabisa.
The generation of the aged found in slums have seen better days. They are the most despondent lot. Some own plots and they never want to go back to the rural areas because people farm and they are used to petty cash they can easily get. Their living standards are deplorable, some however are bulky in weight. You know most ghettos have this outfits like mungiki, sungusungu, chinkororo and I don’t know which other ethnic outfits that sometime terrorize the landlords and residents. Some of those old men and women found living in the ghetto are their leaders. Sometimes I wonder how they operate because you never see them doing anything, just walking in the hood amorphously without any real engagement. Some are members of the office entitled to sell land. They gonga guys and use the amount to maintain their lifestyles. They act as middlemen because in the Ghetto people are issued with allotment letters instead of title deeds.
The number of churches that are found in ghetto will astound you. Where I sometimes stay, there are not less than ten churches. There is one for the Legio Maria, which is quite distinct and others with sometimes ten or twenty people. One with three people in a 4 by six room did astonish. Many are churches cum saccos. After church they hold crusades anywhere open near a place where people like to frequent. Someone thinks he will be the next big thing on TV or ending up with a big church. That point you realize why Lupita’s sentiments, “Your dreams are valid” is actually realistic. Who knows perhaps they may open the biggest church and end up smiling all the way to the bank.
What’s worse is that there are goats loitering all over. Some people heard that there is a big market for pigs and have since ventured into the lucrative business. The stench that comes from plots that are rearing those animals is very pesky. Since they have no regard for hygiene, most people never procure the services of garbage collectors. Mounds of wate are all over. They direct the waste outside especially the animal waste using trenches they did to let out the waste. When the animals decide to snort or bleat, mayie denda, you would think you have an abattoir in your vicinity.
Enterprises are also all over. The main roads have houses with businesses being the sole trade taking place. The number of Mpesa shops are so many. Likewise shops selling electronics and the dukas. While in middleclass hoods there are many newspaper vendors, in the Ghetto, one serves a population of over ten thousand people. It’s like people just have to do business. Newspapers are not that important.
Supermarkets are in plenty. Those that are actually shops but you can select what you want inside.
However when it rains in the Ghetto, it never becomes rosy. Roads develop small pools and what’s worse is walking on a road that has been turned into a porridge like surface. You can easily enter into sludge or fall in the water when not careful because the untarmacked surfaces are very lethal if you shoe soles are untreaded well. Water snakes away because there is no proper drainage along the roads.
In the evening, because most places are either swampy or riparian, you will hear crickets chirping and frogs croaking. Undeveloped plots with small thickets house these animals during the rainy season. And they usually compete in making noise.
However I like Ghetto kids, those who have strict parents and as such have taught them certain virtues. Some greatly thanked me for returning their ball when it gained entry in my place of living. ‘Mungu akubariki sana.’ They told me when I returned their ball.
The Matatus. Nganya as they are called have really transformed living in the Ghetto. Most of the mats in the Ghetto are really worth writing home about. Some are fitted with big wide screen TVs which are common, free Wi-Fi, nice rims and others even have CCTV and Water Dispensers inside. However, the conductors are very rowdy. They are also conniving because they let the touts fill their mats with minimal fare but when inside the the conductor surcharges you feigning ignorance of the earlier pact you had. Plus they can easily wrestle passengers as they don't a damn. Is this not impunity. Ghetto is also home to some mats that you will never see in the city centre. Those mats that are so old they billow dark smoke like some coal that is used to generate electricity.
SITUONANE.
[Photo source: Google Images]
Friday, 24 April 2015
RED FLAG ALERT
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I
think that sometimes you need to be kind of a rebel because if you cannot, you
may be mistaken for some form of a conformist who cannot make incisive
decisions which may require a dissident because life is not all determined and
wired to be approached in a given way.
Today I was scheduled to attend an interview in one of the many firms or say industries that are found in Industrial area. The message came at a time I was feeling confident because I was reading stuff that required me to be assertive of my place in life. Books can give you fake illusory courage though, until reality beckons you are still in a quandary quagmire (who knows the meaning of the two).
When you delegate the role of job hunting to someone, you have to accept anything that comes your way. Not me though, there are some places if you are sent to try out as an intern, you may never make it to the finish line (like working in a cyber café- seriously). You can give up hope because it may be frustrating and only compounding to your many tribulations in life.
Either way, I was taken aback when my oldman called me from the shags. He had been trying to reach me for some time and it seemed I was ‘mteja’ from his side. At last, we got to talk. He wanted to write his CV, yet he never had a computer and he was hence delegating the service to yours truly. Mind you, with no pay. For someone who had worked in public service for close to 40 years, he had even forgotten to use a computer. I also think he was experiencing some cash crunch having gotten used to receiving something at the end of the month. Again who retires in this time and age?
Some guys had found him worthy of a role and being a retiree, they never wanted to let all the experience go down the drain because it looked like he was wasting away all the manpower yet he could be paid some good bucks if he provided the services to worthy employers.
So I was like, an old man has guys looking for him. Having forgotten his email address , I was tasked to do everything. Write a cover letter, CV and set up the email account to send the CV. He had so many chaps who wanted him to provide his services. I, on the other hand was jobless, waiting for my employer (KEPSA) to find a place for me because I was proving too much of a rookie. Failing one after another interview. But partly, I can only shoulder part of the blame. In one interview, I went unprepared not knowing exactly what role I was to be interviewed for. I had not even bothered to rehearse on the imminent. I was too unprepared and did fluke. I can aptly say, I am a failure in interviews. I need to restrategize ASAP.
The fact that my old man received invites for jobs while he should be enjoying his retirement got me thinking. Has the youthful generation been ostracized in the job arena in some sectors which really need them in the name of the experience? Having not worked for any organization so far, I am doing seven years of experience as a job seeker, I am planning to try something that will work out. When things go south, you look for ways of redirecting them to the north.
So minutes before the time I was scheduled to attend the interview, I got a text that I should not attend the interview. I was indifferent. I was not feeling the vibe of attending an interview in a company that was kind of nondescript. Not even a blog about it . Hope the employer does not strike off my name from the list because of my dissidence. Till now, I have not communicated with them. And the way they structure messages detailing you to attend interviews, SMFH.
Maybe just maybe, I should resort to being a DJ. I love music. I can mix, Degree ni karatasi. I now understand why some buggers have placed the documents under their beds. If you don’t have connections, you have to prove your worth in being extremely good. Since I don’t have the connections, I have ended up working in places that come to think of it, I am better placed doing that which I know best. Sitting idly; getting frustrated and coping, listening to stories of people and reading and hoping an opportunity will come my way, lady luck smiles and I cease living this life of a recluse.
And reading is not easy, I tried reading while listening to jazz for six hours and I barely did two hours, doing a mere 15 pages. Rome indeed was not built in one day. Patience will pay because when I finish reading the book I started, I will be as happy as a king. And I will be like; One book down.
SITUUONANE
Today I was scheduled to attend an interview in one of the many firms or say industries that are found in Industrial area. The message came at a time I was feeling confident because I was reading stuff that required me to be assertive of my place in life. Books can give you fake illusory courage though, until reality beckons you are still in a quandary quagmire (who knows the meaning of the two).
When you delegate the role of job hunting to someone, you have to accept anything that comes your way. Not me though, there are some places if you are sent to try out as an intern, you may never make it to the finish line (like working in a cyber café- seriously). You can give up hope because it may be frustrating and only compounding to your many tribulations in life.
Either way, I was taken aback when my oldman called me from the shags. He had been trying to reach me for some time and it seemed I was ‘mteja’ from his side. At last, we got to talk. He wanted to write his CV, yet he never had a computer and he was hence delegating the service to yours truly. Mind you, with no pay. For someone who had worked in public service for close to 40 years, he had even forgotten to use a computer. I also think he was experiencing some cash crunch having gotten used to receiving something at the end of the month. Again who retires in this time and age?
Some guys had found him worthy of a role and being a retiree, they never wanted to let all the experience go down the drain because it looked like he was wasting away all the manpower yet he could be paid some good bucks if he provided the services to worthy employers.
So I was like, an old man has guys looking for him. Having forgotten his email address , I was tasked to do everything. Write a cover letter, CV and set up the email account to send the CV. He had so many chaps who wanted him to provide his services. I, on the other hand was jobless, waiting for my employer (KEPSA) to find a place for me because I was proving too much of a rookie. Failing one after another interview. But partly, I can only shoulder part of the blame. In one interview, I went unprepared not knowing exactly what role I was to be interviewed for. I had not even bothered to rehearse on the imminent. I was too unprepared and did fluke. I can aptly say, I am a failure in interviews. I need to restrategize ASAP.
The fact that my old man received invites for jobs while he should be enjoying his retirement got me thinking. Has the youthful generation been ostracized in the job arena in some sectors which really need them in the name of the experience? Having not worked for any organization so far, I am doing seven years of experience as a job seeker, I am planning to try something that will work out. When things go south, you look for ways of redirecting them to the north.
So minutes before the time I was scheduled to attend the interview, I got a text that I should not attend the interview. I was indifferent. I was not feeling the vibe of attending an interview in a company that was kind of nondescript. Not even a blog about it . Hope the employer does not strike off my name from the list because of my dissidence. Till now, I have not communicated with them. And the way they structure messages detailing you to attend interviews, SMFH.
Maybe just maybe, I should resort to being a DJ. I love music. I can mix, Degree ni karatasi. I now understand why some buggers have placed the documents under their beds. If you don’t have connections, you have to prove your worth in being extremely good. Since I don’t have the connections, I have ended up working in places that come to think of it, I am better placed doing that which I know best. Sitting idly; getting frustrated and coping, listening to stories of people and reading and hoping an opportunity will come my way, lady luck smiles and I cease living this life of a recluse.
And reading is not easy, I tried reading while listening to jazz for six hours and I barely did two hours, doing a mere 15 pages. Rome indeed was not built in one day. Patience will pay because when I finish reading the book I started, I will be as happy as a king. And I will be like; One book down.
SITUUONANE
[Photo Source: My Own]
Tuesday, 21 April 2015
ONE YEAR LATER AFTER CAMPUS: REMINISCES
 |
As
I was saying, my caution money has been approved and boy, Barclays Bank wired
it to me via Mpesa. Just when I needed it because those guys at M-shwari were ongeazing me money yet I am hell broke
and I need to repay their debt I had before procuring another loan because I
survive on loans for upkeep. And since I have been job hunting (free agent) and
the stint has been so unsuccessful so far, I am slowly resigning to fate. Here
is why.
I can’t blame myself for having failed with drab and bland colours in my quest to making a scholar while in campus. Maybe if I hadn’t experimented a lot, I would have done well in school, got a paying job by now and entrenched my tentacles in my career of choice. However, what I did in campus does not even afford me a job because it requires one to have done it at master’s level to become just a rookie in the field (If one of our lecturer’s words are anything to go by). I am tempted to change profession but I cannot because every one of my former comrades has done so. I am still sitting on the fence waiting like a first time father in medieval times. Waiting to hear from the midwives on the sex of his child. Likewise, I am waiting. Maybe I will change my career. I don’t care when.
Enough of myself, I am having a year of experience after campus as a broke lad, highly dependent job seeker cum blogger cum son and brother. Since I have this desire in me to continuously tell stories that I cannot get an audience, I have decided to let words flow in this blog because my family is one that never has time to listen to me. I hate speaking to people who are busy with their phones. I hate that so much that I find it has made me reclusive because the digital world has made us think life is only found in our phones and to be precise whatsapp.
University of Nairobi. My immediate Alma mater (sic). I am still indebted to this school. Whereas I was a brilliant chap fresh from high school when I joined, I cannot attest to whether it helped in making me a genuine daft or a brazen academic dwarf. I remember an prospective employer asking me why my high school grades were better off than my campus grades. Things happen. Four years is not a joke. And during those four years, this is what I can conclude about this school and my long stay. The best so far in East and Central Africa.
Exams
When my sister joined the UON master’s program, she thought it would be a walk in the park like she was used to in her former campus. Alas, she witnessed what I can attest to as real drill in education. You have to read, reread, and at last peruse. She aint graduated four years down the line. I had given my all to education in Secondary and Primary. University was not a place I would falter. Nilianguka mitihani na miguu zote juu. I could not believe it. But the problem with studies is that once you fail, even if you try to better you best, you keep on failing because there should be failures in a system. Even society has programmed itself that there should be failures.
Anyway, I am sometimes tempted to surmise that as long as I went through the process, I have the knowledge (At least I never went to the exam room like an empty debe). In fact, this demand by employers that guys should have second class upper and above really pisses me off. I can do absolutely nothing about it. Again, the number of those who cheat in exams to pass with the good grades is astonishing. Ok, when you go to Rome, do what the Romans do. I could not cope with that when it came to exams. My drive was, if I copied and passed, what difference would it make. I would be content with the success but deep down inside, I knew those were not my results. But in a world where you have to use all ways of making it, using mwakenya and sitting next to a chopi to copy is something very conventional. I am still looking for the best way to make it. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I passed. Would my fate have changed? Would I have known that blog-writing exists? I doubt, not really.
The most interesting part is that there were exams meant for Module One students which were quite different from those meant for module two students. So, if you find module two doing than a module one student, it’s never that serious. The chap pays 5 or 6 times what you pay for the course and they subsequently need to be serious, not forgetting they are set exams to their standard. But still, majority were just that, never serious with exams.
I can’t blame myself for having failed with drab and bland colours in my quest to making a scholar while in campus. Maybe if I hadn’t experimented a lot, I would have done well in school, got a paying job by now and entrenched my tentacles in my career of choice. However, what I did in campus does not even afford me a job because it requires one to have done it at master’s level to become just a rookie in the field (If one of our lecturer’s words are anything to go by). I am tempted to change profession but I cannot because every one of my former comrades has done so. I am still sitting on the fence waiting like a first time father in medieval times. Waiting to hear from the midwives on the sex of his child. Likewise, I am waiting. Maybe I will change my career. I don’t care when.
Enough of myself, I am having a year of experience after campus as a broke lad, highly dependent job seeker cum blogger cum son and brother. Since I have this desire in me to continuously tell stories that I cannot get an audience, I have decided to let words flow in this blog because my family is one that never has time to listen to me. I hate speaking to people who are busy with their phones. I hate that so much that I find it has made me reclusive because the digital world has made us think life is only found in our phones and to be precise whatsapp.
University of Nairobi. My immediate Alma mater (sic). I am still indebted to this school. Whereas I was a brilliant chap fresh from high school when I joined, I cannot attest to whether it helped in making me a genuine daft or a brazen academic dwarf. I remember an prospective employer asking me why my high school grades were better off than my campus grades. Things happen. Four years is not a joke. And during those four years, this is what I can conclude about this school and my long stay. The best so far in East and Central Africa.
Exams
When my sister joined the UON master’s program, she thought it would be a walk in the park like she was used to in her former campus. Alas, she witnessed what I can attest to as real drill in education. You have to read, reread, and at last peruse. She aint graduated four years down the line. I had given my all to education in Secondary and Primary. University was not a place I would falter. Nilianguka mitihani na miguu zote juu. I could not believe it. But the problem with studies is that once you fail, even if you try to better you best, you keep on failing because there should be failures in a system. Even society has programmed itself that there should be failures.
Anyway, I am sometimes tempted to surmise that as long as I went through the process, I have the knowledge (At least I never went to the exam room like an empty debe). In fact, this demand by employers that guys should have second class upper and above really pisses me off. I can do absolutely nothing about it. Again, the number of those who cheat in exams to pass with the good grades is astonishing. Ok, when you go to Rome, do what the Romans do. I could not cope with that when it came to exams. My drive was, if I copied and passed, what difference would it make. I would be content with the success but deep down inside, I knew those were not my results. But in a world where you have to use all ways of making it, using mwakenya and sitting next to a chopi to copy is something very conventional. I am still looking for the best way to make it. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I passed. Would my fate have changed? Would I have known that blog-writing exists? I doubt, not really.
The most interesting part is that there were exams meant for Module One students which were quite different from those meant for module two students. So, if you find module two doing than a module one student, it’s never that serious. The chap pays 5 or 6 times what you pay for the course and they subsequently need to be serious, not forgetting they are set exams to their standard. But still, majority were just that, never serious with exams.
Verdict on exams: Passing them is good for society and for the ego. If you can pass them, as a matter of priority do it. If you cannot like me, look for other avenues. How many are still hustling to make ends meet with good papers. It is what you make out of yourself and life that counts. Papers are just a leverage.
Lecturers
My former campus and high school mate who lectures in a university in US once posted on Facebook that the students wanted to be explained stuff like they were nursery school kids. I wish some of the lecturers could do that, especially some maths classes. Some only came to class to tell stories of their lives. You laughed and got carried away. Then at the end of the semester, they scheduled CATS which were done in quick succession with the Main Exams. Before you knew it, you had not read anything, the handouts they gave were totally different from what was in the exams. Most times you either spent watching movies, lolling, slumbering and engaging in chitchats. Yet the lecturers never could agree to the idea of giving out the lecture notes at the beginning of the semester so that you could prepare in advance.
Again, some came for lectures out rightly late spending only an hour because they said we were geniuses having passed exams in high school (the world outside here never knows whether you passed exams or not). We were a module one class. And we liked it when they made us believe we were smart and for some comrades, it got into their heads, like yours truly. Most times they chastised Module two students for not reasoning scholarly and being thick. Hope none will ever read this part.
In campus when a lecturer skives, though you are at a loss, you still merry because you are going to watch your favourite series or go spend time with your other chic (mpango are many), or perhaps head to KBC for cheap liquor or I have no idea what else.
Some lecturers even had the guts to attend only three out of 13 lectures. They expected you to cram what they taught during the brief period not forgetting to issue the incomprehensible handouts they gave directly downloaded from Wikipedia. I must say that even if you are bright and exposed to conditions that never motivate, you succumb to pressure. It is like taking a student who scores highly in primary to a mediocre secondary school, though he or she is bright, the aura of the school may not inspire him to work had if the teachers don’t give what the students need like completing the syllabus a week to exams or never completing the syllabus at all. As a matter of consequence, only those who take initiative to go an extra mile do better because some lecturers were like those in rural village schools, giving a course outline that they never honour on their part by completing the syllabus in time.
In general, some of the lecturers were just inhuman, setting exams they had not taught. They gave less and never shied away from giving you bad grades. Some were good though, they gave you what you had worked for and what they taught. And a problem that a friend told me existed in a campus his aunt taught could have afflicted UON. Where lecturers don’t mark exams due to the large number of students hence they delegate the duty to students or anyone available to mark. One lecturer even confessed that they graded students based on their previous results because exams need to reflect a normal curve. So a bugger like me with poor grades ended up being given the same grades when things went haywire.
My two cents: The quality of education in private universities is appalling. That is if you compare with those in private universities.
Hostels
Honestly speaking, the hostels were kind of standard in terms of the buildings, however, accommodation crises bedeviled the campus from my day one since bed capacity was delinked from admission of students. I was affected during my third and second years in campus. The halls of residence usually looked admirable and marvelous from the façade, that is until you enter the buildings. Some students, especially the male students in their senior years had this mien that you would be like, 'Shuka, Shuka Baba Shuka.'
Hall Nine, my latter hall of residence was the worst hall in terms of sanity. The general ambiance was deplorable, the Ghetto of UON. Alley lights had been vandalized with some being in a very bad and precarious state. I had to exchange my room with a friend who loved the hall because I could not put up with the place. The never ceasing evanescence of ganja and its untidy state was something I could not stand.
I loved hall 11 because it was more of a clean uptown hall. The number of outsiders who were frequenting the hall was also minimal and the rooms were not as highly infested with bedbugs as such. Privacy was sure in this hall in as much as there were few rowdy buggers especially those who did drugs with abandon. Still, cooking was a must. I once slept while cooking rice and on waking up found I it was soot black.
Inside the hall was a shop and there was one incident I really reminisce while quietly laughing to myself. There was this guy who was purchasing condoms and some chics were passing by, instead of feeling embarrassed because the chics were laughing as he had loudly requested for them, he ordered the shopkeeper to give him more to go and act on them. I stood there smiling and SMH.
Politics
Student politics were never ceasing. UON is usually in a political mood. Immediately after elections, there was usually a person who being brandished to be eyeing for a given seat. And being close to the chairman of SONU came with a package. Attending state events in the house on the hill, receiving petty cash and occasioning events if the chairman was a socialite.
Elections after a major plebiscite in the country usually took a tribal notation.
There were even students who deferred school in order to contest in elections. The package that came with being in the office not forgetting the power to decide for fellow students was too enticing.
SONU politics was dirty; the machinations and propaganda. I remember reading a Facebook post of a contestant who was disappointed by the house of ‘Mulembe’ for not supporting him. You had to spend handsomely to get a seat. Other contestants were stabbed with knives as things got hotter. Goons (most were jang’os) were on your neck if you did not tip them, election officials were corrupt as well, and IEBC could not conduct elections due to their machinery which ensured no stuffing of ballot boxes with papers.
Club 36
‘Klabu’ as it was popularly known was the place to eat in having replaced the mess. Albeit it has undergone major changes. From matters sanity, presentation and the overall food joints. The prices of food were minimal when I joined in first year. Currently, it is a no go zone for the average students. It has been infested by the working class, those working in the nearby offices. Prices are not student friendly anymore. I bet students who frequent it are by any chance liquid. Why? The amount you spend on lunch can last you a whole day.
Most go to buy raw food.
Church
There is no doubt that UON Main Campus is surrounded by many churches than any other university in Kenya. Forget about the churches sprouting all over whose aim is to butcher the serene silence of the vicinity you live in off tranquility and quietude. Those churches you are forced to curse because their perennial pollution of the air while engaging in holy noise.
Not so with churches found near UON. There is St. Paul’s Catholic Church, St. Andrews PCEA, Mamlaka Hill Chapel, Mavuno Downtown, ACK Cathedral, and a host of other churches with big names. Here, offertory and tithe is collected by either; Wells Fargo, G4S or the other accomplished money handling and security firms so that it can be banked. Jicho Pevu will never succeed in their expose here. On Sunday, you see sniffer dogs near the churches. The cars parked on the parking lots are not your average Toyotas. Most don’t attract the average bloke on the streets who is struggling to make ends meet. The only people struggling are the students.
Notable personalities
Obviously, there are guys you will notice as a student. One of the most distinguished is a certain jungu who has been ravished the forces of nature so that he is almost weather beaten. I once heard a mate call him Tom. Every other person who frequents Lower State House Road knows Tom, about 6 ”4 in height. He sometimes covers his face with a bandana and has his characteristic Green trousers and yellow shirt is his distinguishing feature because he loiters a lot. He stays in YMCA. Sometimes he used to greet me and my friends used to wonder how he knew me or vice versa. Maybe he is ailing. He never looks strong and healthy. But a guy told me when he enters the pool, he turns into a dolphin. That I never know.
Then there is this guy who sells sweets and other stuff and sometimes plies his trade next to that secretive house (That house adjacent to Uhuru Highway and University Way) or near St. Paul’s Catholic Church. I wonder how he has managed to withstand the storm all these days albeit having no rivals and the ever unfriendly kanjo. Or maybe he is a spy, watching students and what happens then taking stock of whatever is happening. A friend confided that his net profit was more than 3 K in a day.
However, there was this lady who sold groundnuts, mangos, boiled maize and banana, next to the tunnel on your way to or from the hostels. One day while purchasing from her, instead of replying in Swahili, she resorted to jeng. I was cornered. I am not good in spoken jeng. While I know it, speaking sometimes becomes a challenge. So more than six years, she is still going on strong.
Clubbing
I started clubbing on my first Friday in campus. Though I was not very liquid, I had only a G for upkeep because those buggers at helb refused to loan me some cash. That Friday, we went club hopping. One of my friends who got too drunk started banging the tables like a madman. I spent all the cash and even lost a phone while dancing with a certain bootylicious chic.
Generally, UON is tantamount to being mother of everything. If you want to go to church or the mosque, you are free. Those who love clubbing and being sots have their place. Even those who want to pick up cheap hoes in town. FromWestlands (Westie) to Parklands to Town, you are spoilt of choice depending on your cash disposal. As for those who love cheap liquor and kushikisha downtown in some very obscure lanes serves them right. But me, cheap liquor and uncanny habits; it is a no.
On completing my last exam paper, I was again clubbing and frolicking. But certainly, I ensure the places I go are classy.
Student strikes and Demonstrations
The killing of a certain comrade in a club in Westie resulted in one of the most remarkable demonstration I ever attended. It turned ugly. Tear gas, rubber bullets. You name it.
Demonstrations usually started in Hall Nine. Then students were dressed by student leaders. Then all of a sudden somebody would start chanting out of the blues, “We Go, We Go,” and in reply students (the masses) chorused back, “We Go.” Even if you never wanted to go, the zeal in you just made you want to see what was happening.
In fact, most student demonstrations I attended involved the death of a student more commonly those of American Wing- engineering students. Whatever happened in Main Campus spilled over to the rest of the campuses.
During demonstrations, there was usually an altercation with the police. Such times, the roads near UON were rendered impassable. The most affected was usually Uhuru Highway. Most rioters were usually opportunists. Taking advantage of the fact that lawlessness has temporarily replaced order, and they were like, “Cool. I’ll go join the fun and get some cash.”
My instincts however never allowed me to ambush motorists to solicit for alms. My usually friends told me of the much they got. Something queer about the ill-gotten money was that it never helped much. You ended up using it on impulse purchases.
Hall 11 and 10 students were notorious for road blocks. Blackouts at night meant students went to solicit for alms armed with projectiles they pelted to oncoming cars that never stopped to replenish their dwindling financial fortunes.
I loved watching guys engage in brazen acts because the number of those engaged in such acts were few and mostly ended up being wretched goons who failed to graduate from school in time.
I never used to frequent ladies hostels. Why? I was deeply religious. Did I say I was in a Bible Study?
Module Two (Para) Vs Module One (Reg) Students.
A story was told to me by a friend in another campus of how a certain student bought his First Class grades. You only needed to pay some amount and your bad grades would be fixed to good grades.
Getting first class does not mean you are clever sometimes. If you can purchase it, what’s the severity of the academic qualification then? The chap was a para student.
Module two students were the moneyed students. Some had their own cars and lived in the leafy suburbs. Of course they never passed their exams in high school to join through the then JAB. They did roll, owned exquisite gadgets, had outstanding fashion, spoke English and were in a class of their own.
Majority were still academic dwarfs because their transcripts betrayed them. However sum were the opposite, they came from the slums or relative middle class areas, worked very hard in class, wore mundane clothes, had ubiquitous phones and looked like Module One students.
Maybe currently module students are liquid, but I doubt. Majority were from humble backgrounds, they cooked omena and kales, wore nguo za kawaida and spoke in their mother tongue. Forget about the few who were from well off families. Most Module one students were sharp, when in class with their module two counterparts, the latter shied away from answering questions. Some came to Nairobi and their ushamba stuck. Others however changed for the better. Most made unwise financial decisions that they did regret afterwards. Still, they preferred damsels from upcountry due to fear of cozy Nairobi ladies.
Chics
I had an unsuccessful stint wooing this ladies why lie. They had set standards. Money talks. I sometimes am impatient.
All in all, a lady once in campus undergoes a metamorphosis. As opposed to boys who come to campus with the same clothes and leave with same same clothes, chics are different. They change their attire after two weeks save for those who are conservative. Their hostel rooms are clean and they have abundance in terms of food.
They quickly shun the clothes they came with from ocha and quickly blend in Nairobi. This applies to both the para and reg students.
Some pretend they are so religious but get paged before the school years lapse by some unknown guy she met in a strange place. They get picked by those in 4WD contraptions and tell of how they cannot date struggling campus dudes. Likewise campus dudes say they would never date a campus chic.
If a chic never transforms in campus. That is starting to drink, changing fashion sense, being hit on, she changes after campus. If she is never hit on by dudes, she becomes very forlorn. She feels rejected, but life continues.
I was not so much into them because of reasons I even don’t know.
Library
Those who went to read in the library were mostly guys who had no rooms of their own or found it more tranquil to read in the library.
The library was a no go zone during the period of exams. It was mostly full. Some went to ogle or find chics while others seriously went to read. Nobody ever bothered to read the books on the course outline. Library was also meant for reading the newspapers.
Many also went with their computers to Facebook and do ‘research.’ Dr Google has all the answers.
The Mess
I quit going to the mess in first year. The food was not appetizing and I had an option. However, I loved the mandazis and chapattis. Sometimes I went to buy food to recook and that’s it.
Kumalizia
I wanted to write about the supermarkets, those who did photocopy and print our stuff. I am tired. Like for real. I can’t think of how best to do it. I will do that when I think of doing it. For now let me procrastinate. Even the I have not written administration and the fountain. The sentries, the workers, those who I tasked with washing my clothes. And I remain that bachelor who loves my privacy.
SITUONANE.
[Photo source: Google Images]
Module Two (Para) Vs Module One (Reg) Students.
A story was told to me by a friend in another campus of how a certain student bought his First Class grades. You only needed to pay some amount and your bad grades would be fixed to good grades.
Getting first class does not mean you are clever sometimes. If you can purchase it, what’s the severity of the academic qualification then? The chap was a para student.
Module two students were the moneyed students. Some had their own cars and lived in the leafy suburbs. Of course they never passed their exams in high school to join through the then JAB. They did roll, owned exquisite gadgets, had outstanding fashion, spoke English and were in a class of their own.
Majority were still academic dwarfs because their transcripts betrayed them. However sum were the opposite, they came from the slums or relative middle class areas, worked very hard in class, wore mundane clothes, had ubiquitous phones and looked like Module One students.
Maybe currently module students are liquid, but I doubt. Majority were from humble backgrounds, they cooked omena and kales, wore nguo za kawaida and spoke in their mother tongue. Forget about the few who were from well off families. Most Module one students were sharp, when in class with their module two counterparts, the latter shied away from answering questions. Some came to Nairobi and their ushamba stuck. Others however changed for the better. Most made unwise financial decisions that they did regret afterwards. Still, they preferred damsels from upcountry due to fear of cozy Nairobi ladies.
Chics
I had an unsuccessful stint wooing this ladies why lie. They had set standards. Money talks. I sometimes am impatient.
All in all, a lady once in campus undergoes a metamorphosis. As opposed to boys who come to campus with the same clothes and leave with same same clothes, chics are different. They change their attire after two weeks save for those who are conservative. Their hostel rooms are clean and they have abundance in terms of food.
They quickly shun the clothes they came with from ocha and quickly blend in Nairobi. This applies to both the para and reg students.
Some pretend they are so religious but get paged before the school years lapse by some unknown guy she met in a strange place. They get picked by those in 4WD contraptions and tell of how they cannot date struggling campus dudes. Likewise campus dudes say they would never date a campus chic.
If a chic never transforms in campus. That is starting to drink, changing fashion sense, being hit on, she changes after campus. If she is never hit on by dudes, she becomes very forlorn. She feels rejected, but life continues.
I was not so much into them because of reasons I even don’t know.
Library
Those who went to read in the library were mostly guys who had no rooms of their own or found it more tranquil to read in the library.
The library was a no go zone during the period of exams. It was mostly full. Some went to ogle or find chics while others seriously went to read. Nobody ever bothered to read the books on the course outline. Library was also meant for reading the newspapers.
Many also went with their computers to Facebook and do ‘research.’ Dr Google has all the answers.
The Mess
I quit going to the mess in first year. The food was not appetizing and I had an option. However, I loved the mandazis and chapattis. Sometimes I went to buy food to recook and that’s it.
Kumalizia
I wanted to write about the supermarkets, those who did photocopy and print our stuff. I am tired. Like for real. I can’t think of how best to do it. I will do that when I think of doing it. For now let me procrastinate. Even the I have not written administration and the fountain. The sentries, the workers, those who I tasked with washing my clothes. And I remain that bachelor who loves my privacy.
SITUONANE.
[Photo source: Google Images]
