NIGHT RUNNER

My colleague Juen gave me what I really needed. A break from the monotony of everyday life. Waking up, matatu, staffroom, class and then home. Juen is that teacher who until then I considered too much of a sot than a serious guy. He always reeked of ale even in the morning and even students knew it. But looking at things, I may as well say that he is more realistic and sagacious than some of the teachers who are also my colleagues. 

I remember a time when we attended a meeting by the directors of our college. After deep introspection, I later realized that some of the issues being raised by some of the teachers were too petty.

Like someone being concerned by food, does this motivate employees? Obviously, like 60-70% of my colleagues never go for lunch, me included. The economic times are always harder in Kenya. The paltry figure you earn in a month is what someone makes in a bad day. Since the supply of human resource outstrips demand (I bet this is a lie), this has contributed to employers paying their employees anything as long as they are just surviving. And the repercussion is that staff turnover is a bit high given that most are looking for better jobs.  

Our director is one bulky figure whom I wish could read on the global trends that being too bulky is not only a sign of laziness but also a sign of being unhealthy. He should trim some of the excess fat to see the institution going places and probably getting to be a varsity or opening up more branches such that it ameliorates into an institution that is a preferred destination by many scholars who deem it as the one stop place of scholarship.

Talking of Juen, during our session with the directors, he raised one important issue mainly revolving around health which I found hilarious but realized it was not trivial as such owing to it being a rainy season. It was paramount because it affected both all parties- students and staff.

So after completing my evening lecturing, let me say I have become a pro teacher, or I am a professor. Before going for the class, I had had this sight headache. And you know when its Friday, you never know how things will turn out. Juen had on Thursday told me of a plot he had conjured. Yes, being a loquacious silent killer, Juen has the flair of a person who is thinking far ahead. While am sorry to say that some ‘professors’ as we call ourselves have no fall back plan in the event they get in a quagmire, Juen told me about his numerous dealings. Never mind a colleague told me he was once sacked and ended up returning to this same institution.

On this Friday, Juen waits for me as planned. He takes me to a shady drinking den where sots take sips one off and they are good to go. We arrive and find the place congested. It takes us a few minutes to make it to the counter where a lady is serving the drinks. Soon the place is vacated as most drinkers head to the club inside playing ethnic music. Since it is downtown Nairobi, you surely know the cacophonous music that rents the air. Stools are used as the way of seating.

Soon an Administration Police joins us. I thought he was interested in taking some pints. He was not. He wanted to be given money, kickbacks. He had either a G3 or an AK47, but since I am not a gun connoisseur, I cannot tell what it was. He came the first time but was denied his due then went away. The second time he came but the lady did not badge to his demands. I could see he was disappointed. The lady later told us his was a malady in the system because he was accustomed to the custom.

Juen had introduced me as a colleague and I was given some respect because he is quite popular here. You see, many people who frequent this joint are not scholars; he is among the few who have a way with not only the most dingy of places to the revered high-class joints in uptown Nairobi. He even told me he was going to take me to Serena. Let’s wait and see. This is a secret I am supposed never to reveal.

A matatu driver who was also part of those sampling the liquor, having witnessed as the AP police was harassing the wines and spirits attendant decided to give the lady his two cents.

“Hawa watu afadhali uwapatie chenye wanataka alafu utakuwa sawa. Mimi husimamishwa Kangundo napeana mia mbili, Juja Road pia unaona karao amakuwekea mkono juu unatoa tena mia mbili alafu ukifika racecourse unapatana na mwingine amekunja sura kama ngumi, uso ndimu. Inabidi saa zingine unaingia kwa mfuko. Hivyo ndio unaweza kaa kwa hii biashara.”

“Lakini huyu amezidi, leo nimempa pesa nyingi karibu thao, anaenda tu kuburudika na wasichana huko ndani. Simpi pesa tena ng'o!” The lady retorted in anger.

I am very particular about the kind of drinks I take, but since this was going to be a new experience, I did take some drink with an unknown name.  Think it was vodka, which we laced with lemons and water. Though I could see some lemon juice in the counter, I never wanted to request for it.

I sometimes I wonder if my employer will confirm me in this job. If he does well and good but if he does not, ntatembeza kiatu sababu hii pesa si ya mamangu. And what if he reads this and realizes that I sometimes become too shady because I want to know so much about Nairobi which I don’t know. At least, the college has given me an avenue and exposure. I get to see new faces everyday and my oh my, what if I am given a sacking letter, where will I start? Yet am admonishing some of my colleagues for having no respite. But I am a writer, sooner I will end up somewhere.

Again, I at least have this little experience of teaching. Imparting knowledge to people who want to be professionals and who aspire to continue with their education at higher levels. While sometimes I usually think I am less informed, it does not matter that I have this desire to be the best. When I see older people coming for my class, I usually feel threatened about how to approach them at the onset, but time has taught me that you see students as individuals and not as a crowd. That way, you can enter into their comfort zones easily and create a good rapport. At the end of the day, my students range from those who are young to some who could have sired some of those students to be their progeny.

Upon leaving the den, Juen gets a call from one of our part-time colleagues. He is in a restaurant that chameleons into a nightclub cum bistro at night not forgetting the fact that it also offers accommodation. I had my brown envelope containing my teaching paraphernalia. Since my blog has been running dry and short of worthy stories,  I decided not to head home because I wanted some new experience. A new feeling which intoxicates.

Lejo was the guy we were to meet. He was offering to buy us pints. Lejo is a guy who methinks uses enhancers because he is barrel-chested and brawny. His pecs demands attention especially when he is adorned in fitting t-shirts. His wide lats only add to his perfect V-shaped figure compounded by a slender torso. But his muscles are not genuine. They are what we call  imbo in sheng. 

Some peon once told me for muscles to be real, they have to be contoured into visible triceps and biceps. “Sio tu nyama ati umeunga.” His grip is usually tight when he gives you a handshake and he has his locker where no one ever nears because they fear he can turn into a beast. 

Even though I hate freebies, peer pressure influences me not to go home but to head to a bar. As I write this, I am still trying to “toa lock” but I have to write either way because I am alone in the house and I am not feeling like even touching food. One reason is that I am afraid of losing the nitty gritty content that I had.

On our way to where Lejo was, we pass by Juen’s office. He tells me his sole reason for teaching investments is partly because he has vested interests in investment firms. He tells me he is a part co-owner of a venture dealing with the same and shows me his office. I nod in agreement and tell him of how wise he is. As a prudent and shrewd businessman, he also operates a mogoka kiosk that gives him enough for sustenance. He tells me that Lejo has a weak spot for ladies. And that I confirm on our entry into the club where I find him with a certain mama.

The lady never looked young, but not a cougar though. While I thought I would find him with a young hot lady who is probably a ka yellow yellow, with a fine and great ass and a looker, this one was what my campus mate Mavo used to call ordinary. But Juen told me she is liquid. Reason why Lejo is hanging out with her. She looks like she is almost 35 judging by her figure, visage and all that. Like most Nairobi chics, she was doing Guarana. Other than the drink being called a pant remover, it has this connotation that you and the chic are going to ‘Guarana’ all night engaging in the devil’s dance as you imbue the sheet with your …..

As an eligible bachelor, (Imagine my students want a piece of me but they are not pushy because I told them am engaged to a hot mama, just kidding). Anyway, I am very handsome; many ladies fall for me because I am a charmer. But I am not a pant remover and neither am I a player. I respect ladies very much. Period.

Sheet, this auto correction thinks I am implying paint remover instead of pant remover. I ignore that. This is a by the way.

In this club where we once had what I can call the last supper with campus buddies before exiting, we go for the lounge, I realize I am among the youngest here and unattached. Never mind I celebrated my silver jubilee with nothing. Yes nothing. So the only way I was going to spoil myself was go for an out like this. I ensured I had some money in case things went haywire. But again, my phone was almost going off and it did not have my regular number. Every one of those in this club had a mama by his side and trust you me, this club has a shortage of hot mamacitas just like it is hard finding an oasis in Kalahari. That is going by my standards.

Juen went and brought one of his friends who was drinking on a different floor but in the same club. The guy buys us a round and engages us in a little chitchat. The waiter comes and we make our order. We resort for vodka which is inferior in the bastion of cosmopolitan Nairobi if going by the banter I have had about it.

“I only drink Whiskey. I am currently doing VAT 69. ”

This guy was bragging he does whiskey while he was not even at the famous whiskey bar, 1824. While whiskey is a pricey drink and associated with the urbane, it loses meaning when it is sipped in a joint where music is rumpus.

As a freelancer (not the professional one), anything legit or alluring that comes your way should be devoured. I am not a heavy drinker and half the Vodka the dude bought was fine. The waiter brings it with lemon and hot water in a red thermos. The guy who brought the drink had withdrew a wad of notes. Juen later tells me he is a banker. In fact, if you want to enjoy life sometimes in Nairobi without money, be a sycophant. Juen knows how to pull these strings and we even eat some chicken and chips courtesy to his court stewardship.

To syllogize the same, drinking vodka is cheap. A pal told me of how his friends were perturbed by the fact that he was buying Smirnoff Blue Label. My pal’s pals were of the opinion that he was stooping too low by even mentioning Vodka. What’s up with some middle class Nairobians? You ooze class if you do some pricey whiskey which you also have to mention with abandon.

The aura in this club looked mature judging by few people on the dance floor and most sitting calmly doing beer and their women either a soft drink or the usual black ice. This reminds me of a place we went where a lady was drinking Guinness kubwa while his man was doing Black ice. Reversed roles, right.

Lejo and Juen took to the dance floor as they let the music control them as they danced along to the native songs like Kanungo and those Kiuk music like Mwanake. Lejo’s chic also joined him in tow and they started dancing like some teenagers who think that they have to be banging their crotches together and daggering to make others jealous. But bend over is so 2010.

After about two hours, we left the club. Outside, Lejo’s chic had started something queer. He wanted to accompany Juen which got Lejo pissed off. She even stood near him and interlocked their arms together. But Juen is that guy who loves his wife and he told me he ensures he only goes to her. He has also mastered her and he knows what she wants.

I remember Juen telling me that he was going to give me like Sh. 200 for my transport. I wanted to remind him about it but after adding up some things, I was sure his drunken stupor was what had lied to him he could part with such a figure.

With the buggers gone, and feeling a little bit high, I decided to walk around town for some time in order to kill the alcohol in my system. I decided to head towards my former Alma mater where I could possibly find someone whom I could rave the night with. I thought of club Edge, the new club in town that is synonymous with guys in their twenties. But the entrance was full so I went ahead and I met this pal from my old town. Felo it was.

Felo is also a pal we were with in campus and high school. He told me he was with my buddy Joda, a chap who scored straight A’s but resorted to a less cool course in campus. They did Economics like yours truly which made them my course mate. But they completed a year after me. It was slightly over a month ever since they had completed campus. 

Felo was with his cousins and big bro who looked more developed than usual. He was a form four student when I was still a mono. Felo and Joda were still jobless. We were in this joint were beer goes for sh.150. I thought that was fair owing to the fact that most places in town the price is higher. However it is many floors up and that could be the reason. It also hosted my former alma mater, a design school that would have given me a job but I was out of its reach.

Joda probs me about where I am working. I tell him and he wants me to buy him a drink which I do. He tells me he plays for mean machine and I ask him on the whereabouts of Gabu who also plays for mean. He says Gabu used to study in St. Peters before proceeding to Kamu. Then he used to be a chop (bright in class). But in campus. Mayie Denda. He sometimes ended up worse because of what he knows best.

I leave my drinks in the custody of these guys because our friendship dates to many years. I leave the joint and head to Sabina Joy. You see, this place is the only joint in Nairobi where women sell their wares with no inhibition. They were near the gents and I had initially thought that the place they were gathered in was the ladies. Wrong. Since I am an explorer, I wanted to find out the price a hooker charges. I had no money enough on me to even think of procuring their services. But I never solicit for sex in such places.

One of the ladies of the night tells me she charges Sh.500 for a shot and the room goes for 300. We haggle over the price until it comes to something like Sh.300. But I was not even interested. So if you have sh.600, you get a lady and a room. But it depends on how you approach them. To piss her off since I wanted to leave, I ask her if she can accept it without rubber for ten times what I am offering. She pushes me away. And I ask another lady who also never accepts the offer of not using prophylactic.

I buy a Red bull and look around the club with many ladies with so short clothes that barely cover their booties. This does not make my heart beat as I had wanted and I get out and head back to where I was partying with my friends.

On reaching the gate, it was past one. The sentry denies me entry insisting I had not informed him while I was leaving that I would return. To kill the imminent, I oil his palms with a sh.50 note and he lets me in. Inside the club, I find Felo dancing with the chic I had initially found canoodling with his elder brother. Felo is tall and the lady has to stand on something to be able to bend over for her ass to get access to his manly belongings. They were dancing those wild moves that I used to love while a first year student. At present, I am not so much into them.

The lady had even feigned that she was high and almost tripped on me when I had placed my envelope on the seat when I had arrived in the club the first time. Maybe she thought I would grab her and buy her drinks, but I was not into her. Even if I was, kupita na manzi ya beshte yako is a no for me.

I continued drinking for a while sleeping intermittently in the process. Felo tells me he has used his flight money back to LD on drinks. He tells me he had been drinking since 2 in the afternoon and it is two in the evening. His gait tells it all. He cannot stand erect without staggering for more than one minute.

Since they had exhausted all the cash, and because I was sleepy, we get out of the club. Revelers were now few. The girls who were dancing with Felo had also gone.

Outside, we get this vendor who sells boiled eggs and smokies. He tells us he goes by the name Amos.  Some dudes were also buying but we take over the place. At first, Amos thought we would not pay. Since we were six, we would do what most Nairobians in a rende do when they find such a person. Eat everything and leave him with nothing.

We ate all the smokies, and eggs. I did five eggs and three smokies which I have never in my life. Hope I will not have a reaction to the eggs because there was a time I had a big boil and presumed it was as a result of eggs.

“Majamaa asanteni kwa kunijenga.” Amos told us.

He even offered to accompany us to the bus stage because we had given him a clean bill of health. It’s like we consumed goods worth more than sh.1000 because he was very happy. He told us he however had to share the money with kanjo and clean the place after working. Which he started doing because he had a hard broom with a polythene bag.

I felt like starting my own business looking at the moneys he had made. But that is a story for another day. While eating, I realized one of the cousins of Felo was a classmate in primary school. Davies was his name. I am not that guy who loves starting stories about stuff of ago when high.

The last time I met Davies was more than 15 years or so and he could not recognize me. He was bigger than me now but still had not done away with his clownish mien. Just realized that those guys I was bigger than in primary school are now bigger than me in size. I never bothered to introduce myself to Davies but I had wanted to ask him about his younger twin sister Doreen. Just to tell him I know him but did let sleeping dogs lie.

As we left Amos, we decided to use an uninhabited lane as a urinal because it was the only point where we could relieve ourselves. A place where in broad daylight, you can never think of doing such a thing. Drinking has this effect whereby you feel like peeing frequently.  A sentry came and found us but could do nothing because it was the dead of the night.  

I decided to head to the Ghetto because it was easy to gain entry as it is well lit and a minutes walk from the main road as opposed to the place I normally stay because it has so many bureaucracies and very far from the main road. I was not going to walk more than five minutes and again, cabs at that time are never in place.

Next to the bus stop, I see this former classmate of mine who was a former student absorbed by Equity bank having performed well in high school arguing with a certain dude. Did I also mention that Joda was also a recipient of the same Equity scholarship and had job which he told me he left. 

I don’t exactly remember the epithet of this chic but judging by the way she was howling her appendages and spitting some invectives, I could tell she was almost ending up in a fight. She was with two dudes. One was in a cheap white blazer and the in an equally cheap black blazer. Those that are rugged at the edge. The guy in white was restraining the one in black from beating her as she was going berserk. In Nairobi, things happen. I tell you. 

What I realized was that even though the chic wanted to go away, she still went back to the dude, maybe she was cashless then. How could she go back to someone who was about to slap her as he had shook he vigorously before being pulled away. I wished my phone was on so that I could take a video of her then later share it on whatsapp with my campus buddies. 

In campus, we were not that close and methinks we never ever talked. Maybe greetings because she once appeared to have been dating one of my high school friends who was also an Equity scholar when I once saw them clandestinely walking together at night.

I felt like going and telling her she deserved better but my legs could not. I was tired and just wanted to get in a mat and head to the digs. In the mat I remember sleeping the whole journey. I woke up only when the conductor asked for my fare. Then again went into deep slumber.

But I was lucky to wake up in time to alight at the stage where I was to alight. All along I had clutched tightly on my envelope. Am still tired as a result of the walking I did in town. At the digs, I had to jump over the fence because the gate was locked. I almost slept outside but found one door open as the commotion of jumping through the gate had woken up some people in the house.

I remember taxi drivers whistling at me to take a cab home. Maybe it was because of the envelope I was carrying. That way I could have also used his phone to call home.

PS: So while we may think we are doing things without others seeing us, there could be that someone seeing you. You never just know who it is.

SITUONANE.

[Photo Source: Pixabay]

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AN IRANIAN VALENTINE’S DAY CELEBRATION

But Iran is home to one of the world’s oldest civilizations. It has produced influential scientists, scholars, thinkers and artists. This could be the reason why they are able to craft the weapons that Kenya will only dream of owing to the stringent nature of the rules and regulations imposed on nuclear use by the United Nations to all countries aiming at using nuclear energy.Iran engages in charity. This was a first for me. I never new Iranians are that philanthropic. They also know how to interact and engage without sounding or appearing aloof. I have never had any interaction with guys from Iran in my life (TV Yes). I thank Red Cross for the opportunity accorded. Iranians are very cordial and even though some rarely smile (stone face nayo), their affable nature means they easily socialize with strangers easily. 

Ali Khamenei, their Supreme spiritual leader should be a very philanthropic man as the reverence he surmounts to remain an ordinary figure but still loved by all and sundry in the Muslim nation is well an act of modesty.

My dogmatic and parochial nature had made me assume that; all what the people from the Islamic Republic of Iran do was to either engage in the assembly of weapons of mass destruction owing to their nuclear weapons that have given the World Superpower some stomach spiders and relentless headache in an effective ploy of disarmament. Hitherto, in my humble opine they had become synonymous to the Islamic State. 

This reminds me of the former president of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. When he came to Kenya, instead of solely feeling at home among the ruling class and elites, he swallowed his pride and mingled freely with the commoners (mainly Muslims). The brouhaha that was witnessed as he was free of his body guards while interacting was eccentric. He was not only loved in the nation formerly known as Persia but also loved in Kenya (A goodo one). Then his influence was pulverizing in Iran. Their current president is a nuclear expert.

I still cannot comprehend the reason behind the fact that the former world giant in the mediaeval times has continuously been given bad coverage in the international media owing to its hardcore stance on nuclear weapons. The Persians have a history. That they ruled ancient Greece and other vast hegemonies is not a joke. They could have been what USA is currently to the world only that their claim was more to do with actual occupation.

The Iranians have the Red Crescent as opposed to the Red Cross (my guess). 

This year’s valentine’s day, I marked it on a slightly different note. Since I am a bachelor and a single one, I spent it doing stuff other Kenyans of noble cause were also engaged in. 

I remember hearing some ladies say that there were able men and kind of got excited but there are rules guiding on hitting on each other while in the bib indicating you are a volunteer.

This was going to be a voluntary and charitable exercise sponsored by the Red Crescent arm of the Iranian Embassy (I bet) and executed by the Red Cross arm, Nairobi Branch. We were to do community service, it entailed; feeding the less fortunate in society, giving them descent clothing, a place to shower and get medical examination and probably treatment. I never inquired about the nitty gritty. I was responding to an inclusive invite to all and sundry who wanted to join in a good cause. That of engaging in an activity aimed towards bettering humanity which I am passionate about.

When you have to deal with street families, the less fortunate in the City of Nairobi, you are need to be very realistic and avoid disdain. You need not be like the Nairobi divas who will chide anything because they feel like it lowers their dignity and standards they have set. Nairobi wannabees ladies can frustrate you, when I sense I am dealing with one, I feign ignorance and keep it stupid simple (KISS from Robert Kiyosaki’s Rich Dad Poor Dad).

I got to make new friends while participating in the project. Every other time you engage in Red Cross activities, you are bound to see new people irrespective of the fact that you may have spent 10 years or a week. One Peter told me he was in transit back to Alabama having spent his holiday for about a month. The great thing about Red Cross is that you never have to be a registered member to participate in whatever events they carry out. One only needs to volunteer his time and service, alas, you are good to go, there is an assumption everyone is new. 

Dealing with street families is very interesting. While it is usually derogatory and ominous to publicly talk about some stuff in public, those who live on the streets sometimes have no qualms saying it as it is.

There were a set of duties that had to be performed ranging from sanitation, registration, medication and mealation (eating food). I volunteered to do registration as I wanted to have a one on one chance to engage with those who had positively responded to the calling of the event that was taking place. 

Ideally, this was my second time dealing with street families. The first time I dealt with them, I was doing social mobilization. I was kind of timid, jittery and scared of the whole process and procedures. It was scary at first. However, if you have a symbol identifying you are a Red Cross volunteer, they become very social and come en masse to listen. However there are some nasty chaps though.

In their dens, most of those who live on the streets have a leader. Like a police commissioner or an army general, their word is obeyed and never challenged.  Their orders are obeyed like they are law in themselves. When one is reprimanded, they timidly recoil like a centipede does upon touch to be at their defensive. 

Their leader, I was told, are usually given first hand audience with the Nairobi governor or those charged with overseeing thigh plight in the city. They are like a time-bomb. They can marshal their generals to terrorize city residents but still get away with it since human rights organizations may come to their rescue because some survive on the families being on the street.

I remember the first time I had asked one of the street generals about his family and he told me he had three wives and children who he worked hard every day to feed. They were located in various parts of the city where the street families normally live. 

In Nairobi town, they live near Globe Cinema Round-About, Odeon, Muthurwa, Gikomba, Riverside (near Grogan Garage), Ngara, Majengo and a host of other places that I cannot remember.

As I was doing registration, I noticed something. Since the counties surrounding Nairobi are mostly inhabited by Saps (Slang for Kikuyus), a majority of those who live on the streets are Saps. Closely following them in population were Kaos (Kambas). Luos and Luhyas were also among them. Kakamega caught my attention because so many people on the streets of Nairobi were from this county.

I asked a small boy how he managed to travel from Kakamega to Nairobi. He told me he used a bus and upon arrival, he got company to stay with together with his brother. He really wanted to go back to school to further his education.

What mesmerized me was the fact that Kalenjins were among those who also live on the streets. They are very few however. Kalenjins are proud people. They never like some mediocre and below par city associations. They don’t have a slum area associated with them even though they are the third largest community in Kenya. Most prefer farming as opposed to hustling in the scorching heat of Nairobi.

The first dude who caught my attention while registering street families was one dude who was from Nyandarua County. Since it was compulsory to shower and be given new clean clothes, he had done just that. He come on my desk. He was clean, talkative and was high on msii (a drug most street urchins use). I commended him for his sanity and started asking him for his details to capture them on a registration card that was also an import from Iran.

There was this question that read, ‘Do you have any disabilities?’ The answer was supposed to be closed. It was either, ‘Yes or No.’ I rephrased the question in Kiswahili but the dude misconstrued the question altogether. Most of the hobos thought I was asking them of what was ailing them. I realized most had chest problems because of sleeping in the cold without blankets.

“Ndio niko na ulemavu,” he said pointing at his pudenda. “Unaona hii, ni ndogo sana mpaka naskia kama niko na ulemavu na huwa haisimami.” He was demonstrating using half his index finger.

You cannot fail to burst into laughter. He demonstrated other stuff before I asked him whether he was married or not.

“Sasa unaona niko na ulemavu tena unaniuliza kama nimeoa. Si bibi atatoroka akiona sina kitu.” I quickly cleared him since he was destructing the other volunteers from registering his fellow camaraderie as his answers were funny, ear catching and captivating. There were so many to be registered. 

Then there was also this dude probably 25. A certain pretty volunteer, probably just out of high school or in the formative years of campus was filling in his details on the registration card.

When the chic asked him if he was married, he objected by saying no. He went on further and said that he was a virgin and if possible the chic should help him in breaking his chaste status. He also said he was not into drugs but his attire, eyes, talk and teeth kind of betrayed him. 

A middle aged gentleman however caught my attention. He was from Majengo . He was probably from Kambaland owing to his innocuous burr of Kiswahili words.  He came asking for food because the issuance was taking too long much to his chagrin. He bragged about how he was clean since he was given some nice clean pair of jeans, a shirt and a jacket. 

He told us that he was even ready to meet the First Lady and tell her of his engineering abilities to possibly get to be given tenders and help in other dudes of national concern especially with her Beyond Zero campaign. His English though, was pathetic and pitiable. You feel like he is breaking all the rules but there is nothing you can do about it.

Before he left, he told us that his major concern was the rehabilitation bit. How could he be reached and if indeed the rehabilitation issue was a reality. He was aptly answered but before he went, he removed his phone from his jacket and showed us his high-end smart phone complete with a leather cover. “You can contact me using this.” We clapped as he sauntered away like a peacock having been praised for his techie gadget which I presumed was either a generic from Mandarin land.

I remember most of the street boys asking me whether there was a ‘course’ they could be taken to do in an institution to be able to have skills and  be productive societal members. There was a close ended question that required them to answer whether they wanted to go back home or to a rehabilitation centre. I rephrased the question by aqsking, “Unataka kurudi nyumbani ama kwenda course?” Most answered in the affirmative.

A certain lady I was registering who came at the exit hours of the registration process was also noticeable among the rest. She said she was past 30; her first child was a form one student. On her back, she had tied clothes so that it looked like she had carried a baby since she had tied the clothes with a baby shawl.

“I was also supposed to register the baby,” I told her. “This are the clothes I was given and I intend to take them to my six year old. That is the reason why I have them on my back”

The lady was from Gatundu South, the president’s home constituency. She was proud of him. She told us she had come to Nairobi to work and had left her mum in the village and since she had nowhere to go, she had decided to live on the streets.

“Si hii figure yangu iko sete,” she exclaimed while gyrating her model-like hips. “Hizi zikipata bwana, zitakuwa kubwa kuliko za Vera Sidika.” While she was saying this, we were again hooked to her story and laughing.

“Kwani munanichekelea?” she retorted. “Hapana, ni vile umetufurahisha sana,” Rachael, our team leader responded while laughing. 

She said the reason why she was not able to complete school was due to the influence of boys. She had tasted the forbidden fruit while still in primary and since it was sweet she wanted it again and again resulting in her dropping out of school. 

Her main concern was to be tested on HIV/AIDS because life on the streets was very risky. She was probably tested but counseling was probably done after testing. There was a psycho social unit to deal with counseling.

I remember beefore going to campus, one of the requirements was to be tested on HIV/AIDS. Our family doctor had insisted on me taking the test. I was never counseled before the procedure neither after. When I went to the lab to pick up the results, I was given the result which was negative. I needed not fear then.

Every question I asked was kind of enlightening and equally educating. For example, there was this lady from Kibra who came to my desk to be registered. There were questions touching on delivery of babies and pregnancies. She said she was 30 years. She had had 5 children and lived with all of them. She was not among those from the streets but because anyone was entitled to medical check-up, she had turned up.

There was a question touching on FP among married persons and she told me she had been done to TL. I asked her what it was but she never knew it. So I asked my reliable friend Google afterwards about TL. TL on twitter is Timeline but in medical jargon, it is Tubal Ligation. This is a procedure done to women to prevent them from conceiving other pregnancies and hence having many babies. 

I can only speculate that it was done to her to prevent her from having more children because she was having too many while her economic status could not allow it. Since she was a primary school dropout, there was a high likelihood she never knew the repercussions even though they may have explained the essence of the procedure. 

Those also taking part in sanitation also had their fair share of stories to tell. Washing some tots was really an invigorating task. Some urchins said that it was their first time getting to wash their bodies since the year began while others wished they could have a change of clothing every time they showered.

There was a lad, in his twenties; I was told. He had a tattoo of his girlfriend on his arm. He displayed it all who ever cared but mostly to men. His main area of interest was his chic’s vajayjay which he had unsavoury words to tell about.

There are observations I made. One was the fact that most of those on the streets have some basic primary education as they can be able to read. There was this boy who came back to tell me that he was not married as the person registering him had marked ‘Yes’ on the question, ‘Are You married?’ I rectified it for him.

They also want wanted to be trained on some skills and given alternative residential areas where they could stay. Many of the children below 15 years wanted to go back to school. 

Conspicuously absent were the middle aged ladies and girls. While doing my mobilization some few years back, I had seen so many women with children and young girls. But many had shied away from coming to this event.

When the exercise came to a climax, the rains did pour. It was massive. Most people were in twos in the VIP arena of Uhuru Park. Some ladies were in red, others blue with red shades but most dudes were not in suitable occasion outfit. We Kenyan men have a poor fashion sense. Our ladies struggle with their third-rate clothing which most of the times never backfires because they visit the tailors. What about men. Anything goes.

My attention was captured by some three ladies who had a bundle of joy on their backs. How could it be that these young ladies all had children at the same time? Talk of kujichocha (inciting each other to get get paged at the same time.)

Ladies, it is not an obligation to get pregnant as friends at the same time. In Swahili they say ‘KIKULACHO KI NGUONI MWAKO’

Kenyans are a very charitable people. Many turned up with clothing, food stuff and a variey of other items to aid in making this world a better place. Some have abundance; some have enough while others have inadequate. We can never be the same. Even if we tried, the witty and those who know how to survive will have more. This is Charles Darwin’s ‘Survival of the fittest and struggling to survive.’

PS: I got to see the former BBA Kenyan contestant and SMAA most influential blogger with a cause. Charity is universal, everyone can participate in it. 

SITUONANE.

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The diary of a jobless graduate: The hustle

Timing is one facet in life that has the potential of either abating or abetting procrastination as much as it influences the visions and ambitions we have in order to make majestic strides full of mettle in our esteemed aspirations. My preponderances and noble indignation have all been flustered towards making a legion of a loyal and royal retinue in my prospects which is basically aimed at copiousness and nirvana. 

This voyage has no sojourns and vacations where you lax your muscles then sit and wait for the sommelier to serve you with your favorite Chave Ermitage while lolling leisurely in a roller coaster yatch fully equipped with a myriad of high-end facilities and luxurious amenities that create an intimate, refined and immaculate one of a kind experience. In it you can explore the most breathtaking destinations while still feeling at home in the spas and wellness centres as experts chaperon you on a personal journey of self-discovery. The pricey figure paid is however out of the reach of a commoner as this comfort is reserved for the crème de la crème who have the time and money to splash on what they really fancy and hold dear after the struggle. 

The best things in life are free. Money can’t buy them. They oscillate around us as much as we may never recognize them. Like the smell of clean clothes or rose flowers, finding love in another being, the writings of this diary, the sound of rainfall on a mabati roof with no ceiling board inside, a satisfying siesta, silly stories that you are about to read, an honest opinion about how you view this piece of nonsensical gibbery and plus the list is endless. 

You probably have a family you can count on, that someone to cheer you up when down, that meal you cooked at home or someone to hear you out when you want to rant your frustrations in life even when satiated to the bristle when it regards matters financials.

Being a jobless graduate has its fair sides as much as it has the inoperative aspects that usually make it fun altogether. Your timetable is ever full. A friend confided this profound analogy where he intimated how life is for a hustler. 

In the morning you wake up like those on payroll and head to the illusory office where you have assigned yourself tasks complete with breaks and deadlines. The deadline is however your own creation and you really struggle to keep up with it. You pay yourself hefty sums of money since you are the overall boss of the responsibilities you have assigned yourself. More or less, you are fully qualified for the job but still it never overwhelms. Since you are the boss, you take leave any time you want without compromising on the turnover of the business since you are well versed with the general rates. Probably nil at the end of the laborious day. When you go to the fictitious ATM, you withdraw sums that you have never imagined. Obviously the bank manager and the sentries know you by name, you never queue like the rest of the commoners as the fat bank deposits you make shifts your status to that of a royal. In the shopping malls, you choose what you want, dine with high and mighty and laugh like a jester after a few sips of exotic cognac. When the time to exit the office arrives, you extend your stay since you sure want to reconcile the bank accounts, look at the grey areas and ways of ameliorating your franchise to open more offices as you move into being a big time entrepreneur. People revere you even though you are quixotic about your general financial status that you hope will not continue to plunge in the actual sense.

No longer is it fanciful to graduate with some degrees if you are not a hustler. Very few people are hustlers. For example, my good friend Titus sells branded cups upon request. He is a graduate from one of the local universities. He prides in being a very good marketer of his products. His hustle has seen him change shoes on monthly basis since he walks like he has all of a sudden become a supporter of Ugandan opposition leader Kizza   Besigye. He has duly christened his venture ‘Walk to work’ though he uses public transport to deliver the goods. He never complains about it, deeply he curses why he went through the protracted education system that never aptly prepared him for life after campus. His applications for jobs have become white elephants as they are rarely replied to. He wonders what he does wrong. The contractual jobs he gets never satisfy him much and he ends up reverting to what he knows best, selling branded mugs and cups and plates to his acquired and dependable customers whom he sometimes overcharges and they never realize due to the trust he has created. I told him to market them on Facebook, twitter and Olx. 

As a graduate, he has curved out a niche. Lies are peddled by those in the job markets that there are no jobs. Bulshit. There are so many jobs. Some have been brainwashed into believing that you must part with hefty sums of money to secure a position of interest in the best paying multinational. Agencies have popped up everywhere and you have to part with some few thousands for them to look for you a job. Ladies are forced to deflower themselves before they can get jobs in some firms. You talk ill of relatives who fail to give you a job because you think you will probably overtake them when you get that job. You go to school then wait for manna from heaven that someone will notice your impressive CV (The one you never wrote) and employ you. You are lying to yourself. It’s impressive, colorful and convincing; however it does not depict who you are. PR tactics you have employed and someone with an eye for details will notice some inconsistencies that may arise. Don’t be fooled my brother, they say make hay while the sun shines, like Obama during his first presidential campaigns, roll those sleeves and work till you get it right. All right. 

I was among those who normally whine and kvetch insidiously about no jobs. Then I came to realize there is a difference between there being no jobs and not having money. There are so many jobs that I know of but as a graduate you cannot just take anything. Friends will advise you so because they know what’s best for you. Wrong. You may decide to be a cook and end up wasting yourself cooking for a village school where no one will ever recognize you ever went to university year in year out. You henceforth know what you want in life, the only drawback preventing you achieving it is the requisite break-even point that has become elusive. Garbage in garbage out. If you aren’t careful at all you may be a case in statistic. 

While you sit and wait others are forging on ahead faster. They are not waiting for you as you slacken and slouch on the hard seats you arse is probably on. You are drooping and may soon become stale and fusty for the ever dynamic job market. No one will want to engage you having developed radical attitudes and behaviors that are very hard to mold into the desired contrivance of a person which will act like the perfect carousel. Yes in employment you are not you. You let others decide and you follow. That also applies to private practice, decisions are not binding and conclusive altogether. There is change, and embracing it without qualms means you move on faster than you would have anticipated.

As a youth, I want something that is believable and has legitimacy. Trust is one thing I have realized works best when the institutions in place are consensual and integrate transparency in the processes without leaving an iota of expropriation. If systems in place could have been devoid of bias and prejudice and as such independent and free of external influence by third parties who reign supreme over the processes in place, then many would not have been crying foul. When we adopt the policy of may the best man win, integrate them with prolific ideas then we overcome cowardice and instill competition which is indispensable in the process of ameliorating our plight to self-independence, we move up the ladder and develop an unrivalled long leash. 

With no job insight, I hence try to live life to the fullest and as if it is the last. Even though I try to live by the fact that yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a gift, the immense opportunities that I stumble on and those I never seize still bog my mind. I hence try to accept my present in terms of developing proper habits and never resisting the flow of life. As such I am not resistant to change. I am devoid of constancy and conformist and conservative societal ambiguity and innuendoes. If I find out I am limiting my prospects, I take a seat in the recliner and think over nothing.

I have found a purpose in life. Something that gives my life a distinct and unique meaning which I cannot walk away from. That means I have to be as realistic as possible to myself in what I do and how I do it. If positive thoughts are a disease then I am bedridden as an individual for they control a better part of me. I am one carefree chap who has found solace in listening to my heart and never deceiving myself when things look grim. Still even though tomorrow is a mystery, I anticipate that with it I will get good tiding that will bring an avalanche of lavishness.

Of course there are times when things are thick and tough, but when you think of those who are in a worse disposal you get a better perspective never to relent. The goals you set are ambitious and after advice, you turn them to 

those that are achievable, within range and realistic.

Ok ok ok. A diary is a reflection of what you have been up to in the recent past. Yet so far this looks naught what it was supposed to be. The thing is, sometimes it takes a lot of time to truly know your place in life. You try too many things before you finally settle on one that you never know whether it will be the last resolute decision you have ultimately made.

As a job seeker, you need to be all eyes, ears, skin, mouth and nose. In short, your senses should have been on the know of the slightest opportunity that arises. Opportunities are usually rare. They are never forthcoming as expected. But on my part I have been very selective with the opportunities that come my way.

For instance I sent a message to seek clarity from one of the many leading sites where prospective jobs are posted. In the site you have the option of applying directly for the job. Alright, you have applied for several and no replies are forthcoming in the many you have applied through the site. Instinctively you are sure of having qualified for the job so you mail the site owners asking why they are taking guys for a ride. They give a reply that reading in between the lines, you realize they are just like the ragtag sites that enlist jobs to get hits so as to get paid by Google for promoting adverts of prospective clients using ad sense.

Someone tells you hand delivering your CV and cover letter is better and will result in you getting the job faster, but you also heard that those papers are recycled in the office and used in photocopying trite gen. That left you addled.

You have wasted too much time already, but you keep hope alive. You console yourself that Abraham Lincoln also failed several times before he could make it to be the president of the most powerful nation on earth. Inwardly, you know your self-esteem is crumbling day by day, your mates have jobs and you are tantamount to the ubiquitous and cacophonous beetle that usually flies at night then falls down all of a sudden. The hope you had is fast giving way like the crumbling of techtonic plates. You are in a kind of time release panic attack. Luckily, there is that friend who had contacts, yes, the guy who bragged while you kept solemn of the many places he could get employed in but he is still a hustler.

Other than the degree, you have other qualifications you thought would have given you an added advantage and an edge in the employment market but still you are redundant. In the meantime you continue sending CVs online every morning. Only getting a job will stop you from sending them.  It is never easy I tell you. Sometimes you get frustrated and disheveled to a point where your vision and mission in this world is blurred and you are contemplating going back to school because you can’t withstand being idle. School fees however acts as the barrier to your proclivity.

In the meantime, a certain chap you were in school with has changed like three jobs and still thinks of looking for greener pastures that may arise. You however aim at being a prototype. Being a butch, you know that the going is usually chunky. You have adopted a pseudo-Japanese tendency of thinking things are alright even when they are wrong. Like, you don’t have a job, you are in the city and dependent, the last time you bought clothes in G-mall (Gikomba) was months ago. Yet you think this is alright. No things aint right. 

You keep on postponing things till it becomes a behavior ingrained into your system. Like you wanted to go to audition for the next play with either Fanaka Arts or Jicho Four at KNT but you lost hope the last minute as no one could elate the fervor you had for failure to open up. Maybe just maybe, you think you can make a good comedian. You have occasionally recited some jokes in your mind and want to go to Churchill live and audition, be on TV and become famous overnight. You think you can make a better comedian, one who never makes jabs at the different tribal tendencies of Kenyans. Again time flies away fast. You no longer are able to go, so you use the social media platform as a bait of testing the ground. After about a week, you realize no one retweets your jokes, no one likes them on Facebook and you have tried your able best. 

Talking of social media, blogs keep you updated on the latest 411. You are ever on the net looking for the latest news on which celebrity was got pants down or cannot do TBT of her previous snaps, which politician was spotted on Koinage Street. In fact you are a fanatic of blogs to the extent that you become a psycho of their premises. Whatever they say you take it as gospel truth, you are the first to relay back the gen to people who sometimes don’t give a damn about the blogosphere. Socialites wow you like shit. You wish you had the shekels to take them for the various sabbaticals they promote while at it with loaded chaps whose carnal desires are real and they satiate making young girls think they usually have it rosy. They know best the story, the bdsm like in Fifty shades of Grey (book not movie) and all that. Economics you remember. Insatiable human wants and scarce resources have left you in a quandary.

You are probably like a child now. You know all the programs on TV. Sprawled on the couch, slurping some cheap lumpy heath drink and yakking half the day away. Initially you vowed never to watch Nigerian movies, you talked trash about them, those Pilipino, Mexican and Indian soaps. You are a master of following the intrigues, drama, jealousy and all the various themes that arise. You never want to miss them after completing your daily rota which ends early in the day. The love scenes makes you think you can pull one with the svelte Miss Mboch who has gotten into your nerves. Obviously, she is waiting for you to hit on her, get her paged and when you secure a job later in life, she will bring the burden. You enjoyed with her, never used rubber, told her sweet nothings and in future FIDA will be on you. The child a perfect replica of you. No need for any DNA test. Then you are with your campus crash. She never knew it but you looked for her at the time of plenty. Bulshit brother. Things never work that way. She is also employed in a reputable company. But your mess follows you and threatens to tear your young family apart.

You realize you are addicted to either twitter, instagram (double tap comes to mind) or Facebook. Ok there is also whatsapp where you chat raunchy details with the various ladies on your list. There are so many chics you have hit on, those you easily take to your pals for some romp because you don’t have your own house yet. The profile pic in your graduation gowns you placed on your account is enough to sway a couple of those gullible chics. Those whom you think consider themselves classy, KFC, Subway of Pizza in nyale.

On twitter you tweet like you are paid to tweet. You think you are very creative now that you have been able to get a few retweets since Twitter is increasingly getting populated with shagzmodos. You follow all the hot trending topics and tweet about each. Some poor attention seeker ranks you among the mid wigs. You have slightly over 1000 followers. The recognition makes you go gaga. Yet you are a busy body. Damn you, some fellows are paid to tweet. On Facebook, you have liked almost all the pages, you are in groups that make you feel at home, you are content with the status quo. You are wasting time brother. You are wasting time you tell yourself. Thirty more minutes and I will be out of here. That thirty becomes 4 hours. Chances are a Chiquita did wow you with romantic messages and being a harlot of a man, you want to meet her ASAP.

Someone tells you that you can get lots of bucks working online. So many network marketing firms have emerged and you buy into the idea. You borrow cash, pay up for the program and get swayed into believing you will become an online millionaire.  The presentations and the confessions prompt you to think things are easy. Upon trial, you fail miserably on the first week. Yet they made it look very easy. Like a relaxed Sunday Morning. Pumbavu. Things are taking a nosedive, you are plummeting faster than you thought. 

You still find time to go for raves and silently conjure of pulling an Alfred Ajani (Google this name). Football still manipulates your thoughts like you have been chained like the negro during slave trade era. You occasionally drink booze but your favourite are those sold in wines and spirits. Cash issues. There you mingle with like-minded cretins. Poor Kenyan graduate. Life is never easy in the city. It gets to that point you resort to the church but that dude in Kile who wanted you to tutor his kids on Maths and Science found a better option. What next. You are headed to the shags, singing Q-ta-C's song 'Narudi Ocha'. And the cycle begins again. Luckily you will find a job, that job that is elusive. That job that will demarcate the learned and those without content between their ears. Yes in shags though you call the shots, you still keep hope alive. 

If you are keeping hope alive like me. 2015 is the year of SUCCESS.

SITUONANE.

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Accident, Police and Bribe

Living in the city is costly and tricky. How you make ends meet is something that you only know. That eke is surely a daunting task, whether the rewards are gaunt or plump is a matter only the self knows. Whether a soul had to pay for it, be it a dear one, nemesis or an ally or there are those who got it through rightfully means, none ever knows how you did hustle for your chums. Whether you used telepathy and ripped people off like a charlatan to smile all the way to the bank is something you as an individual knows.

Kidero has employed his ever money hungry boys and girls to oversee the running of the city. They are ubiquitous and infamous city askaris. Altercations with them are not rare as they man the major streets in the CBD tautologically. A friend once intimated how they were nabbed while walking at night yet they never knew what wrong they had committed. They were from club hopping in the many joints in Nairobi town where you go catch some pints then head back home using a cab after shaking dem legs or intoxicating the system to the brim.

They were forced inside their sordid vehicle and the next thing the askaris asked was how much they had to grease their palm for early release. The askaris are usually paid peanuts but you will find them depositing thousands of shillings with some covert Mpesa agents in town. You wonder how they have pot bellies that rival those of the men in blue. You are again left to wonder whether they can be able to sprint in the event a situation arises that requires urgent action. Still they carry on their duties like ants knowing full well something handsome will be got when the day dawns.

The askaris wanted Sh. 20000 in order to release my friends. Upus! Where on earth could they get that sum yet they were from using the few shilling they had to party? Luckily they had a lady who had accompanied my pal and his friends. One of the askaris became smitten by the lady who he said was curvy and well-endowed hip wise. He asked the lady for her phone number and since the lady was really scared and frightened of being taken in, she contritely gave out her number to the goons who pretend to enforce the law in the city but fleece hardworking denizens of their hard earned money.

The askari then opted to flirt with the girl in the company of my pal oblivious of the fact that she was with other dudes. As usual, the askaris usually want company during the boring night shift where they are to ensure law and order within the CBD. My friends company was hence their luck. Why they never go for the typical twilight girls who openly parade their wares and who operate with abandon on the notorious Koinage Street is a misery I have never understood. Perhaps they work in cohorts with such women who when situations look grim can call you for a quickie in the dark allays that are infested with stools and you part with some few bucks.

Once I was from town at night, maybe it was past or a few minutes to midnight. I had left my phone and watch in my room aware of the goons who terrorize guys at night next to St Paul’s Catholic Church. I was heading back to my hostel room having gone to town to take late supper. I remember the lights had been shut down by the ineffective Kenya Power while preparing to eat late as I usually did since my utensils were also dirty. In the process I could not be able to cook, something I loathe, so I had to make it to K-chick, a popular eatery with campus students and proletariats of stumpy wages.

While heading back, I saw one hooker in one of the streets. She was in between two cars and a watchman who was manning the vicinity had just finished talking to her. It looked as if they were friends or some sort of thing. I was just past Java and had noticed them talk.

Quickly having noticed that I was headed in the same direction, she went ahead and positioned herself strategically in a position where she could be able to call me. For once I knew what she wanted and I sauntered on towards her like a peacock ready for whatever came my way.

She was in an inviting minidress, one that could allow you to quickly pull up and you were good to go for the quickie. Her thighs were ywelo, and though she was not bootylicious, she was kind of having the tyres (she should have tried rollers). Her face was thick with make-up and so was her lips that were Dracula red with lipstick and lip balm.

While I approached her, I pretended not to have seen her and she called me using the “tsk tsk tsk” sound. I turned and saw her. I was pretending not to have seen her and it had worked. This was strange. Ideally, these whores never easily call students. The experiences I had previously was that they ran away the moment they saw students in multitudes who were coming from night raves.

“Ntakufanyia na punch tu, na utapenda.” I approached her to see if we could haggle over the price. Inwardly I remembered of a Christian book I had read about the filth you leave on your body after making out with a person of her ilk who had entertained so many customers after opening a quarry, the maladies that I was exposing myself to and the imminent loss of stature and esteem if someone knew I had stooped too low to make out with a call girl even though the uptown ones are not that shady.

My mate in the hostel was so used to sleeping with them and when he was once cut using a glass for failure to pay up, l knew I would also suffer the same fate. This reminds me of Trevor, whom we shared a room but since it was semi partitioned, you had your own side for your own privacy.

Trevor was dirty like shit and frequented Sabina Joy on a daily basis since he was an arts student. His shoes were stinking like hell which meant I had to always sleep with the window open since he was into cheap liquor that I could never drink albeit there was cold in the night that was sometimes chilling. He also used mirra and bhang with abandon. This ideally meant I could not be able to take my lady friends to my room. I did not understand him because he used to bang prostitutes every other forth night till I forced him to chuck out. He sold the room to a somehow clean outsider who had his fair share with women.

In fact the fight between Trevor and the whore bought the whole hostel to a standstill. My former high school juniors were living in Quiet room next to my room and initially thought I was the one caught in the ruckus. Luckily I was in class and when I went back, I was intimated the details them. Trevor had blood and a cut next to his eye. Still Trevor never learnt and I did give one of the buddies we shared 411 and the guy told me his was a behavior dating back to first year. He lied to him that the cut was from a nail on the wall he had stumbled on at night when the lights were off.

Once Trevor came with a deaf prostitute and they were like three dudes who wanted to bang a single chic. She refused and made some very funny sounds that clearly meant she was not into a foursome. So one of the friends was left to quench his manly sate with her. I came to realize that in Nairobi anything is possible. If there are deaf prostitutes and policemen on night patrols and sots romp with those street ladies, you can be sure there are even more strange things that happen you will never hear of while in the comfort of your room. Have you ever seen the children of street ladies? They look beautiful and handsome, Right.

The chap Trevor sold the room comes to mind. Having forgotten his name, let me call him Matano since the he was from the coastal region. Matano had his own family. I remember his kid coming to my room while I was washing and her calling Matano ‘baba’. My friends who had come to my room were surprised as they found a small child calling my roommate father. She was with her mother and had come to visit their dad who I bet was pretending to be a student.

Matano still had the audacity to have his flings yet he was a dad. Sometimes I would escape in the middle of the night when the heat became too much and seek refuge in my friends room where I spent the night sleeping on the floor with a very thin mattress that was tantamount to lying on the floor as bedbugs dealt with my blood. Since I had no option, I did sleep till morning.

The good thing with Matano was that he was clean and his baby mama came with food from wherever she lived which she sometimes gave me. She would also wash the sheets unaware she was not the only one her beau had relations with. Again Matano never had coitus on a daily basis. He was more civilized and only came with his mpangos during the weekend.

                                                                              ********

Concerning the whore I met on the street, I only talked to her and when she realized I had no money.  She let me go. I had bargained to appoint where I was at sh.100. Obviously I had spent all the money I had on food and I was on a strict budget which meant that I could not go anywhere with her.

It was really a struggle, I walked slowly to my room reminiscing the experience which was one of a kind.

In relation to my pal, they toured the whole city till morning when they were released. They never paid anything upon their release. Afterwards, the askari who had been given the number called the chic and she organized a fake date with him. City council askaris have money, dirty money. I don’t know how it went on between the two and your guess is as good as mine.

Moving on, I wanted to write about my journey from Kisii. The land of bananas has a very cool climate and is heavily populated. The town is growing at a very fast rate with many commercial banks sprouting here and there, supermarkets are many and the mundane boda boda operators who ply the routes pose an imminent havoc. Reason why so many chaps from this areas are kanges and drivers on some routes in Nairobi could have to do with the dense population back home.

On my way back from Kisii, I remember following a certain Mitsubishi lancer like it was a safari rally race. The chap was what I consider mad you guy. If the speed guns were active, then I would have been incarcerated for overspending. But I bet they were not being used because the roads on your way out of Kisii meander a lot and hence no speed guns are used.

I almost forgot the road that leads to Bomet in the pursuant chase and had to ask at a Petrol Station which was just next to the branch heading to Bomet. The best thing was that lady who gave directions was likeable courteous and also told us of the different routes that could lead us to Nairobi safely. One was via Kericho (who wanted to go back there) and the other via Bomet.

I was well versed with the one that was via Bomet having used it occasionally on my way to Nairobi. My mum went to the famous girls’ school on your way to Bomet. She said that was the place she learnt some bit of Kipo which she prides in every other time she meets Kales who peddle products along highways.

If you are a driver who has never had an accident in your whole life, then you are either a rookie or a driver who drives occasionally another person’s car. Any driver who has been in the road for long has to have either had a mild crash or a major one while driving, it is like learning to walk. One has to fall several times before being steadfast.

My first accident was after finishing driving school. I am that guy who my old man let me touch his car after going to driving school. I recall I would brag to my high school mates how I knew driving yet I was as green as a child taken to school on the fast day.
Most of my pals believed I knew how to drive a car. I was able to drive a car on the field once and they believed it like a sermon delivered by Christ.

So my major accident was when I hit our satellite dish (those big white dishes you never pay anything on a monthly basis after purchase). In fact the sad thing is that it had over 500 channels but most of them were either Indian or Chinese and one channel would be aired in five different languages making them 5. Like CCTV French, English, Spanish etc. etc.

Luckily it never went crumbling on the car’s windscreen as it landed sideways next to my mum’s flowers. At least my folks were never mad with me. They called a certain pointi well versed with connection of such satellites who apparently had a very big index finger to repair it and a carpenter to repair the mounting where the satellite was to be placed.

So while heading to Bomet, I was hit on the sideways by a motor cyclist whom I bet had lost control and plunged into my car hitting it with a thud. He was from the junction coming from Tenwek hospital. I was not driving very fast as I knew that the place had some crude and incompetent cyclists plus the area was a center and my old man had told me to drive 50kph and below which I strictly adhere to todate.

I remember feeling guilty and disturbed the moment I knew the man had hit me and his passenger had fallen from the bike as a result of the collision. My car had was left with a big dent on the sides and the bumper did collide with a shaft resulting in unrestrained motion that was not smooth as the car paced.

I was with my sisters and my sister in law who also had a child. They wanted to swallow the bodaboda rider alive. Taking after my  mum who easily becomes terror when provoked. Especially the youngest. Luckily no one was injured in the car.
However all was not well with the passenger who was a lady. I went to see her and she was placed on the roadside where she was being given crude first aid.

My sisters wanted to see the rider and perhaps take him to the nearest police station. Those guys have modest earnings and while we were checking on how thing were, the other cyclists had whisked the damaged bike away as clearly they knew their mate was on the wrong.

In the melee that ensured, so many people gathered to witness what had gone wrong. This is surely a trait that is synonymous with accidents in Kenya. Bomet-Narok road is a major highway that is maybe prone to other accidents but residents still gathered to see what had happened.

When I threatened I wanted to take the matter to the nearest police station, everyone did cower for I was speculating they would run amok and turn on me and exercise they mob psychology and herd mentality on us. When they realized I was serious, they also whizzed the rider of the bike away without me realizing leaving us baffled and with my car dented there with no evidence of what caused the crash.

I decided to drive on but was in fear and fright the repercussions that lay ahead. Driving a damaged vehicle was a first for yours truly and I felt the heat and onus of during the rest of the entire journey. My most joyous moment was passing Narok without seeing any law enforcers along the way. If I had managed thus far from Bomet to Narok, then I could make it to Nairobi.

The only point I was asked to drive aside was a place near Maamahiu where the police had erected a road block. When I was stopped, my heart skipped a bit. Either way it was something I had aptly been prepared for.

The policeman first checked if the car had up todate cover and the damage the car had. Upon realizing that we had a child inside and only seeing youngsters in the car he asked for my driving license. On realizing we were from the same ethnic group he immediately switched on to the language and asked what had happened.

I told him the story tersely and he was very empathetic about it. I also told him we were taking the car for repair and damage assessment by the insurer and with that he let us go. At least there was no bribe I had to part with, so police never ask everyone for bribe.

I really drove very slowly in order to buy away time and arrive in Nairobi at night. Since I was heading to Kasarani, I decided to use St Paul’s University road that leads you straight to it from Maimahiu road so that I could be able to connect with the northern by pass easily. Then Two rivers was still under incubation.

The Northern By-pass is well tarmacked and there is a roundabout next to Windsor that leads to Garden estate. Usually there are cops with a tedious and old Peugeot police car on this roundabout (These vehicles used to driven by the secret service back then). While passing through that point, I was clenching my fist tight and biting my teeth tight so as not to be noticed and stopped for questioning by them. Since there was a car on my side heading the same direction, I drove beside it and did cleverly avoid them.

The other point that required dexterity in tackling was the roundabout on Thika road that heads to Kasarani. Kasarani police station was my main bone of contention but I was able to smoothly drive past it without any altercation.

When I was immediately past the point where police were no more. Fukes! I did heave a sigh of relief as it was something I had never experienced before. Driving a car that had a wreckage and only being stopped once by police was indeed an achievement. It was a day I remember as I was still in campus and in fact had nothing in my pockets to give in the event they took me to the station.

But kids are like angels, my brother’s kid had prevailed upon one police and as such he could have helped us rein on others who would prey. Luckily it was a good day as things went well till the journey came to the terminal. However it was a journey extended by two more hours. What with the time I spent waiting to solve the dispute about the accident, the police interjection and his questioning and lastly driving slowly to arrive late which meant catching up with the jam that is ever present on Mwiki-Kasarani road.

SITUONANE.

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