SHOULD HAVE BEEN CONNED

I am still zetetic. Yes, till then, I have not yet got a good enough tale to recount. Ouch! I hope I will after everthing.

But one of my cousins story did excite. His name is Anguro

His borders on being a sadist.

Let me explain. Anguro is one of those characters who is sly and no amount of caveat restricts him from his obnoxious behaviour that has never ceased since I knew him.

On April fools, since they live in a place that is near the village, he told his neighbour this.

"You wife is being worked on in the house by the village priest."

The neighbour having a shortwire thought this was true and went back to the house, upon arrival, he found his wife had gone to the market.

When she arrived. Sema kichapo cha mbwa. She was beaten till she had to escape back to her parents.

Anguro had in the meantime left for a party where he was free from the apocalypse of the neighour wife.

So in the end, the neighbour cameto realize that ther was something known as fools day.

He insisted that Anguro had to accompany him to go bring back his wife. This is atrue story.

Now, you see, not everyone knows that fools day. The neighbour on realizing this was at pains because he had give his better half a preseent she did not deserve.

Anyway, Anguro went back home and I am yet to hear from him on how things went.

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HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MUM

There comes a time in one's life when s/he has to give thanks to the one who gave you life. Obviously, mothers day is that day many usually realize that, 'Oh! It's mothers day and  I need to tell he something.'

Since my dear mother is still alive, I usually ensure I remember her with a message because we usually never talk much. But when she is in town, we gibber a lot. She is a real African woman. She never fears to express her mind and her irk.

However, time has made her more diplomatic. Every of my cousins, uncles, aunts and who else neighbours, knew she was a no go zone.

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CONNECTION: AN APAGOGE?

I have a godfather. Why lie. You should be guessing who the bugger is by now. You probably think he is some big man sitting somewhere in an palatial office tacked somewhere in a leafy environment complete with lash green grass sipping some 50 something year old whiskey. And he is entertained by exquisite well toned socialites who have nothing to lose but money to gain (that's what they are after). He probably sits behind a cherry desk that seems almost superfluous, since there's little to no paperwork to be seen. Plus, a deep burgundy leather desk chair, that reclines to an almost obscene angle.

Hell no. I have a different Godfather. (Reminds me that I need to watch the Godfather series). One who offers me challenges. He can never let me sit idle and while away time. He challenges me to think and to be on toes. He wants me to see the bigger picture in life. He cares and has given me the leeway to act as I want. He never checks me. He never is like a teacher in primary following pupils around to check they have done what they are required to do. He wants me to be responsible, to find out something about life. It has to do with being watchful and taking stock.

I bumped into my Godfather more than two years ago. I never knew he would one day turn into the Godfather he is today. While most people have Godfathers who help you find a job or aid in a quest (hope this is their job, right?), after that you struggle to ameliorate your status, my Godfather is kind of different. The moment I found him, he never got me a job immediately. He only gave me an avenue. If I get that job, it will have to give it to my Godfather. But aint I employed already?

Everywhere I go, I am challenged. ‘You are going to make it.’ My Godfather reminds me as he whispers on my ear. He has refused to help me figure out how to make it. He lets me find out things on my own. I thought it would be easy dealing with him. However, he has been very instrumental in checking my moves. I have made mistakes before that I have been forced to correct. And will make many more because they help make one a better person.

My Godfather has forced me to go back to school. Not the conventional one where you sit each day and wait for a teacher to come impart knowledge in your empty head. No, he has put me on a journey I need to discover on my own. Actually, he ensured that everywhere I went to was a class. I have learnt a lot through him pushing me to try to do it better. Obviously, I have grown in many ways ever since our union got to the next level.

Who is my Godfather then? I actually don’t know. If I told you his name, you would not believe it, if I gave you the idea of how to approach him, still you would not be courageous to go through the way. He never relents, though. He will still be waiting for me with open arms. He is enthusiastic to welcome me back even when I deviated and went away. 

For instance, I just discovered the other day that he has been growing in bounds at a very steady state. The approach he took to advise me was what was inspiring. Am really betrothed to him. However I am not a fire starter. It is that commitment where you never have to be fully consigned to the person. You are free like oxygen.

I sometimes push my godfather to do things he is unwilling. Say, take me to the next level, or maybe just open up and tell me to surrender because things are not really working. But he never lends me his piece of mind. I am not an astrologer, a charlatan or a mind reader. Not even slightly. He wants me to think outside the box and look at the bigger picture. And maybe see to it that there is something I can gain or maybe discover if I never relent. My angst at him is void. He has no fillings. When you try to deviate, he brings you back.


As a matter of fact, my blog is my Godfather. Yes. Since it got me a full time job, I have been able to be in unpaid employment. Am a freelancer. Now I can concentrate on what I know best. Exploring all the avenues that are worthy but satisfying till lady luck smiles.


Sometimes, I usually cannot believe that this is my designation in life. Sitting down and reading books, travelling, watching movies and what else, writing because I am aiming at becoming a better reviewer. As you can see, I am not complaining on what I wish I had. I am only complaining that I wish I knew this earlier. I wish Godfather could have spurred the urge in me to do more earlier on in life. However he never did that. He was sitting still, never blinking an eye or moving an appendage. He was aloof. The kind of person who ultimately would have never even approached you. But he is there. The only problem is sticking to his ways. I have belabored him to change, he told me change is given upon purchase of cheap things. 

And that's true, change is never given to people who go for luxury and are filthy rich upon purchase. They never tell you to keep change, instead, they tip you.

However, I am open to being a connector. I have realized something funny about Kenyans. They are all over talking about connections which are never even that necessary. Someone who never seeks the connection gets the connection as you sulk day and night.


I am as unconnected as any other guy outside there. Seeking to make it even when I will tryout till the umpteenth time. I still have seven years to go with this godfather. When things will have taken a nosedive then, I will seek another Godfather. Then my sobriety will be rational enough having seen a lot and been knowledgeable.


The best connections still remains to be the network of people we have. They work better than anything else. But when it is said and done, it is the persona that will determine the success and if the connection work.

SITUONANE.

[Photo Source: My own]

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SIBERIA

I have lost my writing edge, I can't think of the best way to flawlessly write. Either way, I am going to write about it because I have decided to immerse myself in this apt pastime that not only makes me more intelligent (this is for real), but also keeps me busy and disciplined. Being busy is a noble way of killing boredom, solitude and stress.

Siberia it was. Years ago, I only knew Siberia as a very cold region found in the Reds Army Nation. I remember telling my friend Nico about Siberia. Mmmmh! Every time I meet with Nico, he reminds me of Siberia as if it is something that was so fun to reminisce about. He usually taunts me and makes a joke out of it as if it is some overripe story.

Nico was my campus senior. He has this infectious laughter that has kept him going amid the vicissitudes of being an entrepreneur. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if most youth were as courageous as Nico. He never ever thought of applying for a job. A waste of time he thought, having discovered he could make a living without too much laboring. A former 'Changez' bugger, he had a very touching story.

I remember attending his graduation and his mom narrated about his struggle with ailments in school. He never had it rosy but still passed his final exams. Yet amid all that struggle, he still managed to make it to campus. A real hustler, Nico is inspirational. Even in campus, he never had it easy. Yet he sauntered on with life. He looked at life in the context of making it easy when it got tough. And his laughter, his dark complexion, his bespectacled face, his wit and his dedication to Christ are virtues I did admire.

For those who attended Lazz (Ladies Attraction Zone) as our school was known, there were a host of infamous cubes known as Siberia. Siberia, anyone who slept in these rooms knew what it meant to sleep in a room that was bleak and frosty.

Siberia was cold, like literally. It was meant for all the students irrespective of the class they were in. Unfortunately, a bulk of those who slept in it were form ones. Impunity starts at a very tender age, I tell you. The boarding master beseeched dormitory captains to ensure that each and every cube had every student of all the forms but that fell on deaf ears. It was never implemented in Siberia. Siberia was a real initiation into high school. Most of those in form two, three and four did slept in cubes that were inside.

Siberia were those cubes at the very periphery of the hostel- sorry dormitory. Our dorms were divided into cubes with no doors and hosted about four or six students depending on the size of the dorm. They were not small though, because there were enough room for lockers. Those who slept in Siberia can attest to the fact that when the door remained ajar during the cold winter season (long rains), it was tantamount to sleeping in a camp tent with no blankets.

It really gets cold inside the bed. The kind of cold that penetrates the quilt creeping inside you clothes spreading on your skin like a lacy tide on a frigid winter. You could sometimes hear a gentle chattering of teeth as the cold left the face numb when you passed by Siberia.

Siberia was not only meant for sleeping. It was also for receiving a dose of medicine if the dorms never performed well. Even though one tries to remember the good things about one’s school days, there’s one abiding memory I have, literally a hurtful one that I want to describe: the painful, humiliating, angry memory of being caned.

I never knew who sanctioned this system of punishment to be meted out on young and innocent form ones by senior students. It was more than the bullying synonymous to most high school. Being whacked by a fellow student was the worst form of penance that a fellow could be subjected to. Sometimes you got spanked after doing a series of pushups that were counted from the negative when you fell or did denigrate.

Thank goodness the good old and famous ‘Nyuki’ brought to an end the shameless system through measures that aided in reducing the vice. Nyuki was a new principal who was bit by a bee and it being his first statement during his premier address of the school of having been bit, the name stuck. He even knew the name.

So years later, there was this lady I met last year who narrated to me an emotional story of her elder brother’s tribulations in the hands of two school captains who gave him lethal strokes to a point where the poor boy had to be taken for medical assistance in the nearby hospital. Of course the school captains were shown the door.  Guys used to show me the captains who would have been enjoying the trappings of power and the privileges that came with being the heads of a student body and I did sneer because they had rightfully been shown their place in life. 

In fact, the school captain was answerable to the Principal. He was so powerful.

The lady’s younger brother never made it to Lazz following the ill treatment her older brother had been subjected to while in Lazz. This lady was the daughter of a powerful area chief. As usual, she expected me to have known her dad. Sadly, I was at pains to deny the same owing to the fact that I never did roam in the area and its vicinity.

Friday was usually the day when we would receive what our then school principal used to call the sharp, quick and nasty ones. Though somehow taciturn, when his tempers flared, you sure would have never think of crossing his path.  'Conc', due to his mastery of matters Chemistry was his nick name.

You see, (direct translation there- unaona) those days, loaf was life. Especially unsliced bread. Forget about the bugger who said ‘the best thing after sliced bread.’ We loved unsliced bread because we could press it into a single slice. It came naked. There was a time the school canteen tried giving sliced bread and it was a disaster.  

Every other Saturday, there was general cleanliness. Washing the ablutions, maintaining the lawns (slashing), working on the flowers, scrubbing the floors spotless they turned white, and all matters to do with general cleanliness. While a mono, we were not required to be clean while inspection of the dorm was in progress. But changes are inevitable and we had to be clean in the years that followed.

Mondays were meant for release of the results of the dormitories that performed very well. Two dormitories formed a house. In that regard, if both your dormitories performed well, there was a reward of a half loaf of bread for every student in the house. I still can’t fathom the fact that I have lost the hanker for bread years later.

Even though the task of cleaning the dorms was tasked to both the form one and twos, form twos never bore the brunt when the house performed dismally. So as form ones when our house was not doing well, we the monos were spanked by prefects for being ‘vichwa.’ This was usually was meted out on Friday night. And it was worse when the prefect had failed in exams.

Once, I told the dorm captain that I was sick and if he dared touch me, he could regret hitting a sick student.

For the form ones who were sagacious, they roamed the institution the whole night making it to bed in the wee hours of the night to evade the rattan.  

There was a certain friend who was beaten by a block of wood having been suspected to have stolen some items because his cardigan with his name sewn on it was found at the scene of crime.  Boy, when he told me it was mistaken identity, I felt for him. But all in all, he was given a thorough beating like a stray wild dog nabbed by rural dwellers that had been feasting on their sheep and goats.

In our sophomore years, Nyuki could not tolerate such vices. He sacked any captain found engaging in the vice and gave students audience and authority to report any of the captains who flouted the rule of no wickerwork.

I had always wished there would come such a time. It came just when we had moved to the next class. However, I bet Siberia still remains. Those who slept there were academic nerds and geniuses, especially in our dorm. The biting cold that chilled their bodies and seeped into their toes, painfully through the feet and tearing into their hearts making their blood turn into icy sludge ensured they were early risers as the rest of us roared soundly in our comfy beds. The wind that cut through their skin and tortuously slashed their marrow with constant harsh blows, like rime daggers, as we moaned in the pleasure that was their pain. Our beds that had turned into domestic luxury, pacifying and isn’t the bed the best endowment a high student loves?

SITUONANE

[Photo source: Google Images]

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WHY MEN HAVE MIGUU TOOTHPICK

Men with thin legs, broad shoulders are usually very successful. They never spend most of their time behind a mirror. They also never spend the time in the gym, nor running like a madman. They are in search of better things. Money.

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GHETTO: A LAX LIFE THAT HURDLES

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.

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.

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]

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RED FLAG ALERT

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

[Photo Source: My Own]

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