Something Terrible Happened

Something terrible has happened. That is how the Igbo dirge that chimamanda sang after news that Chinua lega, him of wisdom clothed in the form of words, had grown too big for the world of mere mortals. It is a loss, a big big loss. He leaves a vacuum, it may never get filled. Those shoes are bigger than those of Barmuriat.

Something terrible happened, Achebe is no more. He of things fall apart, a great defender of the Igbo nation, a propagandist of the former secessionist state of Biafra, an Africanist, a father to many. He once wrote, “age was respected among his people, but achievement was revered. As the elders said, if a child washed his hands he could eat with kings”. He was of age, he surpassed human expectations. He is revered and respected.

I am reading Adichie’s treatise, At 82,We Remember Differently, against the refrain of a Burning Spear song in a matatu along Ngong Road. I am trying to understand this man by understanding those he inspired. You cannot simply wrap your fingers around a man like Achebe, so you go for those a step or two below him, you dissect what they say about him, what they think of him, how they react to his passing, how they mourn him. Then you realize you cannot, can never finger it. So you try to satiate your curiosity by picking up one of his books and reading it again, for the umpteenth time, because every time you do so, it has a different feel, it tells a different story.

I was a young boy, in class five when I came across a book. It was my sister’s set book, I liked reading. So, I turned over the page and started reading. The first four sentences held me, they sucked me in, so I continued reading. But by the time I was on page five, I had forgotten about page one, apart from those four lines.

“I see now you reading A Man of the People.”  It was my father. I kept quiet. He laughed softly, and then said, “you are too young to understand that book. That is Achebe.”

I didn’t know Achebe. It was many years before I came to know Achebe, and why he was Achebe.

He is the dream of a many an African writer, he embodies what you wish to be, what you dream of, but may never be. He is a bittersweet experience. He reminds you of the gifts that a single person can possess, but he also reminds you of the fact that they could only be possessedd by one or two, that you may never get them, that you don’t have them. He reminds you of your weaknesses.

I have no authority to write about him. The fact that A Man of the People is my favourite Achebe book could be testimony to that. It was my first; you know what they say about your first. So my choice of this book as my favourite is purely sentimental. So is this piece.  Do not expect brilliant one liners and statements about Achebe.

Something terrible happened. The corrupt of Nigeria sleep a deeper sleep, for they are one less a fierce critic. The gods, they a happy lot, for one of equal wisdom, of equal knowledge now sits amongst them. The lovers of literature, of the gourmet African wisdom in form of books mourn, they are one book less. They will never lick their fingers again, from a new dish from the master chef. Life comes full circle. Death awaits us all. The older you get, the closer you get. But for some, we assume, we ignore. For them maybe, maybe, death is below them. They are beyond death. They are immortalized. But when they physically leave, we are empty, we feel empty, we hope it didn’t happen. But it is all a dream. So we shift our hopes, and hope that another equally gifted may arise. However,  we know that as much as they may arise, they will never take his place. However equally good, they will never be him. They do not want to be him, they want to be like him. We await your knowledge, you who feed at the fountain of that who now sits with the gods.

Over to you Chimamanda, over to you Binyavanga, over to you Ben Okri, over to you, the child of Africa, who weaves words into stories, for the wisdom of the African, is held in folklore, for the knowledge of the African, is regaled, not taught.

The Shawshank Teachings

Andy sure made his mark at Shawshank. He came along, made his mark and left in a dramatic fashion, unlike when he had come in. He got a library built, he played music to the prisoners via the PA system, disobeyed warden Norton a couple of times, called him obtuse to his face and finally screwed him up. He got one of the most notorious guys in the prisoners beaten to pulp by simply being an asset.

Welcome back Andy. He sure was back. Not the Andy who had being cuckolded, not the Andy who was wallowing in self-pity, but the Andy who was not afraid to take risks. The Andy who dared hope when the future was only a bleak dungeon. The Andy who took his wife to a picnic in a field in Buxton and proposed. That is the Andy who was back. The Andy who was not afraid to trample you over. The hurricane had given him a thorough tear down, but sure the storm was over. And when the storm passes on, everything comes back to life.

When I was young, I used to see prisoners as the worst of mankind. The people whom the Bible condemned, whom the priest prayed, and requested us to, pray for every Sunday during mass. The bad people. They killed people, they stole, they did everything bad. I remember one day, I had gone to a market place. Then one of those huge wire fenced lorries pulled up on the side of the road  so that the warders could buy some  groceries.  I looked at the tiny window near the top and saw faces crammed, trying to get a glimpse of the outside world. It was as though they were trying to get a taste of freedom by simply looking at guys going about the daily mundane activities. They pressed against the grill of the jungle green lorry, their faces scaly, their lips dry, but some of them were smiling. Then a woman went near the window and passed pieces of sugarcane via the square spaces. I don’t know how it started, whether a prisoner asked for it, or she simply felt that is the least she could do. Others followed suit, sugarcane and bananas passed through the wire grills. The smiles broadened, some broke into grins, the initially expressionless faces broke out into a smile here, a laughter there. The wardens did not seem to mind. Maybe, the fact that there was no commotion inside the lorry contributed to that. Then I started to see them differently. Only that this time, I didn’t know the exact word to give them. I was not convinced they were human. Only felt that they could be good, at times. Until one of the catholic brothers in the catholic boarding school I attended showed up one day with a van that had  a motto, Prisoners are people too.

So sometime towards the end of last year, I happened to find myself in Industrial area remand prison. One of my cousins who live in the shanties around that area had been arrested for allegedly assaulting a woman. That is when I first experienced what had been planted in my mind the day I saw those prisoners smiling from behind those grilled windows, there could be innocent people in prison. Now my young cousin had indeed wronged that particular lady, he had verbally abused her, the person who had fought with her was a sister to the guy who was behind bars. Apparently, the said lady and my male cousin had an affair which the mother disapproved of. She was older than her by more than ten years. A cougar in every aspect. Somehow, it had not worked out, to the lady’s chagrin. Now it was her chance to get back to him. Unfortunately, I was not of much help, but my aunt, having lived in the slums new how to work the system, and sure the boy was released.

Every man has a breaking point, but for Andy, it was restarting point. He had had enough. He wanted to kick it and get on with it. Life was waiting. He had to get busy living or get busy dying. He did the unexpected, the unimagined. In his entire life, Warden Norton never imagined a prisoner could ever escape from Shawshank. The imposing walls, the brutal guards and most importantly, the thought that you can never manage to escape out of that place had successfully kept the record of break outs at near zero. Till Andy made to carve his name onto the cell wall and the wall chipped easily. Your life is as good as your imagination. The simple knowledge that the wall could chip set Andy on his first step to freedom. True to the warden’s mantra, salvation lay within.

It all depends on how you view the world. To Andy, hope was a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good things dies. Well, philosophically. But to Red, hope was a bad thing. It made you think of things that you would not achieve. And when you fail to achieve them, it leaves you bitter. Like Andy talking of the Pacific, that was “down there”, and yet they were “up  here” in Shawshank. But Andy had hope, and a plan. To him, hope was complementary to the plan. For the plan to work, he needed to hope. For without hope, there is no need to attempt anything. Hope is all you could have, it is the only thing that someone cannot get to, touch. It is the place made out of stone. It is hope.

Sometimes we may have the best of intentions, but if we are not informed, we may be doing more harm than good. Heywood, he always intended to help, but ended up doing more harm. However, at times, intentions are all you need.

He called him obtuse, the warden, the most feared man in Shawshank, the one who could make your life hell, or even kill you. Andy called him obtuse to his face. A man doesn’t have to be meek when he knows what he is saying is the truth, or fighting for your life,  and the other man is not getting it, or pretending not to. Okay, a little tact is required but at times you may be gripped in the moment that all you see before you is a man who is well, obtuse.

No matter what, try not to be institutionalized. It could be the rat race, it could be in school, it could be the mob mentality. Try to avoid the patterns. Red and Brooks were. That is why they were afraid of the outside. It is hard. Life is funny at times my guy. But try.

Don’t remind a man in power of his Achilles heel, even with the best of intentions, or to show goodwill, or even in the name of brotherliness. Andy told Norton he won’t mention his shady deals once he gets out. He pissed him off big time. Outcome? A long time in solitary. They know you know, mentioning it to them shows you are always thinking about it. And it is not cool to think about it.

Give men what they have really missed over a long time and they will be highly indebted to you. Andy asked for beers for his colleagues in exchange of his help. And they sat and drank on the rooftop with the sun on their shoulders and felt like free men, and they never forgot Andy for being mad enough.

If someone messes you up for his benefit and you get chance to give him a polite payback, please do, but make it loud. The relationship between Andy and Norton is a good study of how men relate. Their competitive nature cannot allow them to leave a humiliation unchallenged, or to keep the other down when you are in a position of power. When Andy got his payback, it was destructive. He took everything away from Norton.

Finally, we are all born free. But some of us have a greater spirit of adventure. It is not a cool thing to keep people chained. When you meet someone, be it a spouse, girl/boyfriend, friend, brother, employee, let people enjoy their freedom, their horizons await and nothing you can do can hold them back. As Red nostalgically says after Andy’s escape

Some birds are not meant to be caged

Their feathers are too bright

And when they fly away

The part of that knows that it was insane to lock them up does rejoice

But still, the place where you live is much emptier when they are gone.

After all has been said, I still wanna ask, how often do you look at a man’s shoes … (though ladies do say they measure a man’s worth by his shoes).

*******

I wrote this after watching the 1994 movie The Shawshank Redemption starring Morgan Freeman. He is a cool actor, Morgan is. It is a cool movie. I am afraid you have to watch it to understand the gibberish up there.

Smells

When you opt for the smell of a cheap cigarette near you instead of the suffocating musk blocking your nostrils that is emanating from an endless sewer of stagnant raw sewage, when a woman older than your mother simply squats by the roadside, drops her grandmothers’ union, then pees and you do not even for one moment think of lifting your eyes off her, when nobody seems to think that is not okay, when every man who is selling something along the overcrowded sidewalks unashamedly gives your girl the you are- new- around- here look, when you realize that the old woman standing next to a mabati house, with a young child strapped on her back, just called out your name and then it hits you she was your classmate in class five and six, when almost every boy you meet idling by the road sizes you up, when you feel like all the people around you have a sense of kinship, that you are intruding, that some unseen eyes are watching your every step, then you know you are in a neighbourhood that the people who call themselves masufferer call home.
It is in such a place I find myself this morning. This is not the first time, neither will it be the last. I may be living here for all I know. Okay, I live in such a place, or a place close to this in appearance. It is an environment of observations and smells. You learn to take in everything, but you also have to learn to ignore most things. I ignore a lot of smells, all apart from my cologne, it is polo black. In another part of this town, it is a statement. Of course it is not that cheap, come on, it is designer. It cost me a fortune, but I had to buy it. Especially after Cecilia of programs said “a man is his cologne”. I want to impress her, more for a chance of permanent employment than to get into her panties. These random two week vibaruas, or two month contracts are uncertain and unproductive. Nowadays, I am more confident when I stand next to her. I am waiting for the day she will ask me a question whose answer will be polo black. Previously, my clothes used to have a cocktail of smells; the smell of the smoke of the kerosene stove that I use to cook, the smell of the sabuni ya miti I use to wash my clothes and of course my natural body smell considering a bath in my life is not something you take as you wish.
I wonder why I refer to it as permanent job. These NGO’s never give you a permanent job, they just contract you for a period. In my world, that is permanent. Anything that has a promise of going beyond a year gives a feeling of permanence. In this life of mine, nothing is guaranteed beyond today, even today is not guaranteed. You could wake up a married family man but go to bed a single parent of two brats who seem to get hungry after every two minutes and you do not have money for food. Even our houses are made of iron sheets. They can burn up or be torn down in a flash.
My latest job is nice even though it has no description. I do many things. In most cases, I do what the senior staff is supposed to do but cannot do because of some reasons. Like today, I am in this place called Congo. I wonder what it is with these places with names of countries and biblical places. I am in Congo for an appraisal; my NGO sponsored a youth Centre in this area to the tune of mita kumi na tano. I am here to assess its impact on the youth, how it is run and if it deserves further funding. They need my perspective. It will represent the perspective of the targeted youth because I am one of them, or like them. That is what Cecilia says. I have this nagging feeling she was supposed to conduct a survey to find that out but she just threw it to me. Such undertakings have budgets. I can’t help but think of her in her office busy typing a report based on what I tell her. I don’t have a problem with that. Such assignments are a source of extra cash, they call it petty cash, but for me, there is nothing petty about a one thousand shillings note, and it is rarely one.
I turn off the dusty road. I am now on the narrow path that leads to the youth centre. Some few metres ahead of me is a signboard that proclaims its presence. I look back and see a group of five young boys on the same path as me. I instinctively put my hand in my pocket and touch the four crisp a thousand shilling notes. I like the feel of my allowance for today’s assignment. I am at the gate. I bend low and find myself in a vast compound with three building blocks. The one in the middle looks smaller. It looks like it houses the offices. A basketball court which is full eager enthusiastic young people and a rugby- cum- football pitch are the other factors that sum up the compounding. There is some noise that is coming from the other buildings.
“Hello. I am John from EAP, but you can call me Jonte. I am here to ask a few questions. You mind helping me?” I find myself talking to a dark face of a young girl which was blank at the beginning but suddenly broke into a smile when I was in the middle of my sentence. She is neither really attractive nor the opposite.
“Oooohkay. We have been expecting you. Cecilia called to inform us about your visit. How is she by the way?”
I can’t help noticing her bad breath. It hits my nostrils hard. I am tempted to say something in that regard but my mouth wills otherwise.
“That is kind of her. She is good, pretty good.” I say. She must be good, I mean, she is ever smiling, jumpy and seems to be talking to everybody at the same time. I really care less, as long as she finds a reason to pay me and she pays me good, she is good. I suspect that is what she feels about her beneficiaries too, and her sponsors.
At the stroke of exactly 2.00 pm, I am out of the place. I did ask a few questions, especially at the tennis and badminton rooms in the other two buildings. I even played a game. My sample of seven guys, I am sure, is quite representative of all the youths at the centre. They even behave the same way.
My walk back to the road is slow and assured. I am glad that my rent is covered by a one day payment. I am looking forward to being debriefed. I get out the bottle of cologne from my bag and wear some. I am attempting to kill that girl’s bad odour from my mind. Smells always have a way with me. They tend to stick to my mind, or my nostrils, I don’t know which one for far much longer. I also want to smell nice when I go to Cecilia, so that she knows even people in people in youth centres in places called Congo, whom I represent can, and do, smell nice.
###
“I see you are back.” It is Cecilia’s distinctively jovial voice. I am now her office, by the door to be precise.
“How was it?”
“Good.” I say, and mentally, I add, “just like you”
She motions me to a seat. She then comes and sits next to me. Half way through my explanation, she suddenly looks at me, with a start.
“What is it this time?” Mental question.
“What cologne is that?” she asks, her pen pointing at me, or my shirt rather.
“Polo black.” I say, simultaneously breaking into a smile. She smiles back.
“I am now a man.” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else, her in particular.

I have a Beard

You don’t ask a man about what he lacks, or what he cannot do. No. men are not programmed for shortcomings, or failures. And no, it is not a question of self-esteem, it is a question of being a man. It is how we are wired, right from the Neanderthal to the tweeps. If you remind a man of his shortcomings, you are simply telling him he is a lesser man, he is not man enough. That is how our system works. That is why Jesus carried that cross and accepted to be nailed by mere mortals and yet he had options. Only that the options seemed cowardly. He chose to be a man.  That is why we elect presidents who become strongmen, why a man is quicker to throw a punch when you call him a coward as opposed, let’s see, to casting grievous aspersions regarding his appearance (as long as you do not mention his mum in between). That is, may be, why the Baks was not cool with Tinga telling him in 07 that he was not suited for the job and yet his constitutionally awarded ten years ain’t over, or uncle Bobs down south wondering why the likes of Morgan are telling him to retire coz he is about to die, who told them a man, moreover, an African man feared death. Damn, you look it in the eyes, you dare death, that is what is called manly, that is what is called living. Haven’t you people heard of the term president for life. Anyway, that is the problem with people named Morgan instead or gentlemanly (if there is such a word) names like Robert for the learned folks. Does Raila even play golf, you don’t run a country if you commentate football. The best you can do is coach a football team.

If you have a short coming and you are cool with it, you are not man enough, or not manly. For example, if you are a man and a girl describes you as cute and you blush, there is something inherently wrong with your wiring system. A man is either good looking, handsome or sexy, period. Other descriptions are a preserve for women. The fairer sex, the beautiful people, the people with the smooth faces, without facial hairs. Facial hairs are a preserve of men.

That is why I am a happy man, I finally have a beard. Now, my friends won’t adopt that superior know-it –all- George- Bush –about- to -bomb –Saddam- Hussein tone. Now they won’t call my chin smooth. Smooth? I tell you what is smooth, a kid’s bum is smooth, my girlfriend’s face is smooth and the taste of Barcadi, is smooth. Now that friend of mine who suddenly thought it was cool to check out my chin at Kencom and shout out that sina ndevu is welcome to do it again- to check, not shout. She is welcome because at the base of my chin, there is a fine small collection of black hair. Not big, but definitely not the five strands that were there this time last year.

The small collection of hair is the reason the guy who shaved my head last week is my favourite guy right now. Jaymo, that is his name. He noted my manliness. The wiring system that had been a bit crooked had finally been righted by nature. He mouthed words that were music to my ears, “nikunyoe hadi ndevu?” There! There! He said the word ndevu and me in the same sentence, in a nice way. He mouthed what my boys have been dismissing in the simplest but most powerful way. He made it sound like it was something that I have always done, like pissing. In short, he said I have a beard that could be shaved, a very big beard that deserved the razor.  Of course I said no. not because I can floss it to thosedimwitd who thought I will never grow one, but because as much as I was alaways pissed off by guys noticing I had no beard, I was somehow cool with not having one. I am not ready to start shaving. That is one part of the male ritual that I find cumbersome, shaving a beard. If you get it right, you are cool. But if you get it wrong, you are most likely to have ballooned full stops and commas on your chin. Not a lovely sight. To make matters worse, it could be itchy and scaly. That is why I am glad I told Jaymo not to shave my beard. Oh boy, how my scalp itched for the two days following my visit to his barbershop.

For now my beard stays, my beard grows. I could even travel to Kandahar or Kabul or some other region in Afghanstan that the BBC refers to as the tribal area and join the Taliban if that will make my beard grow bigger and healthier. I am gonna  have beard that will make you refer to Anyang Nyongo’s chin as baby bum. I am gonna have a beard that Gillette will be compelled to have me in their commercials with the tag line, “you wanted a reason why we made this blade, okay, here are ninety nine”. I wanna have a beard that those yellow skinny jeans wearing boys will recoil or hide every time they see me. But I won’t give a rat’s ass what they think. I mean what kind of man wears yellow, or lumonus green shiny jeans in the name of fashion, heck, colours aside,  what kind of man wears skinny jeans? Unless you want to be a woman, or a fashion designer, they are a crazy lot, we can pass. Fine, I won’t rant about skinny jeans, there have been enough rants already, and all that has come off it are more skinny jeans appearing on the streets. In hideous colours, damn, they are so hideous that watu wa masaku no longer feature in jokes about colour any more. They even have a name for it, colour blocking.

But I will rant about those shorts. What do you call them again? They resemble what  chicks call peddle pushers( I hope I got the spelling right). You are a man, you are going to have a beard. You are supposed to show off your beard to the world, not your ass. Any body hugging garments are made with women in mind. And body builders. I know you like your body, everybody has a Narcissus in them, but that is what mirrors are for, right? Stand in your room, in front of your mirror, and admire yourself, but leave it there, no man wants to see how another man looks under his clothes (unless you like men). A woman can stand another naked woman, a man can stand a naked a woman, heck, loves a naked woman, but a a man can’t stand another naked man. Please note I am not being sexist here. So leave the figure hugging clothes for women, they are the ones who have figures, are shapely. Leave those shorts for women, they were meant for women. Can’t you see you are shortchanging men here? If you take all their clothes from them, then what, they start wearing men’s clothes? Who wants a woman all covered up? So for the sake of the people of the beard, get your sartorial sense right. As for my beard I will nurture it so that every time you see me and you are in peddle pushers, you hide.

Disclaimer: You have done yourself irreparable harm if you did not read this lightly, or you lack a sense of humour. I am not responsible.