Comings and Goings

Time stood still. Last year, for a period of nine months or so, time stood still for me. It also moved. At times, I can vaguely recall a few instances during the said period. But mostly, it is a blank. It is as if I was in one long comma from which I woke up after 9 months, or someone took a chunk of my memories, and I can’t recover them.

Normally, when I write, the kaheadline is the last thing that goes on the article.  I drag my typing through the pages till the story makes some semblance of sense. Then, based on what inspired it, and the general direction of the story, I cook up a topic, just when I am about to publish. Not for this one. This time, the kaheadline came first. I had been toying about writing about last year; something, anything, when it all glared at me from the screen of my computer. I was watching Californication, and there, in one of the titles of the episodes was a summation of my last year, or life; Comings and Goings.

How Africans Kiss?

No, how do Indians kiss? I am an African, so I know how I kiss. I don’t know whether every African kisses like me. No, I know. Every African does not kiss like me. So, I don’t know why people have these discussions. What are they interested in? Is it the politics of the kiss in Africa? I know the politics of kissing in Africa. They are diverse as the regions, but some cut across. They are tough politics, as are the politics of PDA (of which kissing is part), and the politics of sex in its many forms, dynamics and layers.

Last week, I attended a session at Storymoja Literary Festival aptly titled, How Africans Kiss? And,  I heard curious and interesting statements;

Faa

https://www.flickr.com/photos/the_captain/8668777070/in/photostream/

I want a daughter for a first child.  I know, several men prefer sons. But I want a daughter. She will provide a balance in my life that no other woman will; wife, mother, sister. She will alter the way I interact with women; she will be the prism through which I view female issues. She will be the reason I will never ignore a buzz, no matter how slight, of my phone.

The Problem with Women Who Smoke

“Cheki huko.” Kyalo tells me, gesturing with his face. It points forwards, towards the side of the road. I follow his face. But apart from a few rocks, a posterior end of a slow bump and a gentleman in a Standard Newspapers jacket hawking airtime, I don’t see anything else of interest. I turn towards him, he is shaking his head slowly and intermittently producing a sound that normally conveys disbelief and disapproval.

Kyalo is my cab guy. He is a really awesome cab guy. He observes time better William Ruto. If you tell him to pick you at seven, he will be at your place at 6.55. After the first few journeys, he stopped setting a price for me, only responding with nipe ile uko nayo to my pesa ngapi. On this particular day, we’re going up Kilimani Road, and we are in no hurry.

He looks at my blank face and asks, “huoni?”.

Why We Feel We Know Chimamanda Personally

Last year in November, I made my to Taifa Hall, at the university of Nairobi. It was my first time there. I was a whole one and half hours early. Considering the significance of the occasion, I had thought the place would fill up way before the starting time. I was wrong.

I only found the organizers and the sound guys setting up. The DJ was playing a set I took to be African, apparently in line with the occasion. There were a few other guys there. The first row seats were reserved. So I took a seat on the second row, and placed my bag on the one next to me, a move that would have interesting implications later on.

Reconstructing My Night Nurse

Never have I had motivation not to sleep and still lose the battle than when I met Aggie. She was my night nurse. Well, almost mine. She was Lameck’s. And other patients’. But she came to our room more often, or so I think.
I heard her before I saw her. The click clock of the high heels hitting the floor. Click, clock. Click, clock. And the door swung open. And there she was. In tight, black trousers, blue top and a white lab coat. A novel in the right side pocket of the white coat, her light face lined with a smile.

What Happens to a Dream Derailed?

 

Several Years Back

It is almost twenty minutes past five, in the morning. But I am yet to know that because I am sleeping. There is distant noise. I barely register it at the periphery of my brain. It is now growing louder, and more intense. It is persistent and annoying, as all persistent things are wont to be. Finally I wake up. It is my mother knocking at the bedroom door. I reach for the bedside stool and grope for my plastic watch in darkness. It has a small light at the side that enables you see the time display when switched on. I switch it on, 5.20 AM

I sit up in the bed. Today, I am not grumpy, nor do I miss my sleep. I am excited. No, I am more hopeful than excited. Today portends hope. And hope can sometimes be a huge trigger for adrenaline.

I find my mum by the door of the house.

“Go fetch Micah.” She casually directs me. She also hands me the torch.

That is when I notice the darkness. I don’t hesitate.

The Yard

The dorm was named after a bishop. It was furthest from the admin block, Away from teachers, from watchmen and the rest. Behind it was the sin city. All contraband made it way into the compound over the fence behind that dorm; Bread, donuts, mandazi, juice, avocados, sugar. We had a small economy, a sub economy. It thrived. It made some random boys village merchants, and wealthy, by village standards. Two hundred bob made you rich, very rich. You had bragging rights; you were the boss with a complete posse of cohorts. All you needed to do was make runs between the shops and the fence, where luxury starved boarding school kids waited with bathed breaths. That and trust. They waited for simple luxuries, for bread and juice. It meant giving the awful sukuma  wiki a miss, and respect and bragging rights, for loudmouths.

Between the dorm and the fence, was a space that was slightly scorched. A lone tree stood at the middle of this space, donning a weepy face, forlorn, about to go teary at any moment. It was lonely, forgotten. On any day, it was just that, a semi parched space with a lonely tree. But occasionally, it transformed, it became something else, christened. It became the yard. For, at the school gate, someone had written prison, bringing into life what we believed, and whispered about, or mentioned deprecatingly in reference to the school.  On such days, lonely tree had some company, loud company that cheered and jeered. And patted her and caressed her and hugged her. Their minds were on something else, but the tree didn’t know. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t know. She enjoyed her moments.

It was the place where issues were settled, the way men do, but by boys. Knuckle to knuckle, hand to hand, till a victor emerged.

It is on this space that I had an appointment one day. Because of briefs, my briefs, my new briefs. And because of Node, and against Node. It all began at the football pitch.