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.