Things You Don’t Have To Do As A Man In Nairobi

You’ll occasionally find me hunched over in the streets leafing through fossil issues of GQ and Esquire from the vendors. These vendors are almost always disinterested when I state which magazine I’m looking for. I suspect that they reserve the little customer service for backstreet saloon owners who bend over for old copies of True Love and Drum magazine. But I never let their attitude move me. I believe a good story is timeless and GQ and Esquire stock good stories in heaps.
Anyway, not so long ago I bought the September 2006 edition of GQ for 150 bob opposite the fire station, along Tom Mboya Street. In that edition there is an article titled, ‘50 Things A Man Does Not Have To Do Before He Dies’. What GQ does for the good people of America with this article is helping them scratch some things off their bucket lists. That got me thinking. What are those things you don’t have to do as a man in Nairobi?

Read Shakespeare

My uncle, Prof. Atieno Odhiambo, in one of his books (either Siaya or The Burying of S.M. Otieno) tells of a visit by the members of the Kenyan cabinet to a museum (I think) in London. On display, I think (I don’t remember well), was either an image or the works of Shakespeare and as the learned members of the cabinet – Hon. Isaac Omollo Okero et al– dropped Shakespeare’s quotes, Hon. Shariff Nassir inched closer to ask who Shakespeare was and why he hasn’t come to visit ‘serikali ya baba’. Hon. Okero, is reported to have dismissed Hon. Nassir with another of Shakespeare’s quotes. Therein lies my point. One, Shakespeare is dead (Long live Shakespeare!). And two, all his quotes have been assimilated and bastardized in common lingo – you can’t possibly keep up! Be not afraid of not having read Shakespeare!

Buy a Toyota

My dad, the esquire, drives a 1976 Peugeot 504, GL. I can almost dismantle and re-assemble the engine of that car! And I am not a mechanic. I can short the starter to start the car from the hood. I know how to peel off the air filter and bleed the carburetor. I can change a wheel on this car while eating a bugger. The boot can accommodate the nose-cut of a Toyota Duet. To re-fuel from a jerrican, I don’t have to stick a stick in the gas tank’s inlet. The wheel spanner can settle a small war on Kirinyaga road. I know where to look when the lights go off, when the clutch is hard, when the wiper doesn’t function, when the horn is squeaky, when …… I know that car. My kid bro does too. Once, on a trip to Gambogi, the exhaust pipe was dragging on the tarmac. You know what we did? We pulled off the damned thing and threw it in the boot and continued with our journey. No red light went off on dashboard! But what do you get when you come to Nairobi? A bunch of clueless salesmen lecturing you on spare parts and resale value and consumption. Who said I wanted to re-sell anything? I want a Peugoet 504, KAZ, in mint condition. I have about 85k, holla if you know where the auction is going down.

Forget To Kiss Your Bosses’s Ass

Two of my bosses at my new work station have asked me in an informal setting how it has been so far at this new joint. Before I could mutter, ‘It is a great and totally refreshing experience and ….’ They cut me off with a ‘You know you don’t have to kiss my ass, right?’ Right! You know I could tell them what I miss at the old workplace; forcibly planting kisses on my chic colleagues (hi Terry?); Impromptu dances and whistling in the corridors; vehemently thanking the sales director for giving us a male boss because there is no risk of kissing your boss during office parties.
I would have told them all this if the first thing the HR mentioned during orientation was not the sexual harassment policy!

Live In A SQ

The irony of living in an SQ in the leafy surburbs of Nairobi is that it’s a pursuit of a space that cannot even fit your ego! That 30k for a bedsitter in *insert where you live here* will get you a mansion next to me, here in Rongai.

Sit On The Terraces During a Gor Mahia Match

I know. They are the most creative people in Nairobi. They whip out songs in a wink. They are active throughout the match and they remind you of what you could have been if you shed off the middle-class pretense. But, they are also tough-headed. A group of ten friends can hold up the whole stand! Some of them blow weed like it’s going out of fashion. And they sometimes behave like wealthy people … Wealthy people never loose. So, between the cloud of weed that hangs immobile above the terraces and the possibility of stopping a tear gas canister with your forehead, an extra three hundred will take you across the pitch.

Believe What You Hear

Last week I met one of my confidence-man mentors outside 20th Century. I was rushing to a bank then I heard a combination of words in quick succession that made me quickly turn my head towards the speaker – ‘faboulous’ ‘amazing’ ‘drives the best cars in this town’ ‘but, he used to work for me’. Those combinations of words and phrases only come from one person in my world. There he was dazzling two impressionable wannabes with appearances. On this instance he was telling these two guys how Hon. Gumo is the richest luhya in Kenya and from how these two guys were nodding they must have thought he is in on every deal that goes through the three arms of government.
Do not get dazzled by appearances of fine clothes and fancy cars in this town! People lie in this town for a living, especially on social media. Maina Kageni’s group of friends does not entirely consist of people with momentous marital problems. Alfred Mutua is not an idiot.
Here’s how to know you believe what you hear; you have at least once signed those online petitions to have Classic 105 shutdown.

Walk In A Hurry

I can spot my pal Kapere from a mile on the streets of Nairobi. His pace is from a peri-urban setting like he is careful not to step on the mud. He walks leisurely with his head held high yet he’s never late for a meeting, I suspect that he is loaded, he drinks Heineken, you can consider him middle class and he’s only getting started. The secret of riches (this town’s definition of success) doesn’t lie in your walking pace. If it did, I would be a millionaire.

Be in a Meeting

One of my friends is always in a meeting when he owes you money. ‘Hallo’ is permanently replaced with ‘ Ben, I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you back.’ No, you’re not! Gossiping with your colleagues about your boss is not a meeting. Meetings are not held in lifts and matatus. Be nice, do what I do. Say this politely, ‘I’ll pay you when the first wad of cash runs through my hands, I swear’. Then hang up and add, ‘Only, I don’t know when that will happen.’

Comment on a Blog

Especially if it is a blog with a pink theme allegedly authored by a man!

Margin Call

I’m mighty afraid of high places – an acrophobic. This is not a metaphor. I’m not talking about jobs or businesses here, I’m talking about life. Nothing scares me more than the thought of a fatal fall. (My only other pronounced fear is being alone. I tend to think that if I was left alone multiple ‘me’s’ would walk out of me like in the pure and natural ad and start asking each other tough questions.) So, as I walk up and down the slippery windy stairs that connect the five or so floors in our offices, my heart always clutches to the railings because I literally feel like I’m on the edge. Of course it’s hard to ignore the huge gaping hole at the centre because every arch adds to its depth. Every arch readies it to swallow you fatally.

Thankfully, the circular walls are adorned with these visual representations of the company’s top-lines and bottom-lines; an old analog phone with a cut off cable to signify poor communication; a dart board with a dart at the epicenter to remind employees always to be target driven; ant’s working together to carry a leaf to symbolize teamwork; a wildebeest in half-flight leading its followers to jump off a cliff for poor management; a blue sculpture of a human being talking to two other blue sculptors sleeping on the desk for senseless meetings – hehehe; a knife stuck in half a torso’s back to warn against back-stabbing; and my absolute favourite, the negative – remember negatives, those shiny dark brown pre-photo elements that went down with Kodak in the wake of the digital revolution – of a kid in a very foul mood to signify negative attitudes. These visuals keep me distracted long enough to get to whatever floor I may want to. I will never grow weary of looking at them.

 
Yes, folks, I took the stairs. I changed jobs.

 
This is how people change jobs. You get a job and buy your employer’s dream. To be successful you have to believe that your product is absolutely the best. You sell it like an artist would sell his work of art. You use words like ‘value’, ‘unique’, ‘next big thing’, ‘fabulous’, ‘great deal’, ‘amazing discounts’, ‘free’, with your clients because you are a goddamn salesman and you have to find an angle. And the wheels start turning in your favour. Something about the universe conspiring to make real your dreams. And everything is great! That’s when your alarm bells should start ringing because great things can always get better. When things are great, business happens. I guess this is what they mean when they say, ‘should be able to work under extreme pressure’ in job adverts. People bulge under pressure, grow irritable and start looking out for themselves. Not exactly the pre-requisite motivating environment for sales. Then you grow disillusioned. Then new words are thrown into you vocabulary by the management like ‘budget’, ‘bottom-line’, ‘approvals’, ‘capex’, ‘operational cost’, ‘restructuring’. You have never doubted for a second what’s in this for you all this time but now you start doubting it for days and plotting an exit. Then you watch Margin Call.

A movie critic would tell you Margin Call is a movie about how investment banks in the US caused and precipitated the economic meltdown. Nothing can be further from the truth! Margin Call is a movie about how you job is to make money for your employer. Period. Here’s what you take out from it.

 
Some people always have the early word on what’s about to happen. Your boss can get axed before you, even if his superiors have no idea what it is you do. Risk management is not a natural place to start job cuts. It gets worse before it gets better. Big bosses worry more about their dying dogs than job cuts (even smaller bosses are perplexed by this). Every boss has a boss. It gets ugly in a hurry (I absolutely loved that phrase). If you don’t understand what someone is saying ask them to speak to you in English. Life is more complicated than one guy winning and the other loosing. There is heavy traffic in New York on Thursday at midnight. Everybody – irregardless of gender – who does not wear a tie to a midnight emergency meeting loses his/her job by sunset. You learn to spend what’s in your pocket. They (business owners) never loose. If you are first out of the door, that’s not called panicking. The feeling people experience when you are on the edge (of a high place) is not the fear that you may fall, it’s the fear that you may jump. Some people like to drive a long way home. Young guys are always the first guys to get culled.

 
Anyway, get your copy of Margin Call. So, I watched Margin Call. Then I prayed, nay, we prayed. You see, I’ve been dating my girlfriend since June 2008 but we have never once knelt together – just the two of us – and prayed though we both intensely believe in God. She had also been looking to change jobs. So on Sunday 12th February we knelt down and prayed. We had both been invited for interviews within the week. We really wanted God on our side. Her interview was scheduled for the following day, mine would follow on Tuesday. We both did two interviews and, I kid you not, signed our new contracts on 22nd February. On the same freaking day! God really has a sense of humour.

 

 

Not much has changed. I still sell, just a different brand. My desk is on the second floor like at my previous workstation. I still get a copy of the daily newspaper every morning, only a different brand. I still have targets, and morning meetings, and write proposals, and do sales calls, and use those words up there but I’m a lot happier. I’m happier because I only take one mat to town now. I’m happier because it takes me not more than eight minutes to get to work. I’m happier because I no longer dial phone numbers with a mouse. It feels good to punch buttons on a desk phone. Hehehe. I’m happier because I’ve had a fresh start – I love nothing more than having fresh starts. I’m happier because I’ll earn a lot more, soon. I’m happier because God granted us our prayer. It all comes from him folks.

 
But, I should also be happy because I was not thrown under the bus on Waiyaki way. On Monday, my old company restructured. Restructuring means laying off 20% of your staff. At least forty people lost their jobs. Most of them my friends. I know some of you read this blog. What do I say to you friends? I’ll tell you that when I was a little younger my sister-in-law used to stay with us while taking some afternoon courses. Her classes would start at 2 p.m. and she’d always iron whatever clad she chose to wear at around 1 p.m. We had two iron boxes, an electric one and the one that uses charcoal. But the electric one was faulty and lighting a jiko just for hot charcoal to iron isn’t exactly cool. So she’d turn on the gas cooker and place the iron on it like a sufuria to heat it. That’s your lesson in improvising. I want you to know that you are gifted, all of you. Do not take this as a failure, as a denigration of your capabilities. Defeat should make you stronger. Fight harder. Write your own story and mark this as a new beginning. I should know. I’ve been there before. It took God and 24 hours to turn around. And by all means, watch Margin Call and The Great Debaters. Good Luck!

The Gaps

The radio will bang on and on throughout the night. On most nights it would belt out tunes from X FM but lately I’ve developed a liking for Radio 3:16 because as I slip in and out of sleep I might just catch a sermon I like. It’s a habit I’ve had for the longest time – sleeping with the radio on, not catching nocturnal sermons. I play my music from my phone, a nokia. I’ll plug the charger in, slot the headset and set it on loudspeaker. You should learn to take those nokia music phone adverts seriously, in the silent night these gadgets live up to the billing.

But here’s the catch. This intro is meant to take you in circles. It’s meant to take your mind off the fact that this blog already has enormous gaps between stories so early in the year – like swerving to avoid those coloured balls in the Sony advert when your favourite presenter, who’s been awol, has just checked into the studio. It’s meant to apologize without kissing ass by making you think of what you do at night; radio; X FM; rock music; suicide; torn jeans; Radio 3:16; sermons; gospel rock; God; (hey, when was the last time you were in church); insomnia; white ceilings; nokia; your phone; free on-net night calls; chargers; iPods; adverts; hell even the Christmas carol, Silent Night.

Let me let you in on what would have filled the gaps. I wanted to write about my girlfriend on the week of her birthday, Jan 20th. I’d have written about how we met in Mon Ami, the first uber-joint in Kisumu that sadly closed down a few years back. I’d have written how she was spotted by my friend Shwyzee, the artist. And how Shwyzee kept going on and on about this girl with big eyes. And how we went to meet her. And what a great conversation we had that night. And how her sentences can be laced with sarcasm, humour and an occasional lisp. And how she insisted that I stay when Shwyzee bluntly asked me to take a hike. And how I am the worst wingman ever (Ok, this has been banged in by Shwyzee for so long it almost sounds true now). And how Gypsy is not her real name – it’s a pet name that I saved in my phone to keep Shwyzee from ‘accidentally’ smashing it on the wall had she called when I’d stepped out of the office. And how we’ve been doing this for almost four years now and I have to be extra careful to place any female names in my stories before 2008 (hehehe). And how she approaches situations from the worst case scenario – a trait that I hate for deflating my optimism most of the time. And how she has a knack for predicting the future. Remember what she said about this blog? And I would have wished her a happy birthday – maybe thrown in a short poem – and thanked her, for being the very best.

Then I wanted to write about school. The 15th Floor, remember? How the class has swelled. We’ve grown from a family of 15 to, what, 64? The class is so full I can hardly breathe with Kapere’s chest pumping so close to my nose and his eyes fixated on the candy newbie aptly named Zawadi! I’d have written how the class is now multi-racial. There’s Ensel, a white girl, who’s words zoom right past Kapere. Hehehe. And Wahetz who could be Indian, could be Arabic, could be Kikuyu but who cares she’s light enough with long silky hair. We’ll let her rep all three. There’s the new lecturer who’s arguably the second body (we’ll get him and Kapere in a contest then decide) and could as easily belong to the winged chairs opposite the whiteboard as at the whiteboard.

Then I wanted to write about my work. How I ended up in sales. How my work is to sell to salesmen – which pretty much means I can sell to anyone! I read this book collabo by Donald Trump and this guy who wrote Rich Dad, Poor Dad. Of course most of it is baloney that pushed the word count closer to the hardcover but Trump did say something in there that stuck with me. He said, ‘You have no business in business if you can’t sell.’ I want to be in business. I’ve since picked three more gems from local motivational speakers on sales. The first, during our very first in job training was, ‘I know this sounds stupid but if you really want to succeed in this (sales) DO NOT HAVE A PLAN B.’ You’d do well to heed that if you are a salesman. Having options give a quick and easy exit. The second was, ‘Never give up on a client.’ I’m not too keen on that one. But here’s the most important one, ‘If it is not life threatening, it is never that serious. It’s ok to walk away.’ This applies in life as much it does in sales. Never kill yourself trying to secure a sale or a girlfriend.

Then I wanted to write about my oldest client. Oh my God, where would I have started with this guy? This guy is a whirlwind of a story. The poster boy for breaking the rules. I’d have started with the titles that pre-fix his name and how rich and cunning and well-meaning and hardworking and scheming and good-hearted he is, all at once. And how people gather at his feet – and how much he enjoys that, and how he keeps them happy. And his top of the range vehicles – take your pick, I swear, he has it. And how he knows people in very high places in this government. And how he is not moved by things that bother educated people like driving with your car registration on; or keeping left; or making a U-turn in the middle of a highway; or policemen; or demand notes; or time. And how he believes, rightfully, that there are very few situations one cannot talk himself out of. And how he slid towards me on a hotel couch, as we watched ICC confirm charges on Ocampo four, and asked, ‘Ben, Uhuru ataenda kunyongwa?’

Then I wanted to write about my boss. And my ink dried out……….

Then I wanted to write about Shwyzee, my artist friend. A guy whom was recently referred to in a national daily as a person who ‘lives in his head’. No seriously, here are the exact words by Zihan Kassam in the Star’s article ‘Soudan (his brush name) is one of those people that live in his head. In executing a great idea, he can sometimes neglect the aesthetics.’ Shwyzee lives his life on his terms. He pretends (hehehe) not to believe in God. I’ll never hear the last of his accusations leveled against me for being a ‘sell-out’; for giving up my writing ‘talent’ to chase money in advertising – oh he hates advertising, he hates marketing (without realizing he uses it a lot), oh he hates Coca-Cola for all that advertising! But, how can a guy who sells some of his pieces for 200k accuse me of chasing money. You know what 200k can do? Build one IDP family a house in Mai Mahiu or earn a shylock 40k in interest within 30 days! If you gave me 200k (plus VAT), I’d give you a whole week of advertising, on national TV! And he makes that after, what, an afternoon of painting? Shwyzee deludes himself into thinking that anyone who makes a career out something remotely not artistic is a profoundly inessential person, a fool.

I’d have told you about how he lives free of societal expectations and responsibility and how he l.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.v.e.s his drink (…and hates that I wake up with regrets after a night on the tiles). How he sells his paintings without a rate card and soft skills. How he hates the status quo. How, had he have ended up with this girl he wrote about in a guest post on this space (read Little Death by Gor Soudan), B, he would now probably be working at Equity Bank and tacking in his shirts – Would you have taken a shotgun and shot me out of my misery, my friend? He asks me, genuinely, when he imagines that path. I’d have painted two pictures, a portrait of his almost humble self when broke and the arrogant humongous glass sculpture he wears when loaded. How he lives unapologetically and extravagantly, how he calls almost everyone else ‘punk’, how he intensely believes in himself ……… …and how, if your monthly subscriptions to this blog earned me a tidy sum, say 200k, I’d have considered ditching marketing to nurture my writing ‘talent’ or to live like Shwyzee.

Stairs, Lifts and Diving Boards

This could be the first floor or the mezzanine. I’m not sure anymore. I didn’t take the lift up here. There was no bleep and red light indicating the floor number. But I’ve been here too long, I’ve grown comfortable. And this bothers me. It bothers and scares the shit out of me. I’m looking out of the window. The blue swimming pool water dances calmly, deceptively. It bothers me that there are people who are comfortably miling around the pool. People who refuse to shape their destinies. I glance at them fleetingly; my focus is on the diving board. Is that board tight enough? Has fate tightened the screws it hides from my bird’s eye view? Is it windy down there? I wonder. I’m a lot more cautious now and I hate it!

Let me tell you how this all begins.

It begins in a basement of a flat in South C. I’ve recently graduated with a Bsc. A BSc. In Wood Science and Technology. We both know this can only get me to the top of the tree. I want to be a top a skyscraper. The country is still choking from the poisonous PEV fumes but business has to go on. You have to keep on even when the heat is on. People have to watch movies. And it is my duty to get them these movies, for a profit. Eight to five has never appealed to me so I stick to hawking movies. It paid better too. Then my kid bro checks in with a book that changed my life. Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. To be honest, I never finished reading that book. I doubt if I went past the first 10 pages. The first pages talk about desire being the secret to success. And when I read that I might have read enough already, I close the book and set my plan into action. I choose to move back to Kisumu to set up a marketing agency and run a video shop. This is how I get to the first floor the first time. Only, I took the lift.

Lifts are deceptive things.

They are like vacuums. They shut out the reality long enough for you to lose focus. They camouflage their movement in a muffled buzz. They are full of people who won’t say anything to you. But the most tragic thing about the lift is that they don’t carry the notice. They don’t warn you that the floor they are about to spit you into may be slippery. That notice is to be found at the top end of a flight of stairs. So, this is how I get to the first floor. Excited, playful and none the wiser since I missed the notice on the stairs. I’ll hang around for a while because I’m a persistent fella but the floor will eventually spit me out. On one playful morning my feet will lose their grip and I’ll fly right past the huge open window and plunge into the pool below. It wasn’t my fault that the window was open.

The worst place to realize that you cannot swim is at the bottom of a pool’s deep end. And why do they always have to design the deep end closest to the windows? But you are thankful that you are still alive down there. You are grateful that you did not hit the edge of the diving board with the back of your head as you came tumbling down. You are grateful that you still have the presence of mind to realize that you are quickly running out of time and you can choose to struggle out or drown. You’ll throw your arms to try and grasp at the feet that hover above you. Most will kick you back down for they don’t want to suffer your fate. Some will kick you because you dared believe that you belonged in the first floor. Some will kick you because you dared venturing into the first floor without taking swimming classes. Others – the ones sent by God – will kick you because they can’t swim you out with their limbs arrested. So, they’ll kick you – they kick the hardest by the way – swim to the surface for a dash of fresh air and dive back in. They would come from behind, grab your hands and swim you out with your hands behind your back. When you pop out and the heavy fresh air rushes into your lungs, you will, just before you pass out, for the first time, notice that different doors lead to the stairs and the lift.

I would take my time to take in the sights from the worm’s eye view when I came to. I often focused beyond the first floor that I had fallen from. I fell in love with the 3^rd Floor especially because it had metal frames that extended past the windows like a balcony. I wandered as far the door that led to stairs often and when I peeped in, once, I clearly could read the notice for the first time – CAUTION: SLIPPPERY FLOOR. I took my time and read some books and mingled with those around the pool but never took swimming lessons. And when I was ready to go back up, I took the stairs.

Stairs are tiresome things!

You never want to miss a step since you might painfully tumble to the bottom. You never want to go a step back because every step drained the muscle. On the stairs, you will clearly see where you are headed and the people who walk here, when not tapping the railing with their pens, will talk to you – people will point you to the right direction. People will say hi, sometimes that’s all one needs. And, you’ll never miss the notice! But stairs also exercise your muscle, they test you, they keep you fit and open your eyes to the realization that this journey is an endless flight of stairs. You are allowed to pause mid-way or at the end of the stairs but you will as sure as hell learn that going up is always going to test you.

 

We are now back to this floor where I’ve stayed for too long. We are back to the present.

When I got here, I chose to permanently lock the door to the stairs that lead to the lower floors. I can either go up or use the window. I feel like the stairs have tested me enough. I hate the cunning lifts. I want to chart a new path. That’s why I keep staring at the diving board, I keep wondering if fate has it tight enough. I want to take the plunge from the first floor or mezzanine, whichever floor it is I am on, but I can’t afford to miss the diving board. I still can’t swim. I want to know what the wind is like outside this window. Will the winds blow me away from the diving board into the deep end? Noooo, not again! I still remember how beautiful the third floor was with its protruding metal frames. God, I hope nobody has removed the damn frames. This is why I have to take this plunge.

If I hit the diving board right, and it has been fastened tight enough, it will launch me to the third floor. That’s what I’m hoping for. You understand why I’m scared right now, right? I could miss the diving board and plunge into the deep end again – I’m tired of all that kicking. I still can’t swim. The protruding metal frames on the third floor might have gone. I can’t see the third floor from here. What then will I clutch to? The windows in the third floor might be sealed off. How will I get in? Can I balance on thin metal frames long enough for the window to open? I know how endless a fall may seem. Will I able to hold on? Will I be able to pause momentarily in air as I wait to set my foot on the diving board, on the metal frames, on the third floor? What if God pushes me and I fly past the third floor? Will I be able to handle the fourth or the fifth floor? Will I be able to handle the trappings of success? How many floors are further up anyway? What if the fourth floor is a pub? What if the fifth floor is a brothel? This is not about little faith in my ideas, it is about my little faith in God. When God finally makes it happen, will I use this new platform for the glory of his name? Or will I feel self-sufficient?

This is me as Ari Gold at the end of the second season (I think) of Entourage. When he has been kicked out of the agency he painfully built to stardom. This is me when giving up and being an ordinary person has an attractive appeal. I need gay pep talk from Lloyd (Llooooooooooooooooooooooooooyd!!!!!!!!!!). I need someone to tell me it’s gonna be alright. I need someone to say that I will not miss that diving board and that fate fastened it just right. I need someone to say that that the frames on the third floor still exist and that the windows will be opened by God. I need God to say that even if I flied past the third floor to uncharted and tempting territories, my faith will not falter and I’ll always remember that I do this for the glory of his name and only because he lets me.

What I’m creating here, people, is the next big movie, The Titanic. I’ve written the script, I’ll direct it. But I need stunt coordinators, unit production managers, first and second assistant directors, casting directors, producers, associate producers, costumer designers, and a music supervisor, and a visual effects supervisor, and a story editor, and a script supervisor, and an art director, and a set decorator, and a location manager, and a production controller, and a 2^nd 2^nd assistant director, and a head make-up artist, and a head hair stylist, and a property master, and a gaffer, and a best boy electric, and the key grip, and the best boy grip, and a construction coordinator, and camera operators, and production sound mixers, and boom operators, and people in-charge of sound utility, video playback and still photography, and genny and dimmer board operators, and leadmen, and foremen, and set dressers, and research advisors, and production accountants, and transportation captains, and special effects coordinators, and historical consultants, and dialect coaches, and dialogue editors, and post production editors, and a producer, and executive producers, and ……. GOD.

Ok, what I’m really creating is a TV Show and way of consuming music that will beat piracy hands down and something else. I really need people who know IT well, extremely well. Get in touch – benogombe@yahoo.com – if you are that person or point me to his or her direction. If you know anything about TV shows, let’s have a drink. Oh, I need lawyers who know something about IP too (Andrew, cuz, are you out of law school yet?). We’ll pick everyone else along the way.

 

 

 

 

Remembering December

December is like a teenager who sneaks back past the open living room door after a rave night, it passes fast. That’s probably because we are Kenyans. Kenyans are marathoners; we go through the eleven months of the year through more or less the same pace. Then madly dash through the last lap. The twelfth. December. Our minds collectively leave for Christmas on Jamhuri Day and only checks back in when brokenness comes knocking, near January.

 
Of course the real sprint would start on the 23rd at 6 a.m. as we – my kid bro, Shwyzee and I – shuttled to Kisumu. You need to understand that a man born in the 80’s in unpretentious urban outpost that is Kisumu, has a sacred duty to return every Christmas if not for anything else to break bread with his peers who carry on with their lives as they have for the past decade or so – boldly and unapologetically – and to sneak into shags every so often to imbibe from the wisdom of his folks.

 
Evening would find us seated at Sunset Hotel because we discover their beers are relatively cheaply priced and they have wireless internet. My pal Mushteng’ would also add, tongue-in-cheek, that we chose Sunset so that anyone who’d like to enjoy the ‘goodies’ we bring from the city in the sun should at least bear the cost of taxi to Sunset.We will later customarily relocate to Wayside since a visit to Kisumu is never quite complete without paying homage to the legendary Tamiez, before dispersing into the night in as a many as the compass directions. And converge back at Sunset on the following day, in the afternoon.

 
Allow me now to drag you to the side bar, so I can relate to how our dear Deputy CJ, Nancy Baraza, will remember her December. As I write this I’m watching how the incident with a guard at Village Market will shape the Deputy CJ’s 2012. I want to relate that with what happens on Christmas eve, at Sunset Hotel’s entrance. I alight from a motorbike outside the gate. I lost my phone at some point last night so am clutching a brand new phone still in those tiny boxes on my left hand and its charger on my right. As I walk past the security desk a lady guard growls, ‘Wewe, kuja hapa unaenda wapi?’ I quickly check the surroundings to confirm that I actually got into a hotel establishment and not someone’s home. I point out, deliberately in English, that I’m obviously headed into the hotel. ‘Kufanya nini?Hebu ingia hapa kwanza.’ I’m tempted to reply that I’m looking for a ‘short-time’ room but instead decline to get into the security booth stating that I had no plans of getting into any form of jail when I woke up a few hours ago. If they are going to search me, they are going to have to do it at the gate. The lady soloist is quickly joined in her barbaric drivel by her two male instrumentalists, one orders me to hand over the box containing my new phone and I tell him that’s not going to happen. They then delve in gibberish about madharau and how I don’t have go into their establishment blah blah blah at which point I correct them that Sunset is indeed owned by the government which means I, as a tax paying citizen, have a stake which I won’t forfeit on account of contracted security suppliers. One of the more reasonable male guards asks his colleague to run the metal detector and let me go but Bang Bang Bruno on drums with the metal detector here and his lead soprano girlfriend are still spoiling for war so I casually ask if [insert name here] the manager is in. My last question moves mountains. Bruno quickly runs the metal detector and allows me to proceed. I turn back after a few steps and shout in Luo, ‘Kara uluor aluora to udai ka’ – You are acting all tough yet you are terrified (of the manager) – and we all uncharacteristically break into laughter and Bruno shouts back, ‘Mogo nyaka riti’ – we must guard our source of livelihood. I guess, I’m saying it’s not cool to pull out a pistol on a guard but I would understand why anybody would.

 
Anyway, I drop my threat to report the run-in to the manager and walk past the lobby to the poolside where my pals are surfing swimming and drinking. We are soon joined by Gor’s French pal, Fredric, having just touched down from Nairobi and who will be staying at Shwyzee’s digz. At some point, while Shwyzee, Fredric and my kid bro are swimming, my cheeky pal will try to convince me to start a rumour thatShwyzee and his white pal are actually an item back in Nairobi but I’ll resist the temptation most importantly since the rumour will be easily traceable back to me, might quickly get out of control in our small town and also because Fredric’s, a PhD history student, favourite African historian is none other than my late uncle Prof. E.S. Atieno Odhiambo, and we always have a great time discussing the Prof’s books, papers and genius. So I lurk on facebook and twitter and sip a bottle of beer until it’s time to for my bro and me to leave for shags, 62 kilometres away.

 
Dad is exceedingly excited when we check into his homestead at dusk. He’s asking questions. He has a lot to talk about, he always has. He wants the updates; on work, on the political temperatures in the city, on plans we had been discussing only on phone, on our relatives in the city, on the activities of last night in Kisumu, on how we, his sons, are doing, on everything. And it suddenly hits you that this is the point of Christmas – to bring as much joy to your parents as they did you when you were kids. They might not ask for matching outfits but they want you seated on the lunch table on 25th December and to attend the family’s AGM later in the evening. All mum wants to know is that we haven’t been sleeping hungry and where you put the box with her royco.

 
Let me back up a little bit to the 2010’s AGM.

 
My dad calls me in his room and I know this is going to be a windy conversation when mum calls from the corridor that we should not start without her. We start anyway and the first question the Esquire asks is how much money I’ve saved in the past year. But since I’ve watched The Bucket List, I throw him that look that suggests, ‘it is rude to ask about another person’s money’. He half laughs, half smiles. It’s one of those uneasy laughs and I understand when he says, ‘You know, you sit here listening to me talking all this theory because I obviously didn’t practice well the advice I’m giving you. But take this from me son, learn to save. Save lots of your money, son!’ And his eyes get teary, and my heart sunk. My mum takes over the conversation but I don’t hear a word she says because my mind has left. I’m battling with how my dad, at 74 then, a man I have always regarded as a man’s man, an African man, can accept a fault on his part to his 20-something year old son. The truth was, I wasn’t saving at all back then. There was too much month left at the end of my money but I swore to myself that I’ll never have to have that conversation with my son!

 
Last year’s AGM was an investment conference. I should have seen that coming since the previous year’s was about savings – retained earnings. This year, the ancestral land was divided between my two brothers and I. So we walk to this parcel that is to be divided in two between my kid bro and I. I’m carrying a sharp panga and as Esquire points out the boundary I cut off a cylindrical branch, sharpen one end and drive it into the ground on the borderline. Standing on my side and brandishing the sharp panga I turn to my kid bro and tell, ‘Nigga, you better not cross this line nigga! Coz nigga I’ma chop off your ear and use it as manure if you cross this line, nigga am so serious!’ My kid bro then calmly asks me in sheng, ‘Una ngapi nikuuzie plot? Mi ni msee wa ma tao, ma flashlights, beamer, magwara, nini nini, nta-buy land Kite(ngela), hii story ya ocha siezi toboa mimi.’ I’ve never seen my dad laugh so hard. But there was something eerily unsettling about all this talk of dividing land amongst us because it shoves into the table the question of human mortality. I remember leaving that AGM with the distinct impression that we don’t have so many AGM’s left with the board as currently constituted. That brings urgency into the equation and defines what 2012 will be like for me.

 
This year, for me, will be defined by three creative articles. One, a recent article by Sunny Bindra in the Sunday Nation that analyzed success in the definition of Ralpho Waldo Emerson who said, ‘To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children … to leave the world a better place … to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.’I want success in that definition.

 

Secondly, and probably the one that will define my business, is an article by Mark Harris, in the February 2011 edition of GQ, titled The Day the Movies Died, which pretty much explains why we are increasingly subjected to crap movies and how hard it is for an intellectually challenging movie to be green lit by the studios. The most illuminating point of his analysis was that marketers were to blame for the crap that is summer blockbusters – you know, X-men, Transformers, Pirates of the Caribbean, Harry Potter and their re-makes, prequels and sequels! I mean, have you ever watched The Great Debaters? Hunting Party? Charlie Wilson’s Wars? Puncture? Have you ever wondered why they were never on the big screen? In summary, he says the rise of marketers influence in movie making with an unrelenting focus on the sell rather than the goods may be why so many of the dispiritingly awful movies that studios throw at us look as if they were planned from the poster backwards rather than from a good idea forward. As a marketer and a salesman, I know how true this statement is even for commodities beyond the realm of movies. I know that consumers deserve better not an endless cycle of recycled relics. At some point this year, I’ll take a break from my current engagement, to pursue business interests that will always emanate from a good idea forward. Wish me good luck.

 
Finally, is a movie titled Courageous. A movie about honor, fatherhood and God. Let me not ruin that movie for you, please get a copy of Courageous, especially if you are a man. Forget about the execution, focus on the message.

 
Happy New Year, Folks! Consider the marathon flagged off!

2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,800 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Let’s Make a Toast

You may want to understand how empty things are in twfast right now – how intimidating and stifling the blank page has become and how little nourishment a new good story receives in my mind – it may help to start with the inspiration.

You see, in May this year, I set out on a journey to chronicle my life. I’m sure you have read bios of several successful men, bios that spell out the path trodden after the subject has made something of himself. Bios that sell on the basic premise that the subject went through insurmountable challenges to get to the present. Bios which, let’s be honest, often stretch the truth to get out a good story. I wanted to lend myself a different approach. My goal has always been to capture that gradual rise to the top with all its imperfections as it happens. I wanted to create a space where I defined and redefined success, a place where I’d formulate and shed guiding principles, a place where I’d set myself nuanced targets, a place where if I were finally successful, in my own definition, anyone who wished to set sail on the same path would drop by and say, ‘you know what? Benjaps was just as much of a douche as I am right now, so my future is unpaved but open, I’m going to rule the world’, but most importantly what I desired to create was a space where I could tie success to God, a place where I could put a case for putting God first, however sinful and wicked one thinks of him/herself to be, a place where, well …. this space where thou would find a solace and a chance for reflection.

But this is what you end up with.

We end up with this space. A space that has not carried any story for the whole of December. We could blame it on my girlfriend who jinxed me. We can blame it on exams. We can blame it on work. We can blame it on the government. Or we can choose to remember December in January and make a toast to 2011. We could choose to be jolly and make merry this festive season. To remember that the season has a reason and to be thankful for God’s blessings. For taking out time to read this blog, I sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart! Thank you KK. Thank you Len (Lupaaaa Lupa?). Thank you Sundit. Thank you Nyaguthii (you see, before I met you I thought that name only existed in Papa Shirandula). Thank you the boy the Hez. Thank you Kapere (the river road chest) and Butunyi (the boy with the biggest head) and Tash and Sergent and Katz (baby!) and Mushteng (Aptiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigis!) and Kerry and Minnie and Pitzevans and all the faceless eyeballs that drop by from time to rhyme. It’s sad that I can’t mention all of you by name especially since this is a small club. But please know that I sincerely thank you for dropping by and enriching this experience. It’s been a fulfilling ride.

May the Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and the Love of God the Father, and the Fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you all.

Let’s remember December in January. I promise to make it worth your while in 2012. Have a Merry Christmas and a very prosperous 2012. PEACE!!!!!!!!!!

The Model, The Married Man…………..And The Rest of Us

The model with the married man is speaking at the balcony. I’ve just taken the married man’s invitation to the balcony. The model is speaking about porn. I briefly interrupt them, ‘I thought you guys came up here to have sex.’ There is brief laughter. Laughter prompted not by me being funny but by, ‘Oh My God! We can’t believe you just said that’. I quickly realize she’s talking about porn and urge her on. ‘I don’t watch pornography anymore. I mean, I used to watch porn to discover new styles but I think I’ve done all of that. Show me something I haven’t done.’ She prods. She’s only 22, this is going to be an interesting afternoon. I rush back to the lounge and bring back a dining chair to the balcony. The model is still speaking with a sincerity laced with unadulterated innocence, like the words she’s saying cannot be frowned upon in a house that allows no swearing.

 
She keeps saying there is nothing she has never done. She dares me to name one thing I think she has never done – anything – and when I don’t she goes on to ask, ‘What, sex on the beach? On a balcony? What? What style?’ Her eyes search me constantly as if to ask, ‘come on, you seem creative?’ But, being a man, I know the boundaries in this scenario. I shift my eyes to the married man, my boy, who’s content with casually accepting the unspoken praise. ‘What a catch bro, what a catch?’ he seems to say in that unspoken boyhood language. I’ve known him ever since I was a boy, he’s urging me to ask hard questions. And I’ve known him not to keep the company of famously beautiful women so I’m not in my element today.

 
Instead, I ask her what her tribe is. She’s Taita and I’m glad she didn’t make a big deal out of my asking what her tribe is or worse answer that she’s Kenyan. I had been trying to frame that question in my mind in words that would not have Mzalendo Kibunja reading press statements. She lost her virginity when she was 17 – I point out that mama’s from coasto tend to lose their virginity at an early, she says early is 14 – Which is to say she has done everything in five short years. She won the pageant in her college last year, this year she gave a bigger stage a shot but left without the crown. My boy tells me he wants to hook me up with one of her fellow contestant from this latter pageant and ask her to show the photos. So, the model is showing behind the scene photos as she serves me more of the non-alcoholic wine she brought with her earlier. Her fellow contestant is only 18! I lose interest. She then leafs through two past issues of Esquire that have been lying on the table in balcony. ‘So you buy these?’ she asks, flipping through the pages with men’s wear adverts. Her question is not innocuous at all but I fail to see the bait. My answer sort of leads me to her trap, she insinuates that it’s kind of gay or rather girlish to buy magazines full of pictures of other men. I want to ask her to find a good story in either of the two issues for a prize but the bell is ringing. I have to go get the door.

 
There are two miraa chewers at the door, one was recently circumcised. They walk past me to settle in the lounge but I convince them to come with me to the balcony. I figure the wild tales of miraa chewers, the uninhibited spirit of the model and the uninvolved presence of the married man would make a great cast for the afternoon play. As I push through the balcony door, the Gentile miraa chewer catches a glimpse of the model and is suddenly intimidated. He’s been chewing miraa for a long time and knows that hot ladies don’t think highly of miraa chewers. So, he holds his taxin in half-a-bite and tightly wraps the unchewed sticks in a black polythene bag and hides the pack behind him as he stretches the other hand to shake the models. I then ask the model if she chews miraa – she’s done everything right? Yes, she does. Everybody at the coast does, she says. And everyone at the balcony breathes a sigh of relief. The black polythene is undone and clustered sticks held together by banana strands are distributed to everyone but the married man. The married man’s only intoxicant is now about to chew miraa – he doesn’t smoke, he has never tasted alcohol, and hell no, he doesn’t chew like a goat.

Everybody’s chewing – well, except the married man. Everybody’s happy. And wild tales are being bandied around. The tales are being told to everyone in the room but every story teller seems only to seek the approval of the model. If she laughs, or smiles, or looks at you when you tell the story then you have recorded a success. Six eyeballs follow her lips as she peels the outer skin of her mirror sticks. Eight eyeballs follow her – because we are soon joined by The Artist – as she throws the stripped miraa sticks on the cover of the Esquire issue I exchanged with a famous writer (That bothers me until I realize I’ve been throwing my stripped sticks on the cover that has Justin Timberlake on fire). Everyone, except the married man – a classic case of you donno what you have till it’s gone – secretly follows her every move; as she slightly bends to pick up her glass on non-alcoholic wine; as she unwraps her big G; as she reaches for groundnuts in the colourless polythene bag; as she drags two lousy puffs off my half burnt cigarette. And everyone hangs on to every word.

 
At some point the married man will ask her if she masturbates and her answer will sound like an invitation to all unmarried men to apply for her company, ‘I don’t masturbate …… wait, wait, I’m not saying it’s bad, I just don’t see the need. ‘Cause every time I need sex, I easily get it.’ This sounds like an invitation because we know she stays in Eldoret and her partner here lives in Nairobi and by this point we know that she knows that her partner is married. So everybody is saying his favourite joke to try to win her heart. The married man cares less. The Gentile miraa chewer goes first. He tells a joke about a miraa chewer and bhang smoker, having arrived at Machakos Bus station with the overnight bus, arguing about what they see in the sky;
Miraa Chewer: Hii ni mwezi
Bhang Smoker: Hii ni Jua

So to break the tie they approach a hangover-ed drunkard..
Miraa Chewer: Boss, hebu tusaidie hapa, tumepishana na huyu mwenzangu sana … nakuuliza … Huu mwangaza ni wa jua ama mwezi
Hangover-ed Drunkard: Maze hata mimi ni mgeni hii town..

The Jew miraa chewer tells his joke, I tell my joke about business, the married man says a boring joke (hehehehe), the artist passes on the peer pressure.

We are all gathered at her feet, near the stripped miraa sticks on the exchanged Esquire issue, to breathe the remnants the catwalk air. I gather with them to bring you a story. The Jew miraa chewer is here to build on a chance of a wild model ride when he heals, a month from today. The Gentile miraa chewer gathers here because today the stereotype has been killed, today he has been allowed to chew without judgment, and today he has chewed with a model – he will tell this story for many chewing days to come. The artist also gathers but he pretends not to. He gathers because – as he will later reveal on the outdoor pub table – ‘shit, the married man has a hot mama.’ The married man also gathers but only to casually accept praise before he announces that we have to hit the bar.
We are seated outside a popular beer joint. The Gentile chewer orders a 750ml bottle of vodka. We all know what fuels his generosity. The married man and the model will not wait for the drinks to be served so they ask me to show them how they can get to their room. When they get to their room they announce that they’ll take a rain check. I return to the outdoor pub table where am bombarded with questions whether the married man and the model will join us for drinks. I reply in the affirmative. I keep the rest of the group expectant until the bill is paid. I keep the group expectant until I received a text message from the married man whence it is my sad duty to inform the rest of us that….. They will not be coming!

The Archives

She never talks to me anymore. She walked away years ago and never looked back. Actually, she never really walked away. There was never that thing you could walk away from in the first place. But it’s always part of the male machismo to exaggerate that which might have been.
Let’s call her B. I met B in campus and I remember telling myself this is the most beautiful girl in campus, the first time I saw her. That essentially meant B was way out of my league. But students of the alchemy will tell you desire prompts the universe to conspire in one’s favour. And, conspire the universe did. As I watched from a distance, crippled by my fear to talk to her, she sat back and observed me. Maybe she was crippled by the same fear. I don’t know. In comes alcohol and the walls we had built with our fears came crushing. Her walls caved in first and she asked me for a dance. I remember that night at the underground club in Eldoret, Sams. I still remember what I wore. I’ve never been more excited. Although that dance was crudely interrupted by a mate from college who shoved his body between us and pushed me away with his behind – absolutely gay if you ask me – I had had my moment. But, more importantly we had conquered the fear. We had made contact. That was the beginning. The year was 2002.
In the following days I was a regular in B’s room. She never came to my room, she never needed to. We had quite a lot in common or like the humans we are, we sacrificed dissenting opinion on the altar of friendship or whatever what we thought we would grow into. We talked about hip hop and its stars (I loved Eminem, she loved Missy Elliot) and high school and boozing and my friends (nut cases) and her friends (who always wondered what we talked about) and her boyfriend (and the girl I had a crush on) and this experiential marketing gig EABL did back in the day – Guinness Festival (she had attended that in Kisumu). B was always witty with a wicked sense of humour. She could hold an interesting conversation – a key criteria in my choice of female company. She was, actually still is very pretty, had this beautiful smile and lazy eyes (I used to joke that she smoked the same stuff UK smoked). Then the semester came to a close and ushered the stream of emails.

She addressed her emails to japsog@yahoo.com. My first email address. I opened (as we used to call it back then) this address at cyber café on the ground floor of Al-Imran Plaza, Kisumu, early in 2002. It cost me 50 bob. All because back then I could not navigate the simple instructions on the yahoo mail page. And here is where all the stories are buried. We exchanged long windy tales, gossip and hip hop lyrics. We wrote to each other at least twice a week for four months. I suspect the high frequency was because we didn’t have any other person to write to and it was kinda cool to hang around cybers back then. And it felt good to write and say those words that escape you during a face to face encounter. We inevitably grew close. And we were back for the next semester. And she was my valentine in 2003 – and that was a great night. I remember the song that was the highlight of that night, One Love by a group called Blue. And then I got into a fight (not that night). And we gradually drew apart. Then we stopped talking. Then she ignored my friend request on facebook. Then in 2009, during the MAMAwards, I saw her walking towards me, on the aisle between her row of seats and mine, my heart rate rose, my breath quickened – I hate that she still draws those reactions off me – my whole body tensed, my mouth dried, then she walked right past me and sat on the seat next to the one right behind me. She didn’t say hi! (Yeah, say hi to the devil when you back to where you’re from!).

 

But, I must have learnt the power of the written word and good English through these exchanges. Only, the English was not good at all. I’ve been lately going through the archives of this mailbox and boy, isn’t that where laughter is hidden? It makes me wonder whether I’ll find this blog funny and ridiculous when I grow older.

 

I no longer officially use the japsog@yahoo.com frequency for any communication I take seriously. It’s the address I use to register or comment in the various social networks and blogs. It’s the address I throw the way of the endless online subscription services. Its address I let fill with mail I will never read. But, deep in its bowels is raw laughter. In the archive is the story of a young man trying to be cool, of a boy trying to become a man. Of a young man trying to get, I donno, a wife? God, I tried too hard! And so did the chics.

 

When B faded, Nelly* came into the scene. I also met her in campus. She checked in for a bridging course in maths, I think. I met her on the corridors of the females’ hostel and threw that cliché, ‘You look familiar, where did you see me?’ at her. She smiled and said, ‘Yeah, right’ and threw back a witty line I’ve been trying to remember for years now. I liked her. She wasn’t busy so we talked. She came from the coast, she had been in Boma. She had come to Eldoret to visit an aunt and somebody suggested that she takes a bridging course in maths. Why not? She had plans to be a computer scientist (nurse? IT expert?). I don’t remember. She had the most curvaceous hips you ever saw and a gap between her teeth. And she was mature – you know, how some people just look mature – and that scared me at times. She was half Luo, quarter Luhya, quarter Giriama (Her mum was half Luhya, half Giriama. Her grandma was half … even I lost count!). She looooooved this jam by Alicia Keys and Eve (what was it called again? Gangsta Loving, I think). She told urban jokes – something about transition of girls’ underwear to thongs, I don’t quite remember but it was funny. She had a good heart and after she was done with her course and back to the coast we talked endlessly on phone. She didn’t have a phone so I would call on her sister’s line. It was like a ritual. And we grew closer. And she came visiting when I was home in Kisumu. My mum must have thought I had settled in my choice for a spouse (I’m sorry mama for all this trouble I put you through, hehehe.)

 

The strange thing is Nelly didn’t have an e-mail address all this time. When she was in Kisumu I tried to convince her to sign up but she firmly declined. Having an e-mail was like being on Google+ back then. Fortunately, she signed up when she returned to coast and most of her mails were addressed to japsog@yahoo.com. She always ended her long mails with a joke – God, told me to choose between a million dollars and a friend and I took a million dollars because I already have you – and an unbroken line of emoticons and tiny red roses. I liked that. She wrote every weekday, I guess that was because she enjoyed ‘free’ internet in the college she had joined at the coast. She wrote even if I didn’t reply. She wrote consistently till I went to visit her at the coast. She wrote after my short stay at the coast. She wrote even after I had gotten busy and would check my mail once in week. And then she got tired of getting no replies so she stopped. Then the phone calls got more spaced out. Then life happened. The distance had won the war!
I remember my excitement when I stumbled on her facebook page (profile?). I sent her a friend request and attached a message. She didn’t accept my request. When I later tried searching her page (profile?) it brought back, ‘no results found for ‘Nelly Ameenda’’. She had blocked me. That hit me as weird. I later learned she was married (cohabiting?) with some guy and had a kid (s?). All I wanted was to be called Uncle!

Those two are the only tales that end tragically in the archives, though.

 

Somewhere in the archives lives the soul of the world. Her mails started streaming not long after Kibaki had assumed the presidency. The kept coming till Kibaki lost the first referendum. They came when the result of Kibaki’s contest was a draw (Or what was that that Kreigler said?). And stopped a month shy of the promulgation, after Kibaki had won the second referendum. The emails contained long essays. The emails contained pictures. The emails contained poems. The emails contained the excitement of driving next to 50 cent in a busy New York street (hehehe). The emails contained a logo she had designed for my first company. She always called me ‘shortie’ and would sign off with, ‘Luv u, Tiny me’.
These are the emails I am most fond of in the archives. Her name is G and the emails stopped because now, I can poke her on facebook.

Blogging About Blogging

Et_al is the mask I don when am navigating the murky waters of anonymity. Et_al is my screen name. If this was a movie, the posters would read, ‘Ben Japs is Et_al’. I first took up the pseudonym as a rapper back in college – yes, my affair with words has grown beards.  My boy, Nahbee, one of the undiscovered hip hop talents of our generation and I were members of this rap band called Lattice Energy.  Predictably, Nahbee came up with the band name after the torture of a Chemistry 202 class. Our fledging (hehehe) hip hop career took a dip after college but not before I had won a Dax Rap Battle on Y FM. Nahbee still does hip hop. His does gospel tracks laced with some of the wittiest rhymes you’ve ever heard. One of my top ten favourite hip hop tracks of all times is a track he did back in 2003 titled ‘Nairobi Graffitti’. Pure genius. I’m always amazed how he still balances his 8 – 5 banking job and passion for doing and producing gospel hip hop.

After my hip hop career crashed, I was lost and heart-broken. I cried for nights on end and watched Mexican soaps and Nigerian movies back to back across three TV stations. I locked myself in the house and ate junk food and wrote melancholic poetry with lines like, ‘My soul is starving’. Hehehe. Then I woke up one day and decided I’ll take with me one relic that would always remind me of what an illustrious hip hop career I would have had – Fly 540 to the coast with fellow ‘celebs’ and paparazi, perfomances in Nanyuki and Lamu and Busia and Nyahururu and Netherlands and Atlanta, posters with me in stunnas, acres of stories about my private life in tabloids, ladies, thousands of them; stalking me, throwing pants on the stage, fighting over me, taking , carrying my illegitimate children! Oh, what a life I missed. That relic was my stage name. Et_al.

I call myself Et_al because I don’t want to fall in trap of ‘the danger of a single story’ (check out Chimamanda Adichie’s video on you tube with the same title to fully grasp this concept) . When I rap or sign off as Et_al, what I mean to say is ‘what I just said is one among my many opinions’. I thus rob you the liberty to criticize me based on that particular opinion. Et_al means among others. I love it because it ambiguous. It looses my opinion in the crowd of the the other commentators while refusing to singularly define my point of view.

It is as Et_al that I prowl blogs leaving a comment here, a remark there, an insult … whatever I feel like because Et_al hides my dark complexion and lanky frame – features which would work to my disadvantage in a war of words. It is as Et_al that I ever wrote my first blog post on April 14th. I wrote my first ever blogpost in the comment space of bikozulu.wordpress. com, my favourite blog (the address has since changed to bikozulu.co.ke). On that morning, Biko had written, in a piece titled ‘Starting Over’, about the release of his cousin Farouk from the Industrial Area prison. You could read more about it here ….http://www.bikozulu.co.ke/?p=440.. I had just been to the industrial area prison the previous weekend to see my boy. I completely could relate to what Biko wrote that morning and instead of typing a standard three line comment I just went on and on and on and on …..That was the beginning.

I want to share that lengthy comment in this space today. And do you know why I want to share that comment when I could write about why I don’t post regularly lately or about my girlfriend or about getting circumcised or about going to pay dowry or about the stag night I attended not so long ago or about the return of my high school best bud who from Abu Dhabu? A woman. I want to re-post it because a woman broke my heart. See, over the weekend we were discussing this blog with my missus – a woman. And I ask her, what is you favourite post on my blog and she goes, ‘My Girlfriend and I, no wait … Nairobi Men… no no no wait… The Bar’. And I go, my ego totally bruised, ‘Swits, I have no such posts on my blog. All those posts are on bikozulu’. The her big eyes bulge out and she mumbles a muffled,’Ouch’. She tries to play it down like it was a joke. She belts out a, ‘Gotcha!’ and tries to force laughter but am not buying that vibe. I act like it’s ok because I don’t want to do something I will regret. I don’t want to hit a woman! Then she, edges closer and rubs my chest and whispers, ‘You want to know my favourite piece hun? I’m sorry I don’t remember the title but it was that you wrote about visiting Alfayed’! That stung like a bee ’cause that story had never been on this space. She meant to say she enjoyed my accidental comments more than pieces I painfully take my time to craft! But, maybe she had a point. Let’s see what you think. Here’s the comment (excuse the language, it was originally written under the cover of Et_al)..

I had the ‘honor’ to visit the Industrial Area prison last Friday. My boy called me the previous night saying ‘I’m in more shit than you could possibly think’ .. He told me to check out the story in the dailies (He always likes making headlines). Now, my boy is not accused of small crimes like building an invisible skyscrapper with crutches n wheelchairs – Easy Farouk, I know you’re innocent. He is accused of an ingenous bank heist with a whole lot of zeros. A blueprint that has been replicated alot lately. (If in the end he is found guilty – God Forbid! – I’m selling that script to Hollywood). So he is a celeb in there! He is respected for the brains n I guess people want to be friendly just incase he really did it and is hiding a fortune under a rock. Starting over mkono mtupu is kinda tricky you know. I walk up to the Medium Security reception and say I would like to see ‘*first name*’ and the guard finishes the two other names. He’s smiling, he knows him too well.

Everybody here does.
After a short while I was allowed inside, I had to talk to him through a wiremesh, a thick glass with tiny holes in the centre and another wiremesh on his side. He is his usual self, tells me he his a legend in there. Guards sneak excuses to have a closer look at me (may I borrow the newspaper? you said you are a relative or friend?) – the free friend of a possible millionaire – running the offshore accounts. These guards don’t look like they buy bull, they seem to be sure he did it. Am sure he lets them thinks so, my boy has always been about image. He’s milking it dry … The prefect in there treats him with utmost respect. I’m sure they think he is Pablo Escobar or some shit like that. I’m sure he lets them think that. That attitude buys favours.
I ask if he is ok and he says the only thing curtailed is his freedom. He says he’ll be out soon. He is worried about his assets outside, he wants me to go give someone some money and pick this or that asset. I tell him I don’t have that kind of money “You’re a good salesman go find it!” He responds. He’s particular worried about one asset, I have to pick it by Monday or its gone. He can’t live with that thought. His ‘friends’ are ripping him off coz he is in. I’m worried coz I don’t know where to get that kind of money in three days. I feel his pain.
On Saturday I let him know someone might give me the money and that he should kneel down and pray for a good 30 minutes. My financier was sold to. I knew I would rescue him (a favour hard to forget incase there is a rock to be turned in future).
Come Sunday afternoon, am cheering Gor at city stadium and I recieve his text ‘The fuck man, am in the coolers. Gor updates omera!’ .. I tell him the match just started, no goals yet and KCB can’t seem to find the ball. He laughs (or writes hahaha) and tells me to call him so he can hear the stadium environment. When I do, he answers says ‘Baaas, text me when we (Gor) score, I’m the commentator here’ Then he hangs up. I wouldn’t hang up if I was calling from jail! I text him ‘Do those fools know what a bigshot you are? The match is on DSTV, they can’t switch it on for you?’ He replies, ‘These people don’t have DSTV, they are quickly proccesing my release so I can donate it to them once out.’ I laugh then text him when Gor scores and when we’ve won the match.
My financier calls later, when I alight in town from the stadium, saying she has to dissapoint me this time. She must have googled his name or read the papers! I knew I shouldn’t have let her off my sight until I had the cheddar!
I call my boy and he doesn’t answer. He texts a shortwhile later saying that he had to pray first when he saw my call and that he is now ready for me.
I break it down to him, it breaks him down. He wants to cry. I want to cry too. Then he says something strange, in luo ‘Kaka alemo malich ni, lemba ni odhi adhia nono’ I point out that God gives us what we need, not what we want. He tells me time is running out, ‘Please make a wise decision’. I say I’ll try and hang up.
I met my boy in campus. And he is the kinda of guy who you can describe as ‘ana roho’. He always tells me that he has balls. And he defines having balls as ‘Having the guts to fart when you know you have diarrhoea!’. That killed me the first time I heard it. He’s always talking about deals. His phones never go silent and he is very secretive. His friends, even bestfriends like myself, are partitioned into compartments with a strict need-to-know basis kind of relationship.
But, he is real fun to hang out with. He is the life of the party. A silly dancer! And he studied something to do with parks so he pretty much knows everywhere you can have an out of town kick ass shindig in this country. Our bond was written in blood when we knocked some fuckers teeth off in a rave bout in Kisumu. Oh, he went in for that too. Called me a pussy when he got out for 5 soc the next morning.
I wish I could pay 5 soc to get him out! And scream ‘No more deals, dummy!’ in between his ears.
He says he only fears God and poverty.
May God help him!

Ok, lemmi be honest. I also post this comment because it gave birth to this blog. It is through this comment that I found my confidence to write.  A guy masquerading  as Henry in reply to this comment said he thought I should be a guest writer on bikozulu – the highest form of flattery on that comment space because those nuts, us, who read that blog are unforgiving to guest writers. Powerpuff seconded Henry. SavvyKenya and waywardfoe, fellow bloggers, enjoyed the narration and the diarrhoea remark. But it is not-so-little Miss Random!‘s comment that stood in stark contrast. She said, and I quote, ‘Come on! You cannot type your whole story on someone else’s comment space. Surely! Blog-etiquette!! Get a blog or something if you must share your story‘. Now, I’d derive tremendous joy in going all white – she wasn’t nice to me, why should I be nice to her – on Miss Random here. But I want to thank her for midwifing the birth of twfast.

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My second blogpost was on an environmental blog my friend, The Big-Headed Cosmas Butunyi and his fellow nerdy science types edit. It’s called meshakenya.worpress.com. Here is that post http://meshakenya.wordpress.com/2011/04/13/a-wood-science-graduates-thoughts-on-how-his-expertise-fits-in-our-world/