A Bachelor and His Warus.

Courtesy of myhealth.co.ke

On your way to Eldoret is an old centre called Timboroa. You’ll find it just past Eldama Ravine but before Burnt Forest. The place does not brag. It does nothing to catch your eye. At its heart lies the aura and picturesque of typical upcountry towns. Like others, Timboroa is quiet and secluded. Just enough life to appease its inhabitants and those accustomed to tranquil and occasional boredom. When cruising by in your Bima via the main highway you’ll see the usual; men in Kiosks sipping hot tea out of metallic cups – cupping them dearly as they stare indistinctively at passer’s by. Some look beat and disinterested. 

Over sunset, these men will be seated on wooden benches outside shops in groups getting consumed by political chit-chat. Or playing poker. By the roadside you’ll find elderly women selling potatoes and carrots in buckets. They will gladly let you know this is their ‘wofishi’ should you try look at them despairingly. And sun-kissed children with bare bottoms will be playing beside them. They look happy. At the last road bump leaving the centre are a couple of young lads selling roasted maize. They perch on the bump and wave the maize as cars slow down. They alternate irregularly to take smoke breaks. 

Yet, beneath this common demeanour, as you interact with the centre, the true person of Timboroa happens, slowly, like a migraine. There’s the cold. Its solid cold over there. Freaking biting cold. The kind that foully shawls itself on exposed cheeks and bites harder than ghetto mosquitos. Only fellas born there know how to brave such kind of vicious weather. Then there’s the forest. A blanket of shrubbery and heavy coppice surrounds the hilly terrain of Timboroa. It’s healthy and scary at the same time. There is the edge of the forest that rubs its shoulder against the highway. It’s christened by the locals as ‘Danger’. This is mostly because of its appetite for delinquency and supernatural interference. Story goes that men and women have walked into that forest and vanished without a trace. A Bermuda of sorts. It is a very unlikely place. Actually, it is the only place in Timboroa where fear runs deeper than the summed courage of Kalenjin warriors on the hillside of Seguton.

I spent most years of my childhood in this place. All my childhood memories were made here. Memories that I now wish I could blow up into a big bubble and live inside and not listen to endless yapping of politicians saying ‘tumetenga pesa’ and ‘kuna mikakati kabambe’ year in year out. Nostalgia wriggles into my whole being every time I visualise the levelled playing field where I made little friends like me. Where we would play football like Ronaldo – or so we thought and drink free milk every second Friday of the month courtesy of the gentility of Mzee Moi and his Nyayo philosophy. We had no care in the world. That is before adult life happened and they took away the milk. Our milk.

Occasionally, my old man would light a fire in the kiln and we would roast fresh warus right from the shamba. It was our equivalent of barbecuing. A sacred family bonding ritual. And this, my friends, is why I am writing this piece. It is all about my waru escapades. My dad would carefully turn the warus on the rutara – no idea what we call this in English – until they were all black and crispy. Hot, black and crispy. We would then sit by a jiko and peel the outer layers off and chew on the inside parts ravenously with infrequent smacking of the lips. Talk of great meals!

Somehow the warus got engraved into my DNA. They shaped my life. My belief. It’s true that you cannot live an honest life without eating warus. They do bring the best in everybody. Like they did in me. And you have to agree with me here. After a sumptuous encounter with warus, for example, you will even forgive your vilest enemies. A guy will splash water on you with his Vitz (those Vitz guys!) but when they open the door and step out with a stretched Kasuku of warus you will be all good - even wave them off with a smile like the ones we see on the rather deceptive Coke adverts. Warus are the unseen force of friendships. They soften hardened hearts. You even win over the ladies with warus.

Her: Sasa Wesh?

Me: Poa. Mambo?

Her: I’m good. Bado tunameet leo?? Umechelewa!

Me: Yeah nakuja. Relax. Nimepitia Githurai kukuchukulia waru babe.

Her: Omg! Warus! You’re such a romantic guy aki. Napenda waru yani. Nakupenda kama waru Wesh!

Now, am I exaggerating? Maybe a little bit. Did I fake a chat just to root for warus? Hell yeah! Anything for warus. Do I make waru sound better than Pizza? Definitely! And do I bit on warus with some pathetic level of delight? You betcha! And I am proud of all this. I am unafraid of publicly declaring that I love warus. Fighting for equal opportunity to warus for every other child out there is part of me. Azin we all need a fair chance to chomp on warus in pricey restaurant without fear if discrimination. Don’t we? And without waiters asking if you’re from Kiambu or where your parents hailed from. Nobody should look at you with a side eye just because your cologne’s scent is inspired by the smell of fresh warus. Nobody! And neither should you be ashamed of displaying artistic sculpture of a wild waru beside that elephant carving you bought at Maasai Market. And should you hold back that proposal you have for Sasini Tea Company on a waru flavoured teabags? I don’t think so! We need those too!

You want to succeed in life? Eat what you like. Eat what everyone likes. Eat warus.

How about that for my upcoming campaign on warus? Genius right?

Okay, enough of that.

Here is the thing though; I am tired of eating warus. And I am trapped on a loop that has me doing waru embellished meals all through the week. How, you ask? Well, mostly because my culinary expertise is finessed around the damn warus! These I alternate with Ugali but then who will scrub that Sufuria? Not me. I might end up buying a new Sufuria half the time I eat Ugali.

I know what you’re thinking. Why can’t you learn to cook other things Wesh? I have an answer; I once googled a recipe and I kinda had nothing on the list except water and salt. They said pinches of salt. I had many pinches. You should have bought those ingredients then Wesh! I know! But then I had a thing with my boys the day I hoped to buy them – we played monopoly the whole afternoon. Then the whole idea of cooking new stuff somehow slid away. The moment passed. 

But I will learn how to cook other things. Eventually. But as of now it’s a game of warus over here.

In Nairobi: Unfrozen by Love

Unfrozen by love

When I reminisce on high school days the bloodbath that used to precede examination periods comes top of the list. 

 

It used to be admirably crazy! 

People buried their foreheads in books. Some fell asleep next to books and some used them as pillows – well, I think, hoping osmosis would magically happen and they’d then wake up smarter than Einstein. Few renegades like me are the ones that found time to talk about girls and Chelsea – because both are great anyway. And don’t get me wrong here I lived for those days. The bloodbath days. This is when I because useful to everyone from cool kids to wanna-be cool kids and the comfortably and proudly dumberi kids. I would become like a ka-consultant explaining about moles and molar concepts, sines and cosines, why cold-hearted Odie never mourned his grandmother and why Wak was a prick for fleeing during war and how both lacked any Shreds of Tenderness, and things about ventricles and how Jesus heals the broken hearts. 

This was like meth to me or rather I got the vibe that Sherlock Holmes has when they tell him new dead bodies have been found. Invigorating!

But I never read much. I just knew those things because they were taught to me. Ok that’s a lie, I read my butt off just not as hard as most kids!

He’d ask, “Na wewe husoma lini?”

And I never had a definitive answer, “Mchana na sa zingine usiku”. Most of them were callous. Or sarcastic. 

“But si we hulala sana”. Erastus once told me.

Of course I used to sleep a little longer after the morning bell but hey a man needeth rest after those brain wrecking lessons about things I never asked to know about. Like who wants to know which ventricle pumps blood sijui to where? What if all I want in life is to be a fancy duck? Does a duck care about ventricles? Certainly not!

Those questions were from my form one mentee Erastus who I hope made it in life despite following my bad example. But I must reiterate that I wasn’t that bad. Ama what do you think? I mean I made it to the cream of the crop in my school, top in my village – standards were low there – and certainly almost top in the entire chain of villages two or three ridges away of where we lived –standards here were a little better than my village but again still low. And I sorta made it in life given I own some stuff here in Nairobi, about three sheep and a couple of cockerels in the village and the cashier at Equity Bank knows my name (I’ll edit this part when I make it for real).

Regardless, I was good in those things because I read them to pass and impress my old man and then go to college because they said there are pretty girls there and then to get money and wear #TMT hoods and wave to people from inside a V8 (then it was a Pajero but they aren’t fancy anymore) under my name. That’s pretty much it. 

PS: I have the TMT hood but not yet the V8. I’m taking donations. Ata I’ll take a used one if any of you want to upgrade to a Mercedez Maybach.

But there is one thing we had in common besides the pre-test bloodbaths – we rarely showered! (I can feel you’re already judging me but I’d wait if I were you). Why? You ask. Well because it was always freaking cold man. And I am determined to make a point and so I’ll say this, the only good thing about that place was the clean shots of happy trees under the morning fog that Mutua Matheka would consider orgasmic while pitching his photographic eye behind his heavyweight Canon camera. He’d have endless ‘In-the-wild’ shots that’d easily win you over as desktop wallpapers. (Ivy you need to check out this guy).

You know I have seen cold days in Nairobi. Today is particularly cold. And you should know this because you’ll hardly see those common belly buttons trotting down Moi Avenue or idling at Kenya Archives. They are hidden beneath impressive trench coats and meticulously knitted sweaters bought from ‘the guy’ at Ngara or Gikomba. Or Woolworths because not everyone cares about rational pricing nowadays. Talk of Kenya’s Yeezy collection! Actually at my financial state I can only buy a sweater at thao nne if it will also act as my PA on busy days and cuddle me on cold mornings.

I went to a high school in Kinangop. It gets as cold as twelve degrees there. That and the frozen water was more than enough reason to let the body clean itself naturally. See how you were wrong judging me? No? Okay try jump in the shower at 5 a.m. with water that spent the night outside and we’ll see if you’ll still remember your name after that. 

I was used to clenching teach beneath my boshori (Haha we used to wear those in form four – big baby style).

“What do you think of our school?” The principal asked me this one time I bumped into him behind the kitchen boiler. I was kinda new then.

“It sucks bigtime sir”. That’s what I thought of saying but instead I told him nice stuff he wanted to hear like how I loved (hated) waking up at 4.50 am to go read stuff I liked (hated) in the foggy weather.

Now Mr. Igogo if you’re reading this I have confessions to make. Firstly, that place direly needs heaters in classes, that’s why I lied when I said I enjoyed waking up early to go read. I mean nobody reads in such cold weather. Second those lunches are too heavy man! I haven’t forgotten those meditation sessions after lunch that almost made me a Buddha. Third, if you could be like Oprah Winfrey and get everyone a boshori that’d be awesome because someone stole mine this one time and I had to tie a kilemba for a whole week and you know I am not a mkorino. Never have been.

Now this article is beginning to suck because I loathe those imperfect memories.

Let’s talk something else. How are you guys fighting off the cold? Someone said such weather is survived in pairs. Like when one is making tea the other runs to get bread (this is a joke that has passed through all Kenyan WhatsApp groups including the one group I am in whose job is to notify us of developments in other groups that probably you’re in; yeah we are watching you guys). Or you’re using the usual method;

“Sasa”. The dude goes.

“Poa asana…niambie *smiley*”. The chic responds.

“Niko fiti. Ni baridi tu ndio mob *wink*”. The dude texts back.

I’m not sure how the script goes past that but you get it. 

CO - Words of Whimsy

And then there is the single’s battalion which I chair that has do to with lots of coffee and tea and trousers made from duvet materials. The number of clothes I wear to work nowadays can be used to start a ka-clothing stall downtown. If say I get kidnapped and end up in Zaire I will have enough stock on me to still make it big in life. Then you’ll see me in the papers or on the ‘daring abroad’ show having become a mtumba mogul by starting with a clothing stall and I will be married to a Zaire chic and you’ll say I am speaking with a funny accent because ata you don’t know the accent that Zaire people have. In short I carry a big part of my wardrobe with me nowadays. 

This is a good thing – the coffee part not the wardrobe – because I have ended up on a lot of ‘dates’ given there is no way I am drinking coffee alone there at Moca Loca with everyone staring pitifully. Now, I will marry you if you give me a call for a coffee date before July ends! There is this one I received on Wednesday;

Her: “Are you free we go for coffee in the afternoon?”

Me: (Wipes tear from check and stares in the sky and respond in a crackly voice) “I am always free”

Her: Are you crying?

Me: (Firmly) No. Ushai ona nikilia kweli? Niko na homa.

The date was heavenly.

(If you’re my friend and a random chic asks you if nilipona homa just say yes for me please).

Oh and if you’re a guy just hit me up we will go take calabash Uji at Highlands hotel and chat over football.

And before I go on, you people who go to places with sitting booths (which are a lot) and then sit alone in a booth and deny us who come in pairs space to chat peacefully your whip is being smeared with pepper by the devil. The whiplash will be heard by small boys all the way in Timbuktu and those grazing cattle in Morogoro.

Back to our story.

And I am not alone in the quandary of cold weather, I can count on all my fingers the people that I know are surviving on coffee and more coffee. Good thing is that over that Java double shot mug a flickering friendship is rekindled, over the Café Deli Dawa mug ending love is extended and over Uji in calabashes at Highlands business ideas are inspired. As we all chew on shiny sausages and crunchy samosas we extend more of ourselves to those around us. To the world. We are sharing the love and beating the cold.

We are being unfrozen by the love.