Ripped Jeans and Movies

Courtesy of Ali express

I recently bought a pair of ripped jeans. This happened when I showed up for a look-see session at my clothes guy. 

First off, all of you guys should know you need to have a clothes guy. A guy to keep you looking like a million dollars even when you can barely afford those Umoja slippers. The guy can also be a lady. A lady like Shiku who has a shop at Ronald Ngala and who I stopped visiting once she started selling those shirts that come in batches of a million and every Nairobian seems to have one. I don't buy such anymore since me and my future girlfriend agreed that the only time I can be in uniform is when in a choir garb singing Kumbaya with my angelic voice. 

Now, I really didn’t go there intentionally (not at Shiku’s, at the other guy’s shop). Rather, I was looking for a banking agent and in the process I thought why not say hi to Mr. Clothes.

“Karibu mzeiya, leo kuna mali kali” – he always says this. “Umepotea sana.”

“Napitia tu leo” - I’m giving a heads-up the only thing I’ll buy there is time (I was mistaken!)

So I scan through. He shows me shirts and we get on the usual ‘I don’t like it’ ride; 

“Zi, hii ni bright sana inakaa madem”.

Another one, “Ona sasa, hii inaweza shona shati zingine mbili bana”. 

Him “Si ulibeba kama hii last time?” - he remembers things I buy awfully well.

Me, “achana na hio, nataka kitu different”.

Another one and another one and another one;

No – “boss hio imejaaa maua maua”, 

Nope – “hii inakaa zile za Kibaki na Uhuru”, 

No – “hio ni ya mababa”.

He’s a patient guy. We go through the entire collection – literally. And onto trousers;

He goes, “Uko na rugged jeans?”

Me, “Apana. Siwezi buy kitu ishararuka”. I mean would you? We both laugh. Then I seriously think. Why don’t you have ripped jeans Wesh? The ka-voice in me that perfectly knows my bank balance but ignores it insists I get one. I take a moment to convince myself about the ‘work hard play hard’ thingie we all use as a free-pass to spend money extravagantly. That ka-thing is even there in French  - my mother tongue, just so you know; 'huthira beca ikumenyere' which loosely translates to 'use money until it gets comfortable with you' or something of that sort. It comes in pretty handy when you've used up all the monthly entertainment budget but you still want to squeeze in some Sunday afternoon guilty-ridden--because-you're-overspending chicken wings. Also when you want to buy ripped jeans on a random day.

I gulp and ask “hizo rugged ni how much?” The price wasn’t that bad for normal dad-like pants but bad for a torn pair of pants. By this time Mr. Clothes had talked me into trying on a pair – grayish. The tilapia-skin kind of grey. They did fit well. And they were pampers-level comfy. I legit felt them cuddle my legs. Two minutes later I’m standing by his mirror with a black and white pair of Airmax sneakers (these should be categorized as high heels for men) and the cuddly grayish rugged jean pants and a slim fit shirt that Mr. Clothes convinced me was by and Italian designer (I just kept telling him it was his ploy to gonga me out of my had earned browns). 

You should’ve seen me! I looked like akina Kendrick Lamar. I could’ve passed for an accomplished platinum name-on-billboard rapper with several awards to his name, a bulldog, a condominium in Abu Dhabi, a mansion in Beverley Hills and a beach house by the Caribbean islands. I looked all uptown and progressive. By the way when I get rich I will start a Mutura joint under my name and mention it in all media interviews I go to because I feel we don’t appreciate Mutura people for all the finger-licking 20-bob pieces we swallow every evening. 

I’ll be like “Yeah, I own a Bentley, 10,689 Acres in Rift Valley na base moja ya Mutura pale Ngara.” 

“Zinakutoa fiti” – Mr. Clothes quipped as he punched figures into his scientific calculator. Yeah, he has a scientific calculator - like he needs to find the Cosine of the prices. Lakini I figured out it might the one he used in high school and brought it in as an asset to the business - declared under fixed assets in his balance sheet. He has this Karatasi brand note book that he meticulously tucks between a pile of branded t-shirts and ladies tops and on which he scribbles things on after every sale and I'd bet there is a balance sheet in there. “How much?” I asked. His next statement had me remove all of those Kendrick Lamar stuff and put on my – what now seemed like Mjengo overalls – clothes. I wanted to leave but my guy (the clothes guy, not what you think – I’m into chics only) insisted I get the jeans and after the “nitakufanyia poa” higi haga (I've always wanted to use this phrase when writing!) I bought them. Oh, I bought the shirt too.

I hope I remember to carry these rugged jeans home when I visit my folks. I know it will be interesting. 

“Hizo jeans zako zilifanya nini kwa magoti?” My mom will ask. 

“Nilinunua hivo”, I’ll say. 

She’ll seem not to believe me and then probably in her mind question my ability to spend money rationally. I’ll sit with her outside the house and as we remove maize from cobs (is there a word for this in English?) convince her why ripped jeans are life for young people and that they are trendy and that they are made like that and they’re all cuddly and comfy. She’ll object and say that she does not see why anyone would buy torn clothes at all . Then we’ll talk about why I stayed so long without visiting.

My father wouldn’t care much. Rather he will but won’t say much. 

“Hii ndio fashion ya watu wa Nairobi?” 

“Eee hizi zimekua fashion tangu kitambo” – I’ll say.

I’m sure he will be proud of me. He will remember the 70’s when he was all young and exuberant rocking an Afro and bell-bottomed pants with those high-heeled shoes they used to wear. He will relate and know I am not lost, that I am just young and finding my way. He’ll be happy because he will have raised a chap that can only be arrested for dressing to kill. We will then talk politics and who will win the 2017 general elections. We will sneer at leaders that loot our country then be proud of our athletes’ performance at Rio. I will remind him that white people have gone crazy over our national anthem and he’ll be exhilarated because he lived through the Maumau era. He will tell me about the struggle for independence as we drink lots of tea and listen to crickets chirping incessantly outside. A couple of storied later midnight will rudely interrupt and he’ll pray for people and things and then we will retire to our beds. Happy over ripped jeans and our athletes.

Now that I’ve talked of upcountry, maybe you should know that for me this is a guilty-free place. All I do there is eat and watch TV series. No curious neighbors wondering whether you brought someone over and left them in the house or prying eyes of the landlord wondering whether you’ve been fired. Oh, and “Niko ocha” is all you need to tell people and they leave you alone. You eat and watch. It makes me feel young again (young means prolly 15 years).

So here’s my advice, buy a pair of ripped jeans and go upcountry. Go be young. Don’t grow up too fast aye.

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.