Yellow lights.

It’s hard to pee with a guy watching you, especially if you don’t know that guy and he weirdly resembles Indiana Jones but without the hat and the shady outfit. Would you pee in front of Indiana Jones? No? I didn’t think so either. Why am I realizing this now? Here is the story.

It had never occurred to me that peeing with someone watching is hard for me because, one, obviously, I would make no effort to pee in public with peeping toms all over if I had an option and second, we don’t go to washrooms to stare at people! Do we? Well, I wouldn’t do that unless I am super-duper pressed – the pee in public thing. Knees together pressed. 

But again, don’t get me wrong, I am not the kind of guy who whips out his dong in the middle of a bustling city and leans in on a lonesome back wall then walks away with a chest jutting out and whistling that annoyingly famous Bazokizo song. And what does, ‘Ilibidi niokoke ndio niwashe jiko’ mean? Anyone? 

Anyway, Nah, I don’t roll like that. I have decorum and because I’ll be a public figure someday – like and MCA; you know, one of those guys that fight with county assembly chairs, curse and call other members stupid pigs and steal our money –  and I wouldn’t want my son to read a story about me pissing on a wall in town. 

(I wouldn’t become an MCA though. Really). 

I have seen men and women do it, in public, but me? Nyet. Never. Ever. Ok, maybe once but it was kitambo and it was in the village and we can all agree that peeing in a shamba is like adding DAP fertilizer to the soil making the maize flap their wings with relish.

Childhood for me was riveted by a lot of idle time. we had too much time on our hands – our means every other tiny person in the village except Kevin because he had to grow up faster than his age to take care of his siblings – and because we never had PS4 consoles and FIFA or guts to throw tantrums at dad just to get the latest Mortal Combat; he’d skin you alive for tantrums just like any African dad solves kid issues, we found other hobbies. 

So, with the inestimable measure of time, we took up new activities every so often and those now make great memories. One of those was what I just said, taking a leak in the shamba because shambas were very far away from home and our tiny bladders could only hold in so much pee during the long trips back and forth. Sometimes we’d also defecate in the nearby forest just to help out the Nyayo government with global warming manenos by making trees grow alilo faster. Kuungana. Kufanya. Kusaidia. Kenya. And it felt good. Pooping with soft winds brushing against your butt cheeks and birds cheering you on. Magical. And Mzee Moi rewarded us with maziwa ya nyayo.

The story.

At TRM, there’s a cleaning guy that stands really close to the urinal because I guess his boss told him to because then if he were just trying to study people’s faces when they are doing their thing that would be really creepy of him. This particular day I was coming from town. A bit later than usual so my evening pee time had passed already. I was pressed. I made that walk cum run that pressed people do while squashing shoulders with mechanics sprawling the left-side walkway outside the mall’s gate, trying not to step over the laid-out merchandise that suspiciously good looking guys sell to USIU chics. Such a short distance can be astonishingly far when you need to go. I remember I literary run directly from the mathree to the washrooms. 

Thinking back, I was somehow all good while seated. Kwanza I found the first nose-ring that looked interesting to me. it somehow got the point home of why those things are supposed to be cool. There was this chile who sat beside me; hotter than Nairobi’s sun. She wore the nose ring and maybe that doesn’t matter much but just thought you should know it looked good on her. The ka-nose ring kinda intrigued me in that sense. Although I can’t marry someone with a nose ring ata kama I hear they breathe in more air than the rest of us and that could be a good thing. 

Yeah. So, I was good all the way but then as soon as my feet hit the ground I felt like I had no other choice than to let go right there and then. I chose to run.

I found the cleaning guy. He’s always there and I know this because I use TRM as my backyard. If you google random pics of that mall you’d sure see me in one. The guy stared as I did my thing and I looked right ahead distinctly; avoiding eye contact. Is it legal to even do that? To stare in that situation? I had to like look ahead for the nini to come flowing out. I like doing it privately. We all do, and hence my little rant. That’s where I had my epiphany sort of about peeing in front of an active onlooker. The guy eye-tailed me to the sinks and so just to annoy him I stayed extra-long at the hand dryer and made enough noise to annoy him. No regrets. 

End of pee manenos.

You could see the relief in my face as I walked out, not even walk, more like bounce out. Almost that feeling when you are driving – not a car – then you find a toilet or a bush. Nothing tops the deep breathe that surrounds the relief besides my imaginary tete-a-tete with a lover on a patio or balcony over a sundowner watching the sun disappear. 

Then I stepped out into the clear night sky of Nairobi. At this time of the year clouds usually hide and let the sun burn our foreheads with the valour of Zulu warriors or freshly cut Maasai men.

The nights are however better because stars are visible and it is just the right amount of cold to sit outside and watch miles of darkness without waking up with a croaky voice and a congested chest. 

Now, you have to understand that being a writer there are two things that keep me awake; the whizzing sounds of deadlines as they approach and the rush to taste life in the minute and in retrospect as I type words away. 

As I ambled out, I was stunned at the beauty in the skies; the lights fighting off the darkness and interlocking patterns of bright and dark patches made by the yellowish street lights. In that moment, I wanted to write. Words that stealth in on such occasions would take hours of staring at the wall to find. (Staring at the wall is a ‘fire’ move for writers).

The lights stared down at me as I went by, lost in thoughts and words throttling crazily in my head. I could hear my steps in the dark as my shoes fluffed and brushed off against the dusty pavements. I had happy thoughts. About the stars. Asking why they never use mutura on pizza but dare to use pineapples instead. Wondering if indeed mermaids are real? (I googled this later and they are actually not real). About girls. Good manly thoughts you know. I kept playing with the lights by stepping on and off the alternating dark patches and bright patches. I stepped over the bright ones and avoided the dark ones. Just in case the dark ones hid scary monsters beneath them. (I know what you’re thinking. No, I am not superstitious. A little paranoid maybe).

Few steps over and I got bored and reverted to walking like a normal person. Then in a dark corner, with a dwindled malfunctioning light, there was giggling, muffed out laughter, and coughing and the chocking smell of cigarettes. 

I wouldn’t have been bothered if it was a middle-aged man from an apartment in the vicinity blowing off steam whilst hiding from a nagging wife. I was bothered because the smokers were a pack of girls barely sixteen, or so I thought based on my degree in age determination and guessing. That’s my definition of a gore image. Small drunk people in crop tops (I finally know the name of those tiny things that leave the stomach out), pants that barely fit and big shoes smoking cigarettes. Gore not for the dressing but for the vanity in their behavior. The emptiness in their actions.

I swallowed hard at the thought of my daughter turning up that wicked. I could feel my heart in my shoes; it sank so deep. I know I am an irresponsible – considerably – young adult but then shit like that isn’t – shouldn’t be – funny to anyone. Nonetheless, I just did one more of those ‘wtf’ moments and like a domestic duck in an eerie forest river, I waded on. 

“Who watches over them?”, I kept probing in my head. As they puff the smoke into the darkness does it ride off with a part of their dreams? Do they have dreams?

At least I knew the lights would make it easy for them to find their way home. Their dark lungs would get to see another day. 

The lights definitely get everyone home in this big city.

Those big yellow lights.

Me as a Lifeist

I turned 25 on 21^st of January.

****

I threw a great party. Hit all the right spots for a millennial’s heated night. Weed. Alcohol. Women. A hired ‘DJ’ who’s actually a friend that is trying out DJ-ing as a career. He’s a self-appointed music connoisseur but his taste is still very rusty for a DJ. Everyone knows it but we don’t tell. At his age his ego is higher than a kite. The party was pretty wild. A tapestry of music, dancing and emotional outbursts. People wigged and jigged their bodies most of the night. We tasted the peak of zonked-out the whole of the week to follow. 

Party kicked off at about 10.00 pm. Dj Lee on the laptop playing every popular song he knows from Mugithi to EDM. The first hour was slow as low-slung chit chat bought time for intoxication to kick in. This only lasted until a quarter past 11.00 pm when it all span into a full-fledged house party. (When you hear someone break into a long ‘woo-hoo’ its normally the cue that its ‘bout’ to go down. A long ‘ye-aaaah’ also does the trick). It was music and booze all the way. 

Then came the frequent breaks where half-drunk friends signaled the DJ to turn the music because they had something ‘important’ to say. Of course, they had nothing important besides emotional reminiscence of pasts they barely remembered, saying “aki tumetoka mbali bro” and using the words “birthday boy” and “Yolo” in every second sentence. They swore a lot too. And there was a bit too much hugging. (I wonder how I got into bed with a lot of emotional drinkers). You all know the lads that are teary and all when they get to the third bottle.

The night grew older and we got turnt. 

My mans Kevo came in at around 1.00 pm and boy didn’t he bring life to the house. Kevo is the guy that always saves the day with a mzinga or its equivalents. He never fails the “changeni tushike mzinga” plots. That night he worked a night shift. He works a call centre in town and they have this crazy supervisor that shoves them into different shifts at will. I imagine he is the kind of boss that barks and employee fracas to a corner in terror.  I know you’re wondering how Kevo brought life to our already turnt night. Well, he brought weed. And not any weed but The Weed. 

You’ve got to know that in Nairobi, there different types of weed. There is normal joint and then there the stone stuff. One has stem and seeds in it and then one has plain cannabis leaves. Kevo knows the difference and the dealers like the back of his hand. Maybe even where it is grown. This makes him instrumental to the how high that we often get at parties. Better still he knows how to cure hangovers. A plus for every after-party recovery. I bet he could make a career out of it. So, he showed up with the ‘devils smoke’, as we since call the weed he brought. It took a few puffs passed around through kisses (weed people understand what I mean) and rolled up joints to get from in-door-sweaty-bodies-hands-in-the-air partying to rooftop-screaming-wailing-wriggling and passing out partying.

Over the calm night with warm winds you could hear us wail in the darkness. Miley Cyrus’ ‘We Don’t Stop’ blared from the house which now had all doors and windows open and we chanted along, like an anthem. 

“So la da di da di, we like to party, dancing with Maggy (actually its molly) …” 

We all shouted “Hell no!” in unison at the “…if you’re not ready to go home can I get a hell no..” part. 

I felt like a god. We all did. I mean who cares if we were making noise for the neighbors? That was least of our worries. We just wanted to go on forever. Lost in a daze of exciting insanity. The last thing I recall is pointing and counting lights afar off at what I think was about 2.30 pm. They sang a blurry happy birthday song to me and we wailed along to Nyash’s Mungu Pekee. The chorus mostly. After that, I’d be lying if I say I had any recollections. A mystery how I woke up from the bed on Sunday noon. Although Kevo keeps bragging of how he saved me from a night in the cold by dragging me all the way to the house as I kept yelling at him about why people need to fear God. I don’t believe his story.

My house got trashed. Houses get trashed after wild parties, right? Wrong! They get disorganised. You wake up to find things in shamble. Plates on couches, disposable cups all over the place, one broken glass beneath the bathroom sink, a wig on the carpet and maybe a soda stains of the carpet. That’s shambles. But trashed is different. I know this because that is what I woke up to on the noon of Sunday 22^nd January. 

Let’s start with the painful one, my smart TV was shattered. Moh, the ex-girlfriend to Dan, Kevo’s cousin, and I think current girlfriend to Chudex (there’s a guy we call that because it’s all he does), apparently was fighting another chic that came with Kate, a former gym colleague (I quit because gyms are lame), because the chic spilled Vodka on her. She threw a bottle at her and it missed and hit my baby. I have been watching movies on my laptop since Jan. 

The spilled Vodka ended up on my couch too and guess whose house has been smelling of Vodka ever since. I will avoid mentioning the number of vomit spots that I counted all over the place. Then there is the shoe in my fridge. A fucking shoe in the fridge! Nobody knows how it got there but Kate swears I put it there while trying to hold open the fridge’s door as my innovative solution to cooling down the house. 

“But si I have a fan for that!”, I told her.

“Ulisema fan iachwe ilale”. I could only respond with a “hmm”. 

Worse still the fan was on and the fridge open, ledged with a broom, the entire night till I woke up.

Perhaps at this point I should tell you the crew that slept over. Biggest number I have hosted yet. Lexi and her chics all slept in the sitting room. She tagged along three of her friends and since nobody was there to drive them home and they were too drunk to be passengers for an Uber leave alone to find their way home, Kevo insisted they stay till morning and by morning I mean noon because we somehow partied till 3.30 pm and woke up at noonish. There is Kate, Mike, Mose, Kach, Miguel (real name being Mbogo), Nyash (not the musician but short for Onyango), Stano, Caro (I have a thing for her), Moreen and Lydia (despite the fact that she lives one floor below me). A big crew you can tell. They made a mess trying to fix breakfast and made sure everything in the kitchen was dirty. Everything. 

Only the door was locked when I woke up and I could feel my throat being tormented by the cold air. Actually, I never knew if it was the cold or the alcohol or both. The toilet’s flush system was broken and I was out of toilet paper. The air inside there was worse than the ten bob public restrooms in town. I couldn’t find the air freshener although I later saw it on the rooftop cut in half. I had nothing edible in the house by the time the sleepover crew were done with breakfast at lunch. An empty food shelf and water as the only drink is a sign of a crowded party. The trashing bit is completed by the hole in the long couch which Stano made to hide weed when a neighbour threatened to call the police over the noise. How ingenious of him!

****

I know my friends reading this story are palming their faces and wondering where I lost it in life. Well, deep breathes everyone, I have not turned into a party animal or anything the story above professes. That’s creative writing. Of course, I turned 25 but that’s it. Okay and maybe I am a tad irresponsible than most of you but it has always been like that. And those that disagree to this it’s cool too. I am the good person you know. 

I creatively wrote this inspired by my neighbors that throw such parties, I turn in bed at 3 am and I can hear young women wail and shout over loud music from afar. Does that bother me? Only if it disturbs my sleep. Typical millennial birthdays go down like this. I have seen someone who got too drunk that they had to lay in the sun shirtless to detox their body. Or just for the fear of dying, I am not sure. Do I differ from my generation? No. Would I do the same stuff for a party? Nyet. (I have standards, a faith and morals and don’t do drugs). 

Actually, I wouldn’t want a party. I never had a party because 25 came as a reminder that I have very few years left to be irresponsible. I can chase girls around, decide to do nothing all day and complain that I am tired at the end of it, eat one type of meal until I feel my body begging for something else, waste my money better than the government wastes our taxes, refuse to listen to people, stay out late and suffer the consequences in delight but only for so long.

In the meantime, I have decided to be a lifeist. How? I am making a to do list of scary things. Imma do those things and well see where I land next. 

This journey has to be worthwhile.