Church: Because I am Broken

Are you broken too?

Courtesy of Klear

Picture me in church. The guy wearing a checked shirt with Khaki pants. Of course they’re matching or are they? Let’s settle on I think they are matching. And I have loafers on. Let’s talk about loafers kidogo. I have come to adore loafers recently. See with loafers you can simply slide them on without socks and it is still a kickass, probably outdated, fashion statement. And besides if you wear socks with loafers it looks weird unless you have Larry Madowo’s happy socks. Donning loafers with socks is how people in ‘Nyairofi’ tell you grew up in ‘Karima Mutiume’. And this is so because people in shagz dress in the look-at-me-I-don't-live-in-the-city way and I know this because I was brought up in ushago and I am different because the ways of the city accepted me. I became one of the city people. I changed my ways. I was turned. Does that sound like a script in an alien movie? Anywho, when I go back to ushago greet mzee and maitu heads turn my friend. Women murmur low-key about me – the kamwana who went to the big city all slim and naive and now has chubby cheeks and confidence from here to Timbuktu. I don’t know how they feel about that. Girls stare at me too. To them I am an icon of fashion and  progressive lifestyle. They tell their boyfriends to be like me. Should I vie for a political seat? Yes?

Hyperbole aside, on a normal weekday in karima mutiume you can easily get away with wearing boxers over your pants, Spiderman style. Nobody really cares. And in karima mutiume once they get wind of a ‘new’ fashion – which probably will be a year later – everyone rocks the same attire. There’s this Y person I was reminding of the karima mutiume guy starter pack; a red cap probably written ‘Chicago bulls’ (replace that with the De Matthew cowboy hat for the case of village elites), a SAVCO or equally branded jeans trouser, a pair of fake brown timberland boots, a big belt with Chuck Norris embedded on the buckle, jacket ya pumzi (what are those called in English?) and a shirt. The shirt part is hard to describe but there are usually those shirts that come in batches of a million and so every other guy has one. Yes those ones. That’s the starter pack.

Of course there are alternatives. You can choose to wear a suit. But village suits are different. They are shiny and baggy. Everyone seems to have a suit two sizes larger. Its how it has been from ancestral times. A well kept tradition. Only city-coined 'renagades' run away from it. The trousers are especially very large - the kind that can be used to make two pairs for Nairobi people. "Filthy children!", a church elder would say, "Wearing pants that barely fit them". Which is true to some extent. Now because there are not that many people over there, when Kimotho, the tailor buys a huge piece of sewing material, it means that at least 10 people will end up with the same kind of suit, with only the size being different. But they won’t care. Matching suits somehow tickle their happiness.

Ok, I am diverging too much. Back to loafers.

So on those mornings – which happen to be very frequent – when I’m late and don’t have time to get the wardrobe together I just slip them on and off I go. Just like that. Loafers are life man. PS: Putting my wardrobe together means finding a clean pair of socks.

Now back to the church story

I am standing there – sixth seat from the right and the fourth row from the front. One hand is up in the air – upper than usual. This is after I have lifted both for some time and I have to take one down to avoid severe exhaustion. And also to conserve energy just in case Pastor Ken wants us to lift them up again. He does that a lot. One hand up takes half the energy. You also need to know that I did not eat a full breakfast and so I am a little famished and drained too. Why? Because it’s Sunday. What happens on Sunday you ask? Hold that thought right there, we’ll come back to that.

So I am there, closing my eyes, its dark, and tears are edging at the corner of my eyes. I am not the teary type. Okay hold on, I know I am adding too much stuff in between but I have to let you know the only other time I tear is when cutting damn onions! But I am getting me a helmet for that which I’ll dispose off as soon as I get a bae to cut onions for me. So I am not tearing over damn onions or lost Sportpesa bets or a cold heartless dimwit that walked out of my life. No, I am soaking in worship. It’s that segment in church for kutendereza - I like the word tendereza by the way - sounds solemn and all. I am praying. Deep stuff. I even say ‘shabalabala canter njeru’ somewhere inside that prayer. It feels good. I am alilo in the spirit if you know wharamean. 

Courtesy or Relevant Church

Today I am seated next to Pastor Sang – he’s a prayerful guy. A really loud prayerful guy. And he is very straight with God. He says stuff to Him aggressively and punches his palm to make points. So when I sit next to Sang, I also get tempted to be loud. I say amen to some of his points so that God will answer to both of us. Let’s call that prayer diversification. I am not sure if Sang listens to what I pray about. I sure hope he doesn’t because I do pray about girls and last I checked Sang has a wife. Well we don’t want him polygamous do we? Not with all these prayers at stake!

Maybe God likes his zeal. Maybe He looks forward to listening to Sang’s prayers on Sunday mornings. I can imagine the conversations that take place on Sunday mornings in heaven.

Gabriel: (to God) Sang is here. He’s really praying.

God: Sang my guy! I like him. What does he want?

Gabriel: (gets a list) He is praying for peace in Kenya. They fear that Alshabab will do something crazy again. For a car, for rent money, for the CJ, for Duale, for Moses Kuria, for Duale again and rent again.

God: Not the lame Alshabab guys again. Ebu confuse them. Alafu give Sang rent money too and sober up Duale and Moses Kuria! Jeez those two need to get their acts together! Everyone is praying about them!

Gabriel: And Wesh is here too.

God: Oh, I like Wesh. Is he wearing those cool khaki pants again? Of course he is. He’s slaying much nowadays. So what does Wesh want?

Gabriel: (After listening to me for 10 minutes). He’s praying over girls again! He says he wants a bae.

God: But we gave him a bae last week and the week before that. What happened?

Gabriel: (Rolls eyes) I know. He has been curving them. The one for last week he says she talks too much.

God: Smh. Does he even need a bae now? (Checks my heart for the truth). Lol….see here Gabriel (pointing at my open heart), Wesh just wants someone to help him cut onions!

Gabriel: (Indignant look) Do we give him a bae?

God: No. Give him money for a helmet.

Gabriel: No bae? He’s your son!

God: Duh! I know he is and I know him better than anyone. No bae for now. Just a helmet.

Lets back up to why I am doing this.

“Na usisahau kuomba”. That’s how regular conversations with my mum over the phone end. She’s sweet. Never shouts over the phone. Never grumbles too. So it’s hard to ignore her request. When she asks me to pray I really have to. She says it’s for my sake and I believe her. God knows I am the chief of sinners. I am broken. Under heavenly receivership. That’s why I show up to church on Sundays. Why I care to pray every other day. Why I read the bible even when its talking about cubits length and more cubits in width. Even when it talks of people who begot other people who begot other people.

Wait, there’s the part where I don’t eat breakfast on Sunday. That is mostly because I trade it for 30 more minutes of sleep. You can never sleep enough man. So I am always on a rush on Sunday mornings to get up, shower in like zero time, slide in those cool khaki pants that God likes and loafers and to get to church. So I show up to church to talk to God and hear from Him and get unbroken, become His masterpiece and not be under receivership here (read Chase bank manenos) and there in heaven. It’s also sorta cool that God likes me and you know we have had this thing going on for some time and I cannot like let Him down. And I love being in church on Sundays. It just feels right.

Why do you go to church?

Intoxicated; The Tale Of Love And Life

Intoxicated

Don’t you just love how we fall in love? It’s mysterious. Like the way we fall asleep – slowly then all at once; John Green’s words not mine. 

Our scathed reality slowly ushers in a fantasy; a lustrous moment that takes our breath away. Literary so if you’re into a plus-size beauty and you want to sweep her off her feet. I am willing to bet that those castle-in-the-sky moments are why people in love do crazy things. 

Things like staring at each other's eyes. Well because on a normal day I’d hardly stare at any eyes; not man eyes and not woman eyes either, I simply look at people’s eyes. You look at people’s eyes when talking to them, its courteous to, but you stare when you’re in love.

At that point when you’re the only rose in someone’s garden little else matters. Dudes become generous because of love. You’ll see Kinuthia, with all his stingy behavior agree to buy ‘Felly Fun’ roasted maize with the pilipili thing they smear on it. And both of them will be happy. She’ll giggle incessantly as they walk and disappear into the sunset. Kinuthia won’t feel cheated off his money. 

He’ll push her all the way to her home, two, maybe three ridges away, get a peck on the cheek (in the village they don’t really kiss but the peck is an equivalent, it will make even his toes tingle with excitement) and he’ll sleep under the stars in his Thingira a happy lad. He’ll look for more money to spend on her tomorrow.

It’ll feel Christmas; exhilarating. He’ll say he feels funny about Felly Fun – because they don’t have a word for goosebumps in Kikuyu.

And about the lemon and pepper stuff that people smear on roast maize, isn’t that slightly unhygienic? There is this day I was chatting up a maize roasting guy, do we have a name for them? To pass time as I waited for one of those friends that tell you ‘nipee five minutes’, turn up 30 minutes late and the first thing they say is ‘sijakaa sana. Sindio?’ 

So at the maize guy, five heads bought maize. Each squeezing the lemon piece with pepper (or whatever the red stuff is anyway) and running it, slowly – some did it fast, against the maize. How many hands? Five damn hands. Say one hand has shaken another 10 hands since morning – it was around 3pm – the total hands that will have touched that lemon will be fifty. Fifty!! I suggest that if you can’t go without roast maize, like if you’re crazy in love with roast maize, maybe deworm often. But again what do I know, akina Kibet have been eating those things since time immemorial and they’re still fine.

But Kinuthia and Felly Fun won’t mind the roast maize or the lemon thing, they’re in love. It is part of the daze of love. And before I forget, there is that weird thing I read at Biko’s where he christened a chic as ‘Freaky Fiona’. Isn’t that a weird pet name? Freaky Fiona would do weird things to his guy during copulation (don’t mind the choice of words, I am on a mission to make use of the stuff I learned in high school and that I can’t apply anywhere else, like the word copulation). But still Freaky Fiona? No. I think I will have to chose the pet name my missus will be calling me.

So speaking of a missus let me handpick one love story of my life. There’s this girl who I knew back in the day. Disclaimer here, back in the day can be any time between the third Saturday of Feb, 2005 and four years ago. I don’t want my sister who mysteriously found my blog to try time-guessing this.

So I was in my teens and with all my exuberance I only understood somewhat like twenty percent of what love entails. Thought I was a Mutahi Ngunyi of love though. Choosing a girl then was easy. The only (sloppy) standard I had was that she looks good - physically. And the loving I knew was easier; simply write to her as often as the meager pocket money I had from mzee allowed for postage expenses. I was a good writer. Splendid at drafting those ‘top-notch’ letters that made me more than Suzy’s Cupcake, I was her Kikuyu Shakespeare. Yeah she was called Suzy. No freaky pet name. We never had such then.

Here is a rare extract of my prowess

Dearest Suzy,

With love from my heart, I pick my golden pen from the basket of love to write to you this letter. I hope this letter finds you in the best of health as bestowed to me and you by the gods of love.

Time and capacity have teamed with ability and enabled me to jot something down on this *benedicted sheet of paper. ……..I want to say I love you spontaneously and continuously. Like the flow of Sagana river. ………. How my heart beats when I see you puts Tom Tom drum players in South Africa to shame. The other day I saw you and my metabolism stopped. I couldn’t eat even meat which I like a lot…….I want to marry you Suzy and have beautiful, chubby kids…..

Blah blah blah

So I have edited it a little bit but you get the gist. 

Then right about the end would be some song dedication from Westlife, Boys to men, Nsync, Iglesias, Keysha, and other musicians we fancied then. Before sealing the letter we’d apply cologne to it – just so she is sure it’s from you. Remember that vibe of I love the smell of your perfume? Yah that kinda stuff

I thought I’d marry Suzy. Seriously. But then on this other funkie I met a ‘rangi ya thao’ Caro with all the dimples, the perky chest, the bum and the gorgeous eyes. Okay lets back up to the eyes. She had those sensual and alluring eyes that you could see through to her heart but also carried some hint of mischief. I went Kinuthia on feelings; no English words kapsaa. Even love-struck isn't the word.

I leaned on the Kigo guy, my wing-man. Kigo was one of those guys from Murang’a with a heavy accent but big hearts. He had these endless stories that were centered on a certain river in their village and his journeys to and fro school in Tulaga buses. Most were unbelievable but interesting. He used to lie. He actually had twice the number of stories as the commutes he’d made. But I never cared; the best of wing-men are good liars. And the only other place Kigo had been to beside Murang’a was Kinangop. Such a tourist. Oh and he loved Ovacados too. They somehow soothed his failed attempts at bagging chics.

But me I bagged Caro. It didn’t take long to get her to converse;

Me: So, dimples yeah?

Caro: Huh?

Me: I like dimples. Dimples are pretty.

Caro: Me too, know anyone who has them? Ebu smile I see if you have them.

Me: Ha, I already like you. You’re funny. (She was funny or prolly the dimples were just distracting)

Caro: So what’s your project about? (It was a science congress)

Me: People with dimples (You can’t let such a conversation digress to boring science stuff, I’d have let down my ancestors)

Caro: C’mmon, enough with the funny stuff. Seriously, what’s your project about?

Me: There’s more funny where that funny came from.

I said a whole lot more stuff here and so fast forward to the point she guffawed, somewhat, and then we stared a bit. Love staring.

Caro’s eyes somehow convinced me she was the one. She was way cooler than Suzy. Like a long way cooler. She had this weng in her voice that I’d make Bruno Mars kind of sacrifices just to hear. I’d fight John Cena for her, ata kill Mufasa the lion. She even came from Nairobi man. And Nairobi was a synonym of all things cool. We got along mostly because I never had the accent from Mount Kenya and I made her laugh.

And just like that I forgot about Suzy. I got my epiphany moment way after Caro and I were no longer a thing. I realized I wasn’t shit when it came to love (excuse my French). I was just on a teenage roller-coaster of emotions. That was never love it was the opposite, your fall in all at once and then out slowly.

There always came a better one. Like those Rongai Nganyas.

Of course love is more sophisticated now. There are these crazy standards, the inner beauty thing, dines and wines at fine restaurants, regular trips to Galitos and Pizza Inn and KFC and Java and Café Deli and other fancy places. And akina Suzy and Caro are now different. They have more leverage now to deny ‘entering the box’. They have a job, prettier faces; smeared with lip gloss and massacre (there this kid I know who calls Mascara that) and lip stick, bums sticking out and all. 

I bet they would literary make you walk a wire to become their Bean-in-Githeri now.

Regardless, love is what it is. We can’t refuse to stare at each other’s eyes sometimes. We all get that Suzy or Caro or Freaky Fiona that drive us crazy. The one that, in the words of Idibia, will make you float like a pot upon the Nile (Confession; I did serenade another one of akina Suzy with this Jam, It was lit I’m telling you, we even nini’d).

In good and bad ways and big and small ways, we fall in love; we get intoxicated. 

Love is intoxicating.