Vicissitudes are life. This I promise.

I have once not paid fare in a jav. Okay, done that more than once but I’ll just tell you about this one. I was headed to the office, it was a chilly morning and not particularly interesting. You know those mornings you wake up and take forever to get ready. You rummage through stuff to wear and trip over nothing – literally. Like the carpet just goes out of its way to catch your feet and wreck your toes. That’s of course after you’re done lying flat on the bed and contemplating whether you actually need work in your life. Si after all you can just go be a nomad and eat wild fruits as you herd people’s cattle somewhere in Maralal. But then you are really not cut out to be a wild herder so you just swallow hard and drag yourself to the shower. You encourage yourself that it won’t always be like this. That things will change. Or you will change things. You know, find a career that allows you to watch movies on Monday mornings as your peers struggle to stay awake on crowded jams on their way to offices they detest where they barely make enough money.

So, in the jav, the concodi did not ask for fare until when I alighted – this is not the usual case and so my natural instinct was to insist I paid him because I genuinely thought so. And I did so in a crude way because I shouted with a distinctive tone. With finality. Making him doubt himself and assume I paid. Then barely three steps late as I crossed the road, I fumbled over my trouser pockets and alas! The forty bob I had carried as fare was still there. Mixed reactions bequeathed me in that moment.

Did I just walk away with someone’s money? And bruised their heart while at it? Or did I just earn back all those overpaid fares in different javs? To hell with that guy?  Pay next time I see him? Haidhuru?

That incident has never left me. Still haunts me. (While some dimwits steal our billions and still find a way to sleep at night! – and only me and Boniface Mwangi seem to be fighting back and Chief Kariuki too).

I have written about it because yesterday I was – kupunga hewa in English – on our rooftop. Sitting on a three-legged plastic chair. Minding my own business. Cutting down my model-ish nails. Then I raise my head and this kid is staring at me. He was not just doing a normal stare, he looked at me like he knew all my sins. Made me feel as if he knew I walked away without paying fare from a jav. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. Like explain myself and stuff. I just thought I should write about it and make you feel bad for all those times you didn’t pay fare too. Yeah, I know you have done it too. It’s not right.

Anywho, that’s beside the point. 

That kid was riding a small DMX bike, just small enough for him. And after he was done staring at me of course he went ahead to riding as if nothing happened. 

And by the way, in my moments of keeping up with kids, I have reason to believe they can decide to gaze at you with piercing eyes without flinching. They could be tapping their feet, deliberately, or solving a rubrics cube but still stare.

Picture this. You go to church on a happy Sunday in November. You sit in the middle of the congregation because you are an average believer. That means you don’t sit at the front because you want to watch the action from a distance and again you don’t sit too much far behind because you feel those seats are for people who come in just for appearances. But then, as you sit in the middle, in front of you is a family of four. A mom. A dad. A suckling boy and a girl that should be at the kindergarten age. That girl will be your nightmare for the rest of the service. She is the girl that will stare at you with a blank face all through.

So you pray and she is staring. You say words and her stare answers you back.

You: “Good lord I am grateful for the gift of life”,

Her stare: “Oh really! Are you grateful weird dude?”

You: “And I thank you for my family and friends”,

Her stare: “Yeah? Do you even call you mom anymore? And what friends? You barely talk with them.”

You: “Thank you for my country Kenya too.”

Her stare: “Ha! You didn’t even vote last time. Are you even Kenyan weird guy?”

You: “Today I repent for all my sins. Forgive me father”.

Her stare: “Sure. You better say sorry for the fare thing!”

You: “This I pray and believe”.

Her stare: “That’s it? Huh? You won’t even repent for the yogurt container you threw from the jav?”

By the time you get off church you’ll be sure to mark where the kid sits next time before settling down.

Anyway the kid on the rooftop rode in circles, then unfortunately hit on a corner and bumped his full weight on the concrete floor. I told him men don’t cry but he went ahead and cried. Which is okay because he is a little man and little men can cry.

This whole article was written because like that kid’s ride, vicissitudes are life.

It doesn’t matter the period. Day. Week. Month. Quarter. Year. Decade. It happens. One season you are on your bike. You ride fast and firm with the wind blowing over your hair making you feel good and all. You wave at us as we cheer your progress. Another season finds you fallen. Your bike hit a bump and you lost control and you’re lying head over gravel possibly writhing in pain. Crying as people try to tell you not to cry.

I hate for my posts to sound like life skill pieces off a therapist’s desk because I am no expert in life but then I can tell stories. Because stories are born from life. And stories give patterns.

I grew up somewhere I the rift. A place called Timboroa. I wrote about it some time ago. A quiet town, few people, vast forests and events for days. Every village has its elites and so did Timboroa. Not that elites there mean more than owning a car and affording daily meat bites but then it was the 90s and those were a big deal when the rest of us could barely travel more than once a month to the big town of Eldoret with public means. My father is a teacher and so like the rest of the middle class working citizens he would up and go to the town on paydays and once in a while if we needed something not within the confines of Timboroa. Or when my teeth raised hell for all the sweets I ate and we had to see Mr Dentist at Barng'etuny Plaza.  Which was rare anyway. So again elites were elites because they owned a car, a shop, a wholesale shop, a ‘god papa’ hat – whatever than name meant – which is similar to the one every Kikuyu musician wears to a video shoot. And because they went to the town perhaps thrice a week. Too often.

One such guy was known as Gakere – not sure of the name juu it’s been years. He owned a wholesale and retail store. A number of cars. The 90s sedans. A truck and had more money than a whole village could borrow in a month. Gakere was a supermarket cum bank for us. He kept a borrowing book at the counter where people’s names lay besides owned money for Kimbo, Kiberiti za Rhino, Unga, Sukari ya kupimwa and what not. 

I still picture that guy with his big belly trotting around the hood with his arrogance trying to keep up behind him. Yani he was arrogant enough to throw your order right at you. Like you order salt and he throws a packet at your face just because he could.

But then karma caught up with him.

He got broke. Not fast. Slowly. Like a migraine happening. His wealth wafted off with the winds.

He was left with nothing but tales of riches. Tales that we heard over and over again. Tales that will break hearts of his children.

His downturn of fortune was bitter.

Of course there are time when mutuality happens for good. Like our neighbor who lived in abject lack. Her son, Kimani, in his grind he got a way into the UN. Went to the infamous Somalia. His fortunes grew. Riches begged him to let them in and he did. He bought his mama a car. Then built a house. And in equal measure his wealth grew slowly and firmly.

Men will tell tales of success and of failure and will boast of their conquests as they hide their wounds and make it look easy. They will want to wipe off the blood and keep the smile. But entrenched within these tales are vicissitudes that you may never hear of. Or see.

The only consolation is that we pray to the good Lord that when it is our turn to be moved by the twisting kaleidoscope of life, we shall end up with lives flashy enough for social media. And in time we embrace stoicism and resign to the higi haga’s of life as they come through from the divine world.

The wise men, the Greek philosophers say, live in harmony with the divine. With the vicissitudes of life.

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.