Faces of the City

One of those hella long days that suck the soul out of you. I am leaning on a family bank ATM door somewhere along Tom Mboya Street. No one goes in or out of the ATM for a while and so I don’t have to move. There’s too much activity around. Concodis shouting themselves hoarse, hawkers sprawling everywhere, young exuberant Nairobians trotting home from work or school or wherever they spent their day, beggars making the best of the rush hour traffic. I notice all these, but I also don’t. 

I was waiting for Mathree, two came and went but I never boarded because I loathe pushing and grabbing just to secure a seat – too much work. I also don’t want to queue because Kenyans voted and agreed queues suck bigtime. If you wait long enough the crowd always recedes before it builds up again and that’s how you secure a seat without breaking a sweat.  

I momentarily became oblivious as my mind wandered off to Shangri-La sorta places. Then I slowly fell into the realisation that I was staring at a particular face. It was a young woman in what I’d imagine was her mid-twenties. She was standing to my left, sturdily putting her weight against a power pole behind her. I should have been staring at her for an embarrassing amount of time. I didn’t care though – it was unintentional. I feigned a smile just to brush off the awkwardness. It was another one of those make-up faces. Now, was she offended? Was she amused? Hard to figure out as her face remained emotionless. She didn’t look away; she kept staring back as if she were studying the contours on my face, or communicating a secret NASA message by blinking occasionally, or almost the I-know-you stare, it got uncomfortable. I wanted to look away, or to tell her to stop. I also wanted to touch her face with my fingertips; to see how deep the make-up ran. I wanted to rub her eyebrows off and see if they’d come off. I wanted many things.

Sitting by the window in this loud city bus cruising at ungodly speeds along Thika Super Highway, other than say little silent prayers every time I heard an engine rumble signifying more acceleration, I couldn’t help imagine what I would say to her. Not that I wanted to but what would I actually say if my knee-jerk reaction was to make conversation? Hey, can I touch your face? Nice to meet you and your face? I swear I wasn’t staring at your face? Nice face? Is it actually legal to tell someone nice face? Like nice face buddy? I don’t know but sounds like something a face collector would say! But then my chest stiffened with certainty. I had the answer. I knew I wouldn’t ask anything because I am painfully awful with first impressions. I remember the first time I met someone that made my heart happily skip a beat. The context doesn’t matter but whatever I was doing I reversed and stepped right on her about three well-manicured small toes with my then newly-bought Timberland boots (Oh the swag days!). 

“Sorry”, I said. 

“Ouch, ouch, OUCH!”

“Aki pole”, I said again after realising I was still stepping on her despite saying sorry. 

“Nice sandals”, I added for no apparent reason.

“Kwenda uko!” she looked down, “Aki umenitoa nyama”. She exaggerated it of course.

I didn’t say much afterwards because I would be making it worse.

See bad with first impressions.

I am starting to wonder whether I am still writing about faces of the city. Let’s go back to that.

Now, Dames en heren, this write is because I have seen my fair share of incongruous faces in this town. I beg to ask what did make up do to us?

See that chic I was staring at earlier on? Let’s name her Anastacia. Her make-up was terrible.

I wonder where Anastacia thinks her beauty comes from. Does she find it in the little brushes of the kickass red lipstick she uses? In the Bobby Brown skin foundation tube? In her Kabuki eyebrow drawing kit that she bought from Jumia? Will she feel more beautiful if she buys eyelashes and shaves off her natural ones? I don’t think she used eyeliner though. As to whether that made her less beautiful perhaps I should see her use eyeliner. Are they all important to her? Does she really need them?

Before I get crucified, I know make up is a lady’s armour. Figuratively and well just figuratively. 

*Right about this point I realise it’s hard to write about make up. Where thou art Ivy. I should’ve consulted you*. 

Actually I would have wrapped this article there and mouse-dragged it to the incomplete box but hey man, my mom never raised a defeatist!

Anastacia’s face is the millionth face I might be seeing in Nairobi and for the umpteenth time another disappointing female face. Now here is the deal dudettes and niggarettes, if you are going to wear make-up please do it right. I don’t go out of my way to try and find mistakes in people's faces but if you have shaved your brows and drawn Nike ticks above the eye I will definitely see that and frown at it. If your lipstick doesn’t complement your skin tone the way Ovacado does rice then priss leave the poor colours alone. If your eyelashes are okay just let them be, and why do you need fake lashes? Like why in the world? But what do I know about those anyway, I am a dude. And then this foundation thing, well I don’t know much but please don’t paint yourself into different shades. Pink cheeks on black skin? Nope that more like using sauce on chapati, both are awesome but not a good combination.

That is about the much I know about make up but trust me the faces in this city tell it all. You can almost point out who bought their first kit last month with their first salary.

Maybe is should have said something about dudes that pimp their faces and that are not Larry Madowo or Nick Mutuma who spend half their lives staring into cameras with cameramen staring back. Who bewitched you? The narrative of an African male as far as face make-up goes is at least Arimis and at most Vaseline. 

Anywho, have you ever thought that maybe our sparkle finds its way from greater depths than make-up? That our faces are puppets of the pure and authentic springs that lie within us? I want to think that girls shine not because of the alluring gloss on the lips or polished nails or glittering chains but rather because of virtue and strength of character founded on certainty of identity and generous batches of hope that life hands each one of them. 

So next time you stand before the mirror and make up a face for the world, work on the inside first. Work on the lips but find the smile first. Learn to draw the brows but gain sight of your depths first. See the foundation on the outside would mean more if the inner foundation of the girl is rock solid. And the red lipstick is lustrous much but what beats a warm charming heart of someone who knows their way? Nothing.

I bet if y’all did this and men kept their Arimis thing going, our faces would make more sense. Genuine smiles. Intentional stares. Likeable too. 

Likeable faces in the city.

Fire away; Ricochet is Life!

Ricochet is life!

A man can only stand so much. There is that kapoint at which all guys will break. It matter not if they are at the ‘mama-I-made-it’ level or the ‘started-at-the-bottom-and-now-just-a-little-bit-from-the-bottom’ level. They all break. Shouldn’t I be saying we? Yeah, there is the point at which we all break. This is a point where a tailspin ensues. Its odds of happening are low but just like hitting your toe against the table where you’re barefoot, it does. I have seen it happen to many even those that claim to be lion-hearted nsht.

A rent-money bet goes south because Arsenal is lame and a bitter Arsenal fan snaps. A loan-car is overturns during one of those wild nights and someone sobers up and snaps. A dream-job is lost and someone yells at their boss then snaps. A small toe is hit against the table and someone snaps (Okay ignore that one). A fiancé walks away and someone swears they’re okay then they snap. Well I think it’ll get boring if I write any more ‘snaps’ so I’ll just hope you get the point.

I think you could feel his fingers trembling. Like hear the little microbaroms as they race through the air past your ear. He was awfully nervous. From watching too many CSI episodes I could tell his pupils were dilated. *Hey Felly dilated pupils just mean the nervous system is beginning to suck at being a nervous system. Seems unbelievable much, yes? Well, this is a true story. I actually used my phone’s screen to get a reflection of the guy seated behind me and I could see his eyes. And this was kedo one month ago when I was *cues in Nameless, I’m coming hoooome! Home where I beloooong! Narudi Nyumbani! Nyumbani! Yeeeah!, Get it? C’mmon I was going home. I was pretty excited to go see my folks after bursting my butt in the city for couple of weeks without showing up home. My cue for going home is when mum calls ‘just to say’ "Umetutupa sana”.

I was using one of those Northrift Shuttles. Just so you know these are the next best travel alternative to owning a moti if you’re going to my Ushago. If word gets to the village that you use them then you’ll be classified in the same ‘whos n whos’ list as the Chief, the MCA, the priest, the one guy with more than 10 cows and the corky guy at the water pump who decides when everyone gets their water. Those Shuttles (I know this is a strong word for a mathree but hey we’re in Kenya) carry only 11 of you at a time and don’t stop there at sijui Giciengo for people to pee only for all of you to get pick pocketed. They stop at fancy places and some smoky places with heavenly roast meat – Kikopey that is. Well not that Kikopey is fancy and all but at least no one will ‘beat you’ Ngeta there. Then they have this mouth-watering Choma that you should only eat in manageable quantities and with pilipili or else have to make too many ‘very urgent’ stops afterwards. I don’t want to say that you’ll have to be constantly looking for bushes where you can do some ‘quick business’ and that people will see you and that one of those people will be a blogger and that the blogger will fail to resist the urge to not write about it in their blog and that you will be embarrassed when the story finally comes out about the guy in a suit doing it in the bush there near Gilgil.

Who knows, you may even get chased by those Zebras idling around the Delamere farm. And just be aware that if we see you being chased by a Zebra from a bush where you went to do it with your pants down we will take the pictures and use them to educate our kids about places not to do it. Alright! Enough of that.

So this guy was fidgeting a lot with his phone. He started calling. He called Lenard who I think was his client. Then he called another dude and I know this because Infinix (and Tecno) phones have no privacy. A heartfelt apology to the Tecno-Infinix gang I mean well you knowJ. And the dude I kinda figured out was a loan guy. He called more people for what seemed like an hour. Then viola he snapped. He was all over the place. He sounded bitterer than the barefoot guy who has hit his toe against the edge of the table. You could feel the tension strangling the air in the mathree as he fiddled with the phone, cursed slowly, then loudly, then said a lot of f's! He forced conversation with those two chaps seated beside him. 

“Maisha ni ngumu nanii…” he said at one point. “Yaani mimi sijui ata ni kisirani gani hii….” 

Nobody talked. 

Then this guy on the right says “vitu hukua hivo” and I think that was the cue for our guy. He profusely protested about his business sucking at being a good business, his lorry being tied to a loan and him wanting to sell it secretly and the loan agency discovering this and refusing with it and him being broke and everything crumbling on top of him. At least that is the much I got from his rant which is impressive since I was also listening to Gilad and akina Zidi the Band through earphones. And either way I am not a particularly nosy person.

I should also let you know that shuttles have an unspoken code of conduct. Like the part where you mind your own business and not disturb your neighbor by humming or singing or coughing suggestively or smelling bad (this one mostly) or staring or making loud phone calls and pretending to be really important. The exception is if you’re humming the Game of Thrones’ theme song, that or the national anthem. These are very important codes since shuttle people pay kedo 200 bob above those regular mathree fares. They pay for such luxuries. So see how the snapping dude was violating all of them? I mean who gives a hoot if you’re broke and having a breakdown in a public vehicle and shouting out fucks? Shady right? A big boo to you if you thought of yes. Why you ask? Well because he is a guy who has seen the naked wrath of the evil breaking point for guys! Ladies you may not understand this but just picture your equivalent of a man’s sweatiness, agility and ruggedness which are supposed to help you withstand such primal tides being trodden upon like they don’t exist.  

And talking of smelling bad I beseech ye brothers of mine to wear cologne. I honestly don’t know why you’d be comfortable smelling like you were the one getting goats into Noah’s ark whereas you have a white collar job The exception is the beloved Kenyans that work in the mjengo industry.

So that feeling of powerlessness foaming up after these tailspin moments twists guys and renders them insanely unstable. Here, I found a better example for you ladies – just imagine what happens in the few seconds of sleep paralysis happen to you for a day – a year – a decade. It is scary as hell. More like spending your whole life rigor-mortised. That’s how men feel when they cannot influence anything.

I don’t know how things turned out for our nameless guy but I am sure he’s somewhere savoring life right now. Unlike the guy who hit his toe against the edge of the table.

Okay allow me to say this first. I hit my toe against the edge of my table. The pain was excruciating yaani hadi I had to take a nap. So I am repeating the phrase all over as part of the psychological path to recovery. (*Kay this is the part where I stand in that ka-therapy room and say “My name is Wesh” | Audience: slow wave – Hey Wesh! | “and I am afraid of my table:)”).

Haya moving on.

You know what happens when people snap? They get their head back in line. I know some give in but most of us finally apply those breath-in-breath-out P.E. lessons and get our composures back. Trust me I have been at that point where I wanted to pack my bags and go back to the slopes of Menengai and become a farmer who lives alone in a ramshackle hut in a very big farm that I’ll till until kingdom come. But here I am still in the city.

Reason? Well, it’s simply because (I) we’re hopeful of better days. We become resilient after our breaking points. I can imagine that nameless guy who was ranting in the shuttle updating his twitter feed with “I survived #Teamthickskin #Unbroken #LionHeart” and a couple of emojis. I am also not sure if he knows that Titanium song but he’d be jamming to it all night long and being a not very good singer murder it when he screams “I am titaniuuuuuum!” from beneath his shower because having lost his income-generating lorry he can’t surely afford to be in a Jaccuzi ama?

Why also do you think Lunjes move a lot? Like move with their furniture nsht upcountry but then realize life sucks even more over there and so come back with their beloved furniture again? It is because of resilience. Refusing to be bowed by life. Being thick skinned.

It is because for me, for them and all the resilient gang out there ricochet is life.

Thoughts On Shisha and Seatbelt Selfies

Shisha and Seatbelt Selfies

Lately I have been preoccupied with thinking about what to blog next. Certainly, this is a not so fluid process because, being the somewhat perfectionist I am, I tend to over-think sometimes. My over thinking virtue in this case was not good because just like any civilized man can tell you, if you start over thinking about bagging that five star mami then you’ll probably have a better chance at winning the Sportpesa Jackpot. It’s an oxymoron; the focus de-focuses you. In such cases you're better off not show too much interest or you’ll look like an Arab girl showing too much ankle to Ahmed or Abdi; trying too hard and totally not acceptable.

Courtesy of Mpasho.co.ke

So I decided to just give up already and that a story would eventually have to find me, come to me the same way lions have become fond of coming to chill with people along Mombasa road and that the story would even beg me to write it and that I would even play hard to get if I get the chance. Probably tell it I have another story. A better one.

A few nights later a story came along. I was lying there, one leg out of the blanket - because if I had both in it’d be too hot and if I had both out it’d be too cold. One leg out is the perfect balance - my perfect temperature for grade 1 sleep. I imagine it feels the same way as floating on your back in the deep end of a pool – which I have not yet been able to do. I seemingly can’t trust water enough to let it carry me. I remember this one time I was at duff mpararo and this kid is there floating on his back like a duck and I was there struggling to float on my belly. Do you know how that feels? I had a lot of questions! Like does water have no respect for grownups? It needs to let grownups float first and if it has any strength left it can then float the kids and their little swim glasses.

Anyway back to my sleeplessness.

I am not insomniac but I couldn’t sleep. Just one of those nights where your body is all confused about sleeping and simply decides to play the how-long-can-I-stay-awake-and-still-be-at-work-by-7.30am game. Sleep was teasing me and I didn’t like it. She’s not like this on normal nights. Our relationship is a really perfect one and I don’t know why she was acting up that night. Maybe it was something I did. So while I was lying there staring in the dark in the company of mosquitoes almost dozing off I was snapped awake by screaming girls. It had to be girls, boys actually don’t scream at night unless they are scared by Chuck Norris physically. I got out of bed and my first thought was “damn it! I will have to start this all over again”. I had been like really close to sleeping. On a scale of one to ten I was at the nine. Really close.

Now it is not uncommon for drunken girls to stagger past our flat at 3 am but I am usually dead asleep at such a time and don’t have to get all aggravated by their ungodly banter. But this time I was in the middle of it. A group of around ten intoxicated teenagers or maybe they were a little older were hanging onto each other trying to get home or maybe to the next pub which is on this other end of the stretch or headed to god-knows-where those young men live. They were really loud and very explicit while at it. Even Erroh, our Maasai watchman whose real name I don’t know could not get them to keep it down. Erroh tried shushing them but they called him bad things and Erroh called them other bad things in return. Bad people!

And how people walk with their mukonyos out at 3 am beats me. It is ice land cold at such times but again I guess drunken people don’t feel cold. Do they? And do their moms know they’re out in the cold without jackets? Will this affect their children? Maybe their kids won’t feel cold like the rest of the kids. Or maybe they’ll be born a little drunk. You never know these things. Or as we are fond of saying, "hii maneno mtu hawezijua".

Now eventually the drunken confusion that was those teens got on its way and I did sleep after some time but it is from that situation that I got my story. A story about the precedence we are setting for generations to come. I assure you as I write this I feel like the professor with big glasses, hanging a baggy checked coat behind an old wooden university chair, using a flickering table lamp and sitting beside a pile of books in the calm of the night penning down life-changing manuscripts. Well maybe that’s an exaggeration, let’s say more like the guy sitting alone with a drink at the poorly-lit corner in a bar thinking about changing the world.

Well I’ll start saying that it appalling how hunnies (if you’re not from twitter A then you’ll probably not get that) live their lives. Ask Njoki Chege; it’s all about drunken stupors, smoking Shisha, riding in Subarus owned by guys who mostly live in South C and Roysambu, taking selfies and trending on twitter A and well the other part is just applying makeup and learning how to draw their eyebrows. Clearly a very busy lifestyle! Plus they have to get their *appendices pierced (again from twitter A) and learn how to twerk. I kinda have a feeling in future twerking will be a P.E. lesson in some schools. Anyway, you should appreciate that hunnies even get time to do lame things like going to church and dancing like normal people, getting education or looking for a job. Of which the latter they excel in a measure equal to the Jubilee government’s success at fighting corruption.

I am holding no blood feud with anyone here but I am afraid of the kind of mothers we will have in ten years. Shouldn’t we have a serekali saidia initiative? We seriously need one to rescue us from the hunnie menace. In ten years what kind of kids will there be? I suppose they’ll be born normal and all but how will someone raised between Shisha smoking breaks and catching air from all the twerking turn out? A little part of me wants to know but I am also afraid; afraid that we might just be testing the waters like the guy with diarrhea trying to fart; afraid that it’ll get too messy to behold.

Or maybe they’ll all be in India with lung complications from all the Shisha smoke. Or they may not be married after all. Such girls only tickle the fancy of few men. They tickle the fancy of men who are deprived of morals; the kind of men that own an apartment in Kilimani while their mother lives in a ramshackle place at the edge of a village in Kirinyaga. The kind of men that are known by name at Sabina Joy and even get a quick fix on credit. These are the kind of men that don’t marry anyone for more than two years in a row. They are the men whose realest shot at a brain is a tattoo of human brain on their head. Such are the men that hunnies tickle. I wasn’t too hard on them there, was I?

I also wonder how I would take such a girl home to meet my mother? She’d curse the sun should her son shows up with some city girl who smokes plants and rivals Thiga the village’s three-time Annual Drinking Fest winner at downing the bitter stuff. It would amount to thahu and she would agree with Mzee on calling village elders to slaughter a sheep for a horohio ceremony. I’d be made to sit at a corner and reflect on my life’s decisions. They’d make me feel bad even with a plate of boiled meat and roast meat and rice in front of me.

But I wouldn’t take such a girl home. Not with regards to what defines their life today - the hunnies not the village people.

You’ve heard of seat-belt selfies? No? Well they are a thing now. In pursuit of social approval chics take selfies in a car with a seat-belt on. It is supposed to be cool. Which it can be if you genuinely own a car and you like taking selfies but in this case it’s the people whose chance of driving their own motis are close to the camel-rich-man-needle-hole-heaven situation. But don’t give up aye you’ll drive some day. And speaking of which I adore some twitter comebacks. 

Look at these tweets by #KOT 

Is it the society that expects a guy drive and own a house at 26 or is it just a thing for hunnies? If you’re raised from a relatively poor background like me then you’d probably understand how damn hard it is to make it to the top. Before you say ‘mama I made it’ there are periods of overwhelming disappointments, of blood, of hard work and unending sweat. Things refuse to work out. You get small problems sometimes and get big problems other times and think you’re done. It’s not easy. You have to put your butt on the line too many times before you can cruise in a moti under your name. Lest you think I am pity partying I should assure you that I know this is expected of any guy.

But let’s turn to the comeback; a waist trainer and 78 Instagram likes!!! That does not give you the right to point a finger at me. Not me and not any of my brothers tweeting from the discomfort of their bedsitters. Not even those tweeting from Melbourne, Australia while their device location shows they are somewhere in Dunyu Njeru, North of Kinangop. You can’t fault these brethren. They are doing the little they can to get up there; compared to your evil efforts of posting ‘kim kadarshian’ (this word is an adjective) pictures of you on Instagram for likes. You can’t expect the boy child (I’m finally sounding like an activist) to meet all these expectations whilst all a girl needs to do is learn how to twerk, be blonde and be on social media and probably learn how to draw eyebrows without getting us thinking she works as a brand ambassador for Nike.

So point is she won’t even cut it as a wifey material if all she worries about in the morning are what filters she’s going to use for Instagram. Neither am I willing to be subjected to the agony of 99 selfies in a day just to feed her social media glamour. Worse still I am not going to put up with buying fancy food just for the pictures. If you’re among the girls I have described above and you’re reading this please reform and find you way – the way. For the sake of future generations and their sobriety please learn how to cook round chapatis so that you can pass something good over to your kids. in the end sober guys will marry the good girls.

Before I put an ending to this I’ll just say it is not lame to be a good girl. It is something we shall have an Oscar for in coming years. Something we will wear tuxedos and Sir Henry’s bow ties to go witness its recognition and appreciation at a glamorous night party at some expensive hotel in Nairobi which we shall pretend we can afford on a regular day.

Happy Easter Someone!