Young, High, and In Love

Can We Be Young For Longer?

           There are many kinds of young in this city. Let’s begin by placing them in two broad cohorts. It’s lucrative to start with Young-good and young-bad but that is pretty much judgmental (which is not among my long list of virtues and vices for that matter). So let’s go with the ‘dumb-me’ kind of young and the ‘smart-me’ kind of young. The ‘dumb-me’ young is founded on the premises of confusion, misdirected-energy, bloated-ego, and loads of bewilderment. A typical ‘dumb-me’ young has a very little sense of life-direction. They know little about everything else except partying. Not that all of us who like good times are #team‘dumb-me’s but still they are a majority of party cliques.

            Then there is the ‘smart-me’ young. This young is exuberant too but in the right way. They live for goals and achievements. They know what they want. They listen keenly and talk less. The adore opportunities and love risks. They sure know the difference between stocks and bonds. They are not yet rich but know how to get to the riches. The savor the nights but won’t forget the gleam and wealth of the day. They are vast about highs but also understand the lows. They never yield to mediocre courses regardless of how luring they are. This young is passionate and intentionally directional. They don’t relent on their course. They know but they don’t have to show they do.

            Ok I know this is starting to sound like a speech but hang on we’re headed somewhere.

            I think you’re also starting to like this young. Probably you have someone in mind. Or better still you think you are in this category of young. Whichever floats your boat man. Moving on, my preferred of the ‘smart-me’ young are the think tanks - the ones that exude the Proverbs kind of wisdom. You’d mistake them for cousins of Solomon.  This kind owns the other kind. Let’s me first loop you in on the young with proverbial-wisdom capabilities. This is the kind that will look at a bird fly above them and they’ll instantaneously get hold of utterly deep life lessons. They see something in everything and no – not in the kind of way you see Pizza Inn and see Pizza. No, they’ll see an egg hatch and they will tell you about the power of breaking from within creating life and the way if you break that egg from without you kill the life. This will end up in insightful pragmatic lessons on growth towards investment and the ultimate rich island-owning lifestyles we all crave.

               So, you’ve been probably wondering where I am going with this, right? Well I have a thing for starting a piece and letting the words curve their way towards a certain gist. Amazing thing if you ask me. It is the easiest way of freeing the creativity harbored in me. Comparable to the feeling of skinny dipping – I never do skinny dipping anymore (story for another day). Now I wasn’t really sure about what the gist in this piece would be at the start but now I know. I want to write about the Young, High, and in Love; and no, not the Sauti Sol’s Isabella thing. Well maybe a little bit but stay with me here. I’m talking of the real ‘young high and in love’ of our society – of Nairobi. Why the young? Well because they are obviously the future of our nation (that sounds political). Why the high? The high because it’s easier to find camel milk nowadays than a young person that does not get high. Why the in love? We all agree love makes people do stupid things, right? So yes that why we have the in love category.

**

                They’re on a rooftop. It is chilly and the clock is edging towards 2 am. There is so much energy – it’s been like this since 10 pm. You can feel the music thudding a mile away from where they’re partying. They have to party you know. Having gone through university for four torturous years deserves a single night of fun. This you have to agree with me. At the center of the rooftop is a small table. On it is a white powder wrapped neatly in a manila paper. They’re sniffing on it one at a time – some are taking too much of it. There’s also booze everywhere – the cheap one mostly because they were short of money to buy anything better than Jameson. Someone’s lying on the floor – a blacked out chic. Many others are dazed. On the edge of the rooftop stands a couple sharing a bottle and deeply entangled in love – or so they think. Another couple is making out behind a water tank – it’s all that matters to them now. As they dance and grind the scene gets obnoxious as the night drifts away. Here comes the problem – this is not a single night of ‘fun’. They know they are going to have many more of these. They desperately want to be young for longer – forever if possible.

**

               I call such a situation a ‘miry clay’ fixture. It is hard to get out. The guys on the rooftop are probably going to be doing this five years down the line – heck even ten years. It becomes a habit. They will want to but then old dogs never learn new tricks. It becomes a cycle. Money comes in and it goes out but leaves them high and in ‘love’ but the young part is not constant – years go by. The sad bit is the rat race that ensues. The high will get you addicted and that means you have to fend for it or it will feed on you. The ‘love’ will be sour at some point – I remember a guy in Roysambu blogging about how the chic they were practicing the ‘high, young and in love’ madness fleeced him to the ground. Can you imagine weeks before your wedding and then she’s out? Terrible!!

            Let’s end with these song lyrics. I quote 

“I still fall on my face sometimes
And I can't color inside the lines
'Cause I'm perfectly incomplete
I'm still working on my masterpiece
And I, I wanna hang with the greats
Got a way to go, but it's worth the wait
No, you haven't seen the best of me
I'm still working on my masterpiece” 

              I am not a genius about life drills. However, I am smart enough not to repeat the mistakes others have done along the way. Can we be the ‘smart-me’ kind of young as we work towards our masterpieces? If you make mistakes let them teach you a lesson but don’t be looped in the mistake. I know you want to be great and change nations but how about you be strategic about it. I sure also hope that we have not seen the best of you yet. Or is getting high going to turn you into a walking dead in future? Finally, we are never going to be forever young. Be fun, do fun; actualize YOLO because this is good for all of us. But be intentionally strategic. Cheers to all of us that realize this!

Bonkers Nairobi Drivers

What Do They Teach In Driving School?

 I am tempted to refer to Kenyan drivers as queer but I won’t. It is not right to bundle people into such an undesirable generalisation. Sadly it is partly true that Kenya has odd drivers. The legitimacy in such an assertion is even clearer when you live in the Kenyan capital, Nairobi.  In Nairobi you would be lucky to travel in a Matatu and have subtle thoughts to yourself. Matatus are chaotic to say the least. I am going to ignore the little hell that is characteristic of the interior happenings in a Matatu and focus on the bigger hell – the way they are driven. We have obnoxious drivers all over the place. I refer to them as obnoxious because, firstly, they have very remote shreds of politeness in them and, secondly, because they seem rather incapable of adherence to obvious traffic instructions.

It is hard to narrate a Matatu escapade without being mordant or spotting a little combination of cynicism, bluntness, and sarcasm. So all the ‘Concodis’ out there kindly pardon me. It is a little bit after 9.00pm. I am in the CBD. It is not usually busy at this time in town but today is different; it is raining. Rain spells havoc in this town. It tags along gushes of madness from god-knows-where and intoxicates all of us. I am saying all of us because people change when rain hits them in this big city. The chaps at the office get the sudden urge to go home. The chaps at the bus-stage start freaking out about not getting a Matatu home. But the biggest madness is neigh – the Matatu guys get sudden blood-rush and want to make uncountable trips to-and-fro town. The concoction that comes out afterwards is why I am writing this article. It is the reason I can confidently point out that some of our drivers are completely bonkers.

 

I am particularly not accustomed to taking rides home at this time because mysterious things happen. One minute you have your phone and the next minute you don’t have it (pause here and take a minute to feel bad about my friend’s lost phone). Okay moving on, the Abracadabra will happen to virtually any valuable but your wallet and phone mostly. So I pace up Moi Avenue with my friends amidst the rain and suddenly out of nowhere this chap in a Corolla speeds by and practically washes us up!! I almost shouted bad things at him. I mean it had to be a ‘him’. Women are not that insensitive. Yes?  I swear he is the kind of guy you get crass with. No pun interned here. I have not forgotten the feeling – it’s the kind of feeling you don’t have emojis for. And surprisingly such arrogant characters are the ones that own lame cars - Corolla being an example. Anyway I am going to skip a big part here to the part where I am already in the ‘Mathree’.

It is utter courtesy to give way on the road especially if you don’t have the right of way right? Now Matatu drivers are painfully good at this.  Not the giving of way but the receiving of way. They have to get ahead at all costs. If they don’t put you off by the constant revving of the engine they will be-little you through insults. Not the lilting manner of insults Mombasa guys use. No! Brutal explicit insults that make you wonder who raised these people. I was in the Matatu and I felt a great deal of pity on the young corky-looking guy in the Harrier trying to nose in between Matatus. Trust me I want to write the insults here but there is no good way to censor them. Anyway it doesn’t last long. The guy in the Harrier reverses giving way and off we go. Barely meters ahead we brush against a Mathree owned by a different Sacco!! It sounds bad. It is bad. In what seems like a five minutes haze, there is what I would politely describe as a stand-off (it was way more than that) and our driver in back on. Here comes that rather insane part – instead of moving on what does this guy do? He reverses and rams into the other ‘Moti’ properly!! Totally berserk! And the reason for reversing into a Moti you have already hit? Ati so that he can pay for actual damage done! I bet this kind of reasoning is what makes people genius. Well eventually I got home but I would have sworn we broke more traffic rules than those already existent. It’s crazy because at the end of it I felt like I was already initiated to a gang of rudeness, vulgarism and tackiness.

I have no idea what some driving schools teach but clearly refresher classes are not such a bad idea. Just to offer a soft reminder on simple traffic rules. In fact methinks we need an additional course on abusive driving to survive on the Kenya roads. Like when to yell, to grin, to show a particular finger to other people etc. I should end by saying that Matatu drivers are not the only ‘good’ drivers around. They are just a tip of the iceberg. They are only but the outspoken batch of dissident drivers in Kenya.

Let's Dance In The Rain!

Dancing In The Rain

 

Let's start this one by reminiscing our childhood. Well mostly mine but I am sure you will relate. It has been a long many years and it’s amazing how some of the events of my childhood have stayed with me. It’s true how they say some things stay with you for life. Even the silly things do – mostly so. Remember how school used to be back in the day? How our tiny versions were full of life and immeasurable exuberance? I miss those times man. I really do. Not that I have grown old but things were different back then. I remember carrying packed lunch to school. The lunch box we called ‘Tini’ and inside it a mixture of rice and potatoes. I also carried a tea doll which I mostly hang religiously around my neck like a sort of expensive ‘Bling’. 

Sometimes the lunch box would drop while running to school. You had to scoop that mixture up or starve the whole day; a damn hard choice. I would choose the former anytime. Some days I’d feel the urge to eat the food before lunchtime and then cry the whole afternoon for not having had any food. 

I used to dread some things back then - like getting to school late. Teachers on duty were absurdly mean. They would cane you with too much passion. I believe they enjoyed it. You'd think they were born to do that. I had somehow gotten used to whooping but each time was different. You would never be too comfortable with ass whooping – at least not the primary school I attended. A teacher would be happy today and cane you rationally. Another day would be marked by failed salary increment and this would mean next level whooping - like wet tree branches next level.

We used to sing during morning assemblies and the PPI programs (anyone knows what PPI used to stand for?) I remember singing ‘fadha abraham hazmeni saa...ayamwandothe’ (Father Abraham had many sons…I am one of them). Don’t laugh; it was pretty hard figuring those English words out in the village I grew up in. We prayed too; ‘Our fatha who ati heve halo be tha ney, thy kido ka” and I am sure God heard us. He listens to the heart you know. Occasionally (mostly on closing days) we would fight. We called it ‘closing school with someone’, a literal translation that is. This is where most boys learned to stand up for themselves. I know I did. No one wanted to be labelled a coward. It was better being the village hero even if it meant a black eye that your parent could never find out about. 

Seasons came and went. We enjoyed all of them. But we always looked forward for the Christmas holiday season. Heck yea it was the best of them all. It was different. Back then Christmas meant more than I can explain now. I still smile at the Christmas memories we made. We would eat out hearts out. We would eat meat man!!! Roasted meat, boiled meat, 'Maini', 'Mutura' you name it. We wore new clothes. They would be bought in August to avoid December price hikes and get tucked away to wait until December. But that never mattered. Fun was the center piece. Always. 

Girls would play with balloons and cook 'Chapati'. But boys weren’t that 'lame' (apologies to any feminists out there). No, we did more than balloons. We would hook up with the cool cousins from Nairobi and go out. Chase after girls, swim in the village rivers, cause little trouble here and there. We’d even pee wherever we wanted. Nobody cared. It was Christmas.

Life was good then. Right now growing up doesn’t seem anything like grownups made it look like. Looks like a hoax to me. Anywho a specific memory crossed my mind today. That memory is why we are talking about dancing in the rain. Remember how we played in the rain as kids? No? If you never did then you’re probably one of the urban kids who had a 'boring' life. Let me bring all of us to speed about what dancing in the rain entailed. It took many versions but here is mine. 

You chuck from home in the morning as usual towards school. You’re in a clean over-sized uniform. Your mum warns you against playing in the dirt – as usual. School goes on fine, the day passing with canes here and there, undone homework, failed math problems etc and most the time the teacher yelling about school stuff you're not interested to know. Who wants to know how battles in the past were won by sijui akina Napoleon? Si we have our battles to fight now and we are not bragging about them ama? 

In the afternoon, after eating the cold lunch you carried, it starts drizzling. Your face beams with joy. This is going to be one of those days. The rains are coming. It has to rain heavily today. You tell yourself. And like prophesy the skies open up and the rain hits the ground fast and unapologetically. You dance around in the class but that is not enough. Kamau, the kid who lives for these moments, throws you out of the classroom and before you know it you are chasing each other in the rain. It is fun. You scream and shout and cry when need be. You’re lost in the moment. Two hours later and you’re done. The rain stopped long ago. You smile and say goodbyes as you head home. 

This smile fades towards home because you’re certain what’s going to happen. You cringe at the thought of it. You can’t imagine your mom whooping your tiny behind. Not again. It is always vigorous; it makes you afraid, weak even. But you really don’t care, you had fun. Yea it was fun. You did play in the rain. 

Now you’re probably wondering where I am going with this, here’s the thing, we are not supposed to forget how to dance in the rain.  Vivian Greene said "Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, it is about learning to dance in the rain". Our version of rain will be storms of life. It's not like we are yearning for troubles as we yearned for rain as kids but like it or not we all get challenges. 

People will disappoint you. Someone will cheat on you. You’ll run out of money. You’ll be robbed of small money or big money or both. You’ll fall ill and curse the day you were born. You’ll get ahead of yourself sometimes. Heck even other times you’ll fall on your face and it will hurt. You’ll think of quitting. You’ll want to throw in the towel and walk away. You’ll be embarrassed that you can’t color inside the lines. That you don't fit in. 

But you have to realize this is life. To quit is to die. You can never walk away because where you’re going there are still issues to deal with. So staying and fighting is the thing. Yes, to stay and fight. Not the relationship one - though it applies there too - but I mean the life one. Learn to dance in what you perceive as trouble. Even when you’re sure it is an equivalent of an ass whooping by life. Find fun in your storms. Be grateful for the lessons learned and soldier on. Let's all dance in the rain, shall we?

Let me be subtle today and end with this simple but informative poem by Ric Masten:

|| Let it be a dance we do

May I have this dance with you?

Through the good times

and the bad times too

Let it be a dance.

Let the sun shine, let it rain.

Share the laughter, bare the pain

and round and round we go again

so let it be a dance. ||