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 See with loafers you can simply slide them on without socks and it is still a kickass, probably outdated, fashion statement.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?

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!