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.

In Nairobi: Unfrozen by Love

Unfrozen by love

When I reminisce on high school days the bloodbath that used to precede examination periods comes top of the list. 

 

It used to be admirably crazy! 

People buried their foreheads in books. Some fell asleep next to books and some used them as pillows – well, I think, hoping osmosis would magically happen and they’d then wake up smarter than Einstein. Few renegades like me are the ones that found time to talk about girls and Chelsea – because both are great anyway. And don’t get me wrong here I lived for those days. The bloodbath days. This is when I because useful to everyone from cool kids to wanna-be cool kids and the comfortably and proudly dumberi kids. I would become like a ka-consultant explaining about moles and molar concepts, sines and cosines, why cold-hearted Odie never mourned his grandmother and why Wak was a prick for fleeing during war and how both lacked any Shreds of Tenderness, and things about ventricles and how Jesus heals the broken hearts. 

This was like meth to me or rather I got the vibe that Sherlock Holmes has when they tell him new dead bodies have been found. Invigorating!

But I never read much. I just knew those things because they were taught to me. Ok that’s a lie, I read my butt off just not as hard as most kids!

He’d ask, “Na wewe husoma lini?”

And I never had a definitive answer, “Mchana na sa zingine usiku”. Most of them were callous. Or sarcastic. 

“But si we hulala sana”. Erastus once told me.

Of course I used to sleep a little longer after the morning bell but hey a man needeth rest after those brain wrecking lessons about things I never asked to know about. Like who wants to know which ventricle pumps blood sijui to where? What if all I want in life is to be a fancy duck? Does a duck care about ventricles? Certainly not!

Those questions were from my form one mentee Erastus who I hope made it in life despite following my bad example. But I must reiterate that I wasn’t that bad. Ama what do you think? I mean I made it to the cream of the crop in my school, top in my village – standards were low there – and certainly almost top in the entire chain of villages two or three ridges away of where we lived –standards here were a little better than my village but again still low. And I sorta made it in life given I own some stuff here in Nairobi, about three sheep and a couple of cockerels in the village and the cashier at Equity Bank knows my name (I’ll edit this part when I make it for real).

Regardless, I was good in those things because I read them to pass and impress my old man and then go to college because they said there are pretty girls there and then to get money and wear #TMT hoods and wave to people from inside a V8 (then it was a Pajero but they aren’t fancy anymore) under my name. That’s pretty much it. 

PS: I have the TMT hood but not yet the V8. I’m taking donations. Ata I’ll take a used one if any of you want to upgrade to a Mercedez Maybach.

But there is one thing we had in common besides the pre-test bloodbaths – we rarely showered! (I can feel you’re already judging me but I’d wait if I were you). Why? You ask. Well because it was always freaking cold man. And I am determined to make a point and so I’ll say this, the only good thing about that place was the clean shots of happy trees under the morning fog that Mutua Matheka would consider orgasmic while pitching his photographic eye behind his heavyweight Canon camera. He’d have endless ‘In-the-wild’ shots that’d easily win you over as desktop wallpapers. (Ivy you need to check out this guy).

You know I have seen cold days in Nairobi. Today is particularly cold. And you should know this because you’ll hardly see those common belly buttons trotting down Moi Avenue or idling at Kenya Archives. They are hidden beneath impressive trench coats and meticulously knitted sweaters bought from ‘the guy’ at Ngara or Gikomba. Or Woolworths because not everyone cares about rational pricing nowadays. Talk of Kenya’s Yeezy collection! Actually at my financial state I can only buy a sweater at thao nne if it will also act as my PA on busy days and cuddle me on cold mornings.

I went to a high school in Kinangop. It gets as cold as twelve degrees there. That and the frozen water was more than enough reason to let the body clean itself naturally. See how you were wrong judging me? No? Okay try jump in the shower at 5 a.m. with water that spent the night outside and we’ll see if you’ll still remember your name after that. 

I was used to clenching teach beneath my boshori (Haha we used to wear those in form four – big baby style).

“What do you think of our school?” The principal asked me this one time I bumped into him behind the kitchen boiler. I was kinda new then.

“It sucks bigtime sir”. That’s what I thought of saying but instead I told him nice stuff he wanted to hear like how I loved (hated) waking up at 4.50 am to go read stuff I liked (hated) in the foggy weather.

Now Mr. Igogo if you’re reading this I have confessions to make. Firstly, that place direly needs heaters in classes, that’s why I lied when I said I enjoyed waking up early to go read. I mean nobody reads in such cold weather. Second those lunches are too heavy man! I haven’t forgotten those meditation sessions after lunch that almost made me a Buddha. Third, if you could be like Oprah Winfrey and get everyone a boshori that’d be awesome because someone stole mine this one time and I had to tie a kilemba for a whole week and you know I am not a mkorino. Never have been.

Now this article is beginning to suck because I loathe those imperfect memories.

Let’s talk something else. How are you guys fighting off the cold? Someone said such weather is survived in pairs. Like when one is making tea the other runs to get bread (this is a joke that has passed through all Kenyan WhatsApp groups including the one group I am in whose job is to notify us of developments in other groups that probably you’re in; yeah we are watching you guys). Or you’re using the usual method;

“Sasa”. The dude goes.

“Poa asana…niambie *smiley*”. The chic responds.

“Niko fiti. Ni baridi tu ndio mob *wink*”. The dude texts back.

I’m not sure how the script goes past that but you get it. 

CO - Words of Whimsy

And then there is the single’s battalion which I chair that has do to with lots of coffee and tea and trousers made from duvet materials. The number of clothes I wear to work nowadays can be used to start a ka-clothing stall downtown. If say I get kidnapped and end up in Zaire I will have enough stock on me to still make it big in life. Then you’ll see me in the papers or on the ‘daring abroad’ show having become a mtumba mogul by starting with a clothing stall and I will be married to a Zaire chic and you’ll say I am speaking with a funny accent because ata you don’t know the accent that Zaire people have. In short I carry a big part of my wardrobe with me nowadays. 

This is a good thing – the coffee part not the wardrobe – because I have ended up on a lot of ‘dates’ given there is no way I am drinking coffee alone there at Moca Loca with everyone staring pitifully. Now, I will marry you if you give me a call for a coffee date before July ends! There is this one I received on Wednesday;

Her: “Are you free we go for coffee in the afternoon?”

Me: (Wipes tear from check and stares in the sky and respond in a crackly voice) “I am always free”

Her: Are you crying?

Me: (Firmly) No. Ushai ona nikilia kweli? Niko na homa.

The date was heavenly.

(If you’re my friend and a random chic asks you if nilipona homa just say yes for me please).

Oh and if you’re a guy just hit me up we will go take calabash Uji at Highlands hotel and chat over football.

And before I go on, you people who go to places with sitting booths (which are a lot) and then sit alone in a booth and deny us who come in pairs space to chat peacefully your whip is being smeared with pepper by the devil. The whiplash will be heard by small boys all the way in Timbuktu and those grazing cattle in Morogoro.

Back to our story.

And I am not alone in the quandary of cold weather, I can count on all my fingers the people that I know are surviving on coffee and more coffee. Good thing is that over that Java double shot mug a flickering friendship is rekindled, over the Café Deli Dawa mug ending love is extended and over Uji in calabashes at Highlands business ideas are inspired. As we all chew on shiny sausages and crunchy samosas we extend more of ourselves to those around us. To the world. We are sharing the love and beating the cold.

We are being unfrozen by the love.