Monday, September 5, 2016

A Bachelor and His Warus.



07
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!
Image result for potatoes kenya
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.





Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Ripped Jeans and Movies



Image result for ripped jeans for men
Courtesy of Ali express
I recently bought a pair of ripped jeans. This happened when I showed up for a look-see session at my clothes guy. 

First off, all of you guys should know you need to have a clothes guy. A guy to keep you looking like a million dollars even when you can barely afford those Umoja slippers. The guy can also be a lady. A lady like Shiku who has a shop at Ronald Ngala and who I stopped visiting once she started selling those shirts that come in batches of a million and every Nairobian seems to have one. I don't buy such anymore since me and my future girlfriend agreed that the only time I can be in uniform is when in a choir garb singing Kumbaya with my angelic voice. 

Now, I really didn’t go there intentionally (not at Shiku’s, at the other guy’s shop). Rather, I was looking for a banking agent and in the process I thought why not say hi to Mr. Clothes.

“Karibu mzeiya, leo kuna mali kali” – he always says this. “Umepotea sana.”


“Napitia tu leo” - I’m giving a heads-up the only thing I’ll buy there is time (I was mistaken!)


So I scan through. He shows me shirts and we get on the usual ‘I don’t like it’ ride; 


“Zi, hii ni bright sana inakaa madem”.


Another one, “Ona sasa, hii inaweza shona shati zingine mbili bana”. 


Him “Si ulibeba kama hii last time?” - he remembers things I buy awfully well.


Me, “achana na hio, nataka kitu different”.


Another one and another one and another one;


No – “boss hio imejaaa maua maua”, 


Nope – “hii inakaa zile za Kibaki na Uhuru”, 


No – “hio ni ya mababa”.


He’s a patient guy. We go through the entire collection – literally. And onto trousers;


He goes, “Uko na rugged jeans?”


Me, “Apana. Siwezi buy kitu ishararuka”. I mean would you? We both laugh. Then I seriously think. Why don’t you have ripped jeans Wesh? The ka-voice in me that perfectly knows my bank balance but ignores it insists I get one. I take a moment to convince myself about the ‘work hard play hard’ thingie we all use as a free-pass to spend money extravagantly. That ka-thing is even there in French  - my mother tongue, just so you know; 'huthira beca ikumenyere' which loosely translates to 'use money until it gets comfortable with you' or something of that sort. It comes in pretty handy when you've used up all the monthly entertainment budget but you still want to squeeze in some Sunday afternoon guilty-ridden--because-you're-overspending chicken wings. Also when you want to buy ripped jeans on a random day.


I gulp and ask “hizo rugged ni how much?” The price wasn’t that bad for normal dad-like pants but bad for a torn pair of pants. By this time Mr. Clothes had talked me into trying on a pair – grayish. The tilapia-skin kind of grey. They did fit well. And they were pampers-level comfy. I legit felt them cuddle my legs. Two minutes later I’m standing by his mirror with a black and white pair of Airmax sneakers (these should be categorized as high heels for men) and the cuddly grayish rugged jean pants and a slim fit shirt that Mr. Clothes convinced me was by and Italian designer (I just kept telling him it was his ploy to gonga me out of my had earned browns). 


You should’ve seen me! I looked like akina Kendrick Lamar. I could’ve passed for an accomplished platinum name-on-billboard rapper with several awards to his name, a bulldog, a condominium in Abu Dhabi, a mansion in Beverley Hills and a beach house by the Caribbean islands. I looked all uptown and progressive. By the way when I get rich I will start a Mutura joint under my name and mention it in all media interviews I go to because I feel we don’t appreciate Mutura people for all the finger-licking 20-bob pieces we swallow every evening. 


I’ll be like “Yeah, I own a Bentley, 10,689 Acres in Rift Valley na base moja ya Mutura pale Ngara.” 

“Zinakutoa fiti” – Mr. Clothes quipped as he punched figures into his scientific calculator. Yeah, he has a scientific calculator - like he needs to find the Cosine of the prices. Lakini I figured out it might the one he used in high school and brought it in as an asset to the business - declared under fixed assets in his balance sheet. He has this Karatasi brand note book that he meticulously tucks between a pile of branded t-shirts and ladies tops and on which he scribbles things on after every sale and I'd bet there is a balance sheet in there. “How much?” I asked. His next statement had me remove all of those Kendrick Lamar stuff and put on my – what now seemed like Mjengo overalls – clothes. I wanted to leave but my guy (the clothes guy, not what you think – I’m into chics only) insisted I get the jeans and after the “nitakufanyia poa” higi haga (I've always wanted to use this phrase when writing!) I bought them. Oh, I bought the shirt too.


I hope I remember to carry these rugged jeans home when I visit my folks. I know it will be interesting. 


“Hizo jeans zako zilifanya nini kwa magoti?” My mom will ask. 


“Nilinunua hivo”, I’ll say. 


She’ll seem not to believe me and then probably in her mind question my ability to spend money rationally. I’ll sit with her outside the house and as we remove maize from cobs (is there a word for this in English?) convince her why ripped jeans are life for young people and that they are trendy and that they are made like that and they’re all cuddly and comfy. She’ll object and say that she does not see why anyone would buy torn clothes at all . Then we’ll talk about why I stayed so long without visiting.


My father wouldn’t care much. Rather he will but won’t say much. 


“Hii ndio fashion ya watu wa Nairobi?” 


“Eee hizi zimekua fashion tangu kitambo” – I’ll say.


I’m sure he will be proud of me. He will remember the 70’s when he was all young and exuberant rocking an Afro and bell-bottomed pants with those high-heeled shoes they used to wear. He will relate and know I am not lost, that I am just young and finding my way. He’ll be happy because he will have raised a chap that can only be arrested for dressing to kill. We will then talk politics and who will win the 2017 general elections. We will sneer at leaders that loot our country then be proud of our athletes’ performance at Rio. I will remind him that white people have gone crazy over our national anthem and he’ll be exhilarated because he lived through the Maumau era. He will tell me about the struggle for independence as we drink lots of tea and listen to crickets chirping incessantly outside. A couple of storied later midnight will rudely interrupt and he’ll pray for people and things and then we will retire to our beds. Happy over ripped jeans and our athletes.


Now that I’ve talked of upcountry, maybe you should know that for me this is a guilty-free place. All I do there is eat and watch TV series. No curious neighbors wondering whether you brought someone over and left them in the house or prying eyes of the landlord wondering whether you’ve been fired. Oh, and “Niko ocha” is all you need to tell people and they leave you alone. You eat and watch. It makes me feel young again (young means prolly 15 years).


So here’s my advice, buy a pair of ripped jeans and go upcountry. Go be young. Don’t grow up too fast aye.