The beard Gang

Last week I was to write about no shave November. I was excited because, first, beard is life – even small beard –, and writing, for me, is an escape. Something that soothes my soul. Something that opens up as art, as a hobby and maybe a passion. A high. So I love times when I pick up my PC in the wee hours of the night, in dead silence, brew hot coffee, get the music going and sail away with words. But then I got caught up in a tornado of other urgent things like traveling the world, fundraising for my foundation, you know, getting people to write me contribution cheques they probably will later regret because they got consumed by the moment. And the beautiful girls who I sent to ask for the kind donations. More like the light dimpled charming faces at the loans desk at KCB that can easily make you think you’re getting a free pass on the loan.

Something like, “Shika hii pesa mkubwa. Enda ujijenge nayo. Ata usirudishe. Ni free”. 

They are really smooth. And they speak eloquently. As they bounce words back and forth and point – with nails manicured in heaven – at blank spaces for you to sign you’d easily contemplate leaving them with half the loan money and a kidney for their trouble.

But it is usually a loan which, believe me, if you default on, you’ll meet different faces altogether, scary ones.

Actually not really, I was not doing any of the above things. Not even taking a ka-soft loan to keep me afloat in this economy. Rather, I have been trying to make my transcript not suck this semester. So I have been, and I hate to say this, a bookworm. Yeah, I have been one of those. And I know I tell my friends we need to YOLO a lot but then a brother go to make his village proud at least.

And then I caught a flu before the weekend and it has been rough. Those bottled dawas you see staring at you from chemist shelves are no joke. I got a prescription and taking them gets me all drowsy. Too drowsy to write anything that makes sense anyway. Then there is this dosage that I was given and I know it is supposed to be, as the guy said, 3 times 3 (morning, afternoon and after supper and an episode of The Wire – amazing TV series by the way), but I am not sure how much of it. It is liquid and he said 10 ml but I have no measuring apparatus – those beaker things we used in high school chemistry, who does anyway? – in my house. So I estimated that one ka-bottle cap would be 5 ml and that means I take two – God forbid should I be wrong. But again, I am doing just fine so far. I will let you know how it goes or if I stop writing then you’ll kinda figure out what went down.

So beard.

First off, this beard thing is pretty rigged I should say. There are guys I know that had a head start on this. Way too much head start. Some like the infamous Owour-the-Prophet haven’t even shaved from November last year; they’re rigging. 

Ok, maybe we leave Owuor out of this and deal with regular folks. 

I know it ain’t no competition but some regular guys (Goddy I am not giving names) stopped shaving nauko July and now you’d have to search for their face amid the facial hair. 

But then it’s still alright because we all are in the same team here ama? In support of the war against cancer. Lakini I have learnt my lesson; next time imma circle my 2017 calendar on 1^st of August just so I get prepared to amaze y’all with the ‘Mr Steal your girlfriend’ beard.

For this to make sense I have to go back a bit;

So a couple of weeks ago, I was doing my usual evening trip from town – in my route’s kawaida Jav that is usually eventless. Routine stuff. I sat – for lack of an alternative – at the very hind. Beside me a mother with two younglings and one of those big Adidas bags stuffed with clothes I guess. Between us was supposed to be two seats but then the younger boy perched on one of them close to her awaiting to move if need be. One my right side was a potbellied man who annoyingly sat like he had a jiko between his legs (please buy your own car if you get a kitambi). Then came this middle aged man all craggy and a bit clumsy. (Haha he had the popular Kale jacket). A city dweller from the suburbs I presume. He sat next to me, pausing as if to catch his breath for a minute. He looked at the boy, then at me, then at the mom, then out of the blues he insists that the little guy be allowed to have the seat and that he would pay for it. A kind act from the heart. 

“Asante sana na mungu akubariki”, quipped the mom as the stranger and his cheget alighted and went on their way. 

It was actually hard to believe that all he wanted was to give the young guy a comfortable trip for the half hour that we would be on the road. Because fisi is a life outchea and we all know it.

On a different day, still in the city, and on my way to the city centre I sat almost next to a guy with a baby. Yes, a baby. A guy with human baby in a jav! No, mum around. I guess it was his turn to go out with the baby out or just left the house saying “nafika kwa duka” only for his friends to text him about a very tight plan going down and he decided to just go ahead and take the baby for a choma-graced afternoon at Kwa Njuguna’s in Westy. Either way, he had a baby with him – a year old I guess. Wait, what if he had stolen someone’s baby? I actually never thought of that. But, well, since the ka-cute soul never cried I would imagine they were at least friends. If not relatives. That’s my consolation if at all he had stolen the baby.

The interesting bit is how the baby somehow kept staring at the guy. I bet he was wondering what the guy did wrong for hair to grow on his chin. Was it a curse? Did he urinate on the door of a minister of the gospel? Did he refuse to pray as often as his mother taught him to? Did he refuse to ‘type amen’ on one of those Facebook posts? At some point the baby was trying to grab the beard as the guy fiddled with his phone scrolling through Whatsapp conversations. They were both at ease.

Let’s hang that one there for a minute.

You know Pastor Julian Kyula? The one with a church on Mombasa Road? The Purpose Centre Church? Well, I went there a while back. I was there to seek audience with God because as much as I can do that from anywhere sometimes being in a church helps than being in a house full of unwatched movies and beckoning snacks. And screaming kids (neighbour’s kids not mine).

So I sat there. At the back. I said short earnest prayers about me and stuff I like. Told God I want a better life and his help so that I can buy only those Avocados that are nice on the inside and to give me a good bae someday. Legit things. But other times I just watched people delve into moments of supplication as the band sang gloriously. Saw a couple of celebrities and Njugush of K-Krew finding peace with God. And I heard the prayer of a Congolese guy. Never understood it. Okay, I understood the little English parts but that’s it.

I remember the Congolese guy – figured that out from his prayer – because he sat just a row in front of me. He sang with an unfathomable level of indulgence. With one hand on the chest, fist clenched and the other one raised up to his maker. He arched his head up with closed eyes. He really sang along with a lot of passion. I bet he saw heaven. His beard sang along too. And as he cried – he teared a lot for a guy – his beard worked equally hard to catch all the balls of tears as they made way down his cheeks. 

I do know men cry but his was different. It was a cry of brokenness. Of surrender. He sought guidance. Direction. And mercy maybe.

I prayed some more too; prayed for people who cook samosas with waru to see the evil in their actions and repent.

So here is why these incidences are about beard gang.

For a couple of men I know, actually all men, the essence of a manhood is in the masculinity. The beard being part of this. It is like a gauge. The more the beard the manlier someone is. Good point if you ask me. Lakini it does not stop there. A man is more than the facial hair. A man is defined by the depth of character. I think the guy in the Jav who paid for a seat just to get a boy to be comfortable is more of a man than elves who think it’s manly to stagger home at 3 am in a drunken stupor. I think the guy finding the strength to carry around his baby all day is more of a man than the run-away father pretending to be a corporate guru. I also think the Congolese chap seeking supernatural intervention is more of a man than the know-it-all fellas who would rather swallow a whole coconut than seek help even when they are caving in.

So as we let the beards run loose and trend hashtags about it, it would only be fair to follow up the beard with character.

Have a beardy end-month, won’t you?

Can I have that soda?

Last week I ate something and my body went all berserk. I am yet to zero-in on the specific food that brought me such anguish because it is hard to know who changed their recipe between the Mutura guy near my place and the outdoor chef at Nick’s – the Koinange Street one.

 

On one hand it can’t be the Mutura guy because what would he add different? Curry? Onions? More water? More mara? And I know you’d be thinking “What if the meat was bad?” But no. His meat is always fresh. We as his customers commit to buy all Mutura for the day so that come tomorrow we all get fresh Mutura. 

On the other hand it can’t be the Nick’s guy because he’s old enough to know how to stick to one recipe for each of those addictive things he sells. (They have us trapped with their samosas man).  He also can’t cook wrong. Or so he seems. I mean he stands straight save for when he’s wrapping your grilled chicken wings. Heck he looks like he’s the one who invented the Mezzaluna. Yaani he’s just polished. Too polished to be the source of my anguish. Or anyone’s anguish.

Well, I have been checking off my regular joints and I am yet to bring the culprit to book. And what happens when I do? Good you asked. I am going to be very vindictive about it. I cannot take this lying down. Mama raised no defeatist. I will allow enough anger to brew within me. I’ll get like really really mad. Super mad. Then I will walk dramatically towards them (not like the way chics of say mssschew and proceed to walk angrily shaking bums aggressively. Nope. That’d be gayish. I’ll do the great Undertaker – from WWE – entrance. I can even hire a guy to blow smoke from behind me to make it look cool and scary) and ask for free food as a peace offering (I hope it will be the Mutura guy – I’d not settle for anything less than a week’s supply of those free goodies) or threaten to report them to their wife. Yeah see how they’ll like it when their missus finds out they’re selling people bad food. See how sleeping on the sofa works out for them.

I love food. Or in a millennial’s lingua, ‘food is bae’. It’s been bae all my life.  I know no other bae. And don’t get me wrong, I eschew whack-tasting meals even if they’re healthy. I’d rather eat those Ngwacis that taste like they were raised by loving Ngwaci parent’s than chew on undercooked fish that will make my stomach ground me for days. 

Being a foodie also makes you eat in many places. Very many places. From Oti’s kibanda where everything goes with avocado, like rice-beans avocado, dengu-chapo avocado, maini-ugali avocado, chai-chapo avocado, avocado na avocado etc etc, to classy joints where they wait for you to ask for fish and then they go get it from the lake first and so you wait there like forever even though your stomach keeps churning funny noises meant to warn you that you’re about to die.  And when they finally get your fish cooked you realise they caught a really small one. And they want you to pay a week’s worth of fare for it. Thieves those ones.

***

I wrote this article on wee hours of Sunday night and at about this point the ‘Twaaaam twam twam twam….twam twam twam ….ehh vone…’ song came on radio and I went off to dance my heart out and so if my thoughts are not very coherent after this I absolve me of any blame.

****

So, yeah, food is bae. 

“Si utuachie soda brathe?”

I gave them the soda. But it was not for them per se. 

Who were they?

A street family on a dark alley opposite Jevanjee Gardens between Bata shop and Debonairs on Muindi Bingu Street.

Who was it meant for?

A set of street lads who camp near the Barclays at Moktar Daddah Street.

Why them?

Because we all deserve kindness. Even from strangers.

Where was the soda from?

We went to hang out at Debonairs because they had a Pizza offer and no one says no to Pizza offers. Even if we wanted to we couldn’t say no. Why? Because if you pass near Debonairs during an offer and decide you will not go in, you will hear a soft voice in the wind whispering your name. Calling you softly and tenderly.

Whose voice? 

Pizza’s voice of course.

And what if you still walk away?

Well, I have never managed to. I will definitely let you know when I do. But I hear bad things happen if you walk away.

And just so you know, I am convinced relationships for younglings in Nairobi are built on Pizza. And Airmax shoes. And admiration too. Maybe. 

I can picture a conversation between those lovey-dovey peeps at Nakumatt Lifestyle once they are married and in their late thirties;

Hubby: So babe remember the money I left you is only for emergencies only. Ok?

Mrs: Right. And also for pizza when I can’t resist the urge.

Hubby: What? No. I mean like medicine and stuff not food.

Mrs: Gotcha. Or, like, if I see a really good offer. Say two large Pizzas at a thao.

Hubby: No. Please don’t spend on food again. You know we are low on money.

Mrs: Sure. But if I see a small Pizza at a throw away price I can buy right?

Hubby: I think you’re not listening to me.

Mrs: No-no. I got it. I just lose it when I hear, smell, think or see Pizza. It’s not that complicated.

PS. I am looking for a joint where a band plays Ohangla and Rhumba and they have well-cooked fish and don’t take ages to deliver it. And where I won’t have to have the hoarse ‘sauti ya mtumishi’ afterwards for constantly shouting to my friends over the music. A serene joint of sorts.

And how is no shave November coming along? Let’s talk beard next week. Shan’t we?

Kunta Kinte

Roots History

So how do you know just how vulnerable you are? Like to pain and its brothers? Mi I have a rough idea about my pain tolerance abilities. On the lower end there is zero pain – this is my zone mostly because I know hitting a toe against the table will ache even to the deep of your soul – then on the higher end the limit is at a thuraku biting on my man parts.

So, yea, that’s my range sort of. 

I know the later seems ridiculous but ants will make the bravest of warriors wriggle in pain just because they know where to bite. You’d be walking down a street with your boys beating your chest about sijui how last December you killed a nyoka back in ushago or how like my blogger friend Siloma you got stuck in the middle of nowhere when your car refused to perform its car duties like all good cars do and how you fixed it all by yourself although we know the mechanic was on loud speaker all the time and then as you keep beating your chest an ant along the street gutters will just decide you’re bragging about your heroism too much. It will get agitated. It will want to bite you. 

And because that ant will be a thuraku ninja warrior it will not bite sijui your zgwembe, nah that is the work of regular thuraku, instead, it will climb up your shoe and up your trouser and it will go on and bite one of your balls. And it will bite like it means it because the thuraku has been to the Thuraku defence forces training camp and you know it had its thuraku teeth checked during recruitment. It will probably be a high ranking operative in the thuraku ninja warrior army. 

The thuraku will haven proven to you that you and your tiny chest can go down as easily as drunk Nairobi drivers at an NTSA stop. With the thuraku biting your powerhouse you will squirm and your friends will laugh and you will rummage through your pants trying to rescue yourself from the kaninja warrior of thuraku army and it will be an awful experience because pain and embarrassment will befriend you in that moment. 

Now you see how high my pain tolerance is? 

reference.com

So what does pain do to you? Besides having you writhe around? Well, again, mi I (forgive my murder of English in this phrase) know what it does; it makes me defensive. I will walk a wire just not to feel the pain I have felt before. Like I will refuse to be friendly to any thuraku at all. Even the regular thuraku. (If you haven’t caught up already just know thuraku is Kuyu for ant). And because pain can make a good person who goes to church and prays and even doesn’t say fuck to other people when they walk slowly on the street (I get street – road - rage very easily) become a monster, I will kill thurakus whenever I see them. I will pledge my lifetime to making their lives miserable. 

I know you’re probably wondering where we are going with the thuraku thing. Right? Okay, so last week I killed many thurakus that were on a road trip (I think; they were carrying bread and stuff) and happened to pass near my window. Later I thought about it and felt a little bad. Why? Mostly because there are thurakus that I know live somewhere in our rooftop and I believe they have seen me as a good neighbour all along and because we have all minded our businesses for long since without much fuss. Now I can feel that they think I betrayed them and that is alright but again I think they are planning something big in retaliation. Like a biting ceremony at night where they will attack from all sides.

(Okay I have to confess I was going to write about kunta kinte but the thuraku story kind became fun).

Kunta kinte is a guy I was in a movie series a couple of months ago. I am not sure how real the story was but he was kinda legendary in the era of slavery and Negro manenos. Kunta was that one renegade guy that does not flow with the current. The guy that would rather have no toes that stay and milk white people cows at the farm – they cut off his toes for running away. He also refused to take a name that was not his. There is this white boss that lashed him for kedo forty minutes until he accepted a name that the guy’s wife thought was appropriate. They wanted him to be called Kinuthia but he refused and insisted he was Kunte. 

So how does Kinta Kunte and the thuraku escapade relate? It is simple. I thought Kunte is the only guy that would not squirm if that thuraku I told you about bit his ninii. Well, him and this guy called Okiya Omtatah. And maybe Boniface Mwangi. Although I think Boniface might hold protests against the thurakus. 

PS. Boniface Mwangi for president right?

Why do I think Kunta Kinte wouldn’t feel the pain?

I think of pain like a river of sorts. It will cut even the toughest of rocks. But in time, the rocks at the bedside figure out a way to derive serenity in the force of the water. The same force that eats into them. In time, Kunte figured out how to get above the white man’s pain. And – spoilers – he conquered slavery and lives on as a legend that is the whole point of the TV series.

So how does that make me feel? – the Kunta Kinte thing.

Good you asked. It makes me feel invincible. That next time a thuraku bites me I will not flinch even alilo. I will stand and think beyond the pain for as long as I can then crush the thuraku eventually. Showing it that I have outgrown its bites.

Feeling motivate yet? No? Well, the next time you face pain intense enough that standing still becomes impossible just know that in time you become refined. Hard. Like a rock. The same pain will not sink you again if you sail through it now.

Have a painless week. Won’t you?