Sundays

Sundays could mean anything to anyone. To many, it’s a time to touch base with The Big Man, taking spiritual stock of the past week and renewing energy for the next. To others, it’s a time to kick back and make sense of the night before, while to others, it’s a time to find sanity away from the noise of the world, only for them to realise that they live on the noise. It keeps them from drowning in their thoughts. So they find something to keep them pacing ahead of the insanity that Monday brings.

For Mwanzi, Sundays are turning out to be days of nakedness. For a while now, he has been seeking an intervention—an exorcism from the monsters in his head. He has been jogging just to stay ahead of himself, but breathing has never gotten any harder. After all, you can only run for so long. Sooner or later, you ought to stop and catch your breath. He seems tired of running. With his heart beating from his temple, he appreciates that it is time for rest, hoping the demons behind him will too.

“I tried meditation, cut back on the bottle, signed up to the local gym, and eat fucking salads now,” he shares, “but I still feel heavy. I feel like my chest is built of iron ore, and the rest of my body is holding it up lest I crush with it.”

He enjoys the little burn of the mid-morning sun on his skin and the brush of wind over his leg hairs. He feels his body rock to the lub and dub of his heart. He hates the metallic taste in his mouth right before he has to say something that leaves him vulnerable. He hates being put on the spot. He hates the lump in his throat and the little shake in his voice—a sign of weakness. It’s embarrassing. He wishes he could have it any other way, but he is screwed. He is two sessions in, and the stranger next to him seems to have all the time in the world.

Over the last two meetings, he hasn’t looked the stranger in the eye. He often stares into the space ahead of him, seeing the stranger sitting calmly in his peripheral vision. He likes how informal these meetings are. No recliner seat, cardigan, or pen and notebook business. Above all, he hates having candid conversations in four-square rooms. Makes him feel like he is in the office. It also makes breathing laborious.

The stranger peeks at the Sony ICD-UX560F recorder to see if it’s blinking. Mwanzi would know the hardware, as his past was shaped by journalism and he works within the media sector. His dad, Mwanzi Senior (Sr.), now long dead, was a veteran journalist who worked for the first state-owned radio station in Kenya, the Kenya Broadcasting Corporation (KBC) Radio Service.

The random trips, the tense long waits on nights when his dad covered a risky story, and the pride of a son hearing his dad’s name woven inside the radio static every day shaped much of his childhood. Having grown up under the wing of a man born between the lines, Mwanzi pretty much got a feel for everything about the life of a journalist. Mwanzi Sr. was an avid reader, a trait he passed on to his son. He downed the East African and all the other mainstream newspapers in one sitting before dinner. The stacks of newspapers in their house made decent book covers. At least his dad had one less thing to worry about at the start of the school tearm.

Being the only child, Mwanzi couldn’t run from his dad’s shadow. He pretty much built his life around journalism. He read every newspaper after his dad and solved the daily Sudoku puzzles to kill the boredom. Mwanzi Sr. didn’t pressure his son to follow in his footsteps. His son admired him for his intellect, how smart he looked in round wire-framed glasses, and the respect he commanded. Mwanzi couldn’t fight the call to live up to the great name. He joined The Tribune as a writer, made his way up the ranks to Editor and Senior Editor, and now heads the Creative Division that drives strategy.

Mwanzi can’t help but think of his father’s pride for how far his little boy has come. He must also be heavy on my troubled mind this Sunday mid-morning. His dad probably has better answers to his heaviness than the stranger, but no amount of screaming would pass the message. He wasn’t a Sudoku master. Maybe he would have communicated through that. He hopes that the stranger can read the wind. Then maybe, just maybe, he could pass down a signal.

He is tugged back to reality by the stranger. He must have said something that got lost in the noise.

“Sorry? I didn’t get you.”

“I asked, what you thought to be your greatest fear.”

“Oh! That…” Mwanzi pauses for a moment or two, enjoying the lazy tweet from the distant birds, wishing they would chime in.

“Concerning the noise in my head, or generally?”

“Yes. That. And how it anchors on the weight on your chest.”

Mwanzi is well off and doesn’t care much for money. Getting broke is the least of his fears. Save for the constant, annoying appeal from his mother to marry, he has a healthy relationship with her. The same goes for his friends. He was a little weary about his blood pressure, but a good bout of exercise, planned diets, and a break from alcohol have put him back on track. He’s pretty proud of himself, owing to the receding beer belly. With a good six-figure salary that’s edging close to seven figures, he is the envy of every other 40-year-old. If only they knew how empty he felt.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to sound philosophical because what’s on my mind is cliché. Plus I am not sure they are fears…”

“Please indulge me,” the stranger interjects.

He fidgets with his cup of tea as he entertains the sound of car tyres biting into the ballast-paved parking lot demarcated by a thick bamboo brush behind them. He realises that the world around him has gone numb for a moment; patiently waiting for him. He is a man in the pecking order.

“Honestly. I feel like I have been running for a while, and I am tired. I want a little quiet in my head, but the moment I feel closer to attaining it, I chase all the noise again. I feel like I have to pick a side between colour and quiet. I want both to win. It would kill me if either team lost. I’m afraid that I am losing balance.”

He wants to tell the stranger how much he hates his job, as he feels like he has given it his all. His mouth itches to say how he feels like he is giving more than he is getting. He is close to saying how he doesn’t feel as connected to people as he would like to. He wants to say so many things, but he likes this ‘intervention’ the same way he prefers his onions: soaked in water for a moment.

“What is colour and quiet like to you?” goes the stranger.

“Well… I feel like colour is the side of me that wants to get creative, meet people, and keep walking. Only, I am not in touch with my creativity very often, my social battery dies out a little faster, and I fancy privacy. If you recall our previous conversation, I told you how I wouldn’t want to lead an empty life. I feel like I am not empty, but heavy. Like I am stacked under a pyramid of bricks. It’s like I’ve been praying for a puddle only to be granted an entire fucking ocean.”

“Be careful what you wish for?…”

“I guess. I have been trying to find this very elusive balance. I feel like I need time alone, but I get it, I always look for something to do to keep me busy. I just can’t sit and enjoy the silence. My mind is always available to tell me something.”

Mwanzi is certain the stranger might be looking at him, but he can’t find it in himself to crane his head in their direction. He feels naked enough for a day. He might as well get on a pole. Do you have any loose change? He keenly stares at the shadow cast by the awning above them.

“Between you, the bagels, and me, we both know that I am no expert in this, but I feel like I am connecting with you more than I ever have. You are more honest than the last time we talked.” The stranger shares as they pick up a napkin swept by the wind. “When you meet the therapist tomorrow, will you tell them everything you just told me?”

“I will try. I still don’t know if I want to hit that reset button yet.” 

Mwanzi enjoys how easy it is to talk with this stranger. How easy it gets each day to share his story. The stranger makes a good listener and doesn’t mind spending some time off work on a slow Sunday mid-morning to talk to a friend.

“I know that we’re not afraid of change, but of the loss that comes with it. How can I not lose my sanity yet still maintain my sanity?”

“I wish I had the answer to that. I know, however, that the monster we feed is the one that wins. I believe that going into that room tomorrow, you will be better placed to get the clarity you very much need. But, first, you said something very interesting about change and loss. I would like to understand what loss means to you.” The stranger is signalled by a colleague at the island counter, who demarcates the eating area and the kitchen. They stand up. “Secondly, what does balance look like to you, and why do you feel like it is so unattainable? I could start a full-time gig from this, you know?

“You won’t use the recording against me. Will you?” Mwanzi asks. They both laugh. Mwanzi looks on as the stranger disappears behind the counter. He takes his time, thinking about the two questions. More time for him to run through his mind.

The stranger takes a few minutes before heading back.

Sundays are not to be rushed. He will worry about the coming therapy session then.

Image: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/24QSfTEOv9Km9pxERALyFv

The Tribal Nomad

They say, “If you want to know the real value of a man, look at how he carries his father’s name.”

Names tell a story of what we mean to those who give them to us, just like we brand things we love or hate. These gifts from pure emotion define us. Like clockwork, they give our lives a metronome to tick by. They provide us with clarity, responsibility, purpose and legacy. My name is an assignment—a laborious search for true meaning.

This is the story of a tribal nomad – a boy who never knew his father’s language.

During the early 2000s, I was a very young and energetic chap with little care for what life meant. School and playtime are all that mattered. Growing up, we were a family tightly knit in faith. We prayed over meals and new clothes, sang in chorus and religiously participated in rotary sermons every day before bed.

My mother was (still is) warm, loving and everything more a mother comes with. The cane was never far from her hand. At least not as far as her words. We never discussed the questions and little demons that lingered in our heads. We never talked about who our dad was and what it was to be him. It is a book I have never found the courage to open with her or my elder brother. Instead, I based most of my detective work on photos and random stories. I took this information and stored it in treasured pockets of my memory.

Years of looking at five fading photos and picking random memories from family members can only let out so much. Somehow, the idea of him works as well as his identity could. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

There I was. A boy – growing into the teenage hood with a stranger’s name deeply engraved on my bones – not knowing what it was to be one after my father’s name. How could I value a man I barely knew? How do I know where to pick up from? Shit! What am I even continuing?

Riruta

Back then, in Riruta – Kawangware, tribal slurs were like a slice of meat stuck between teeth at a wedding party with no toothpicks in sight. You’d feel irritable for a minute but soon get distracted by a drunk uncle who couldn’t let go of the mic during speeches.

Anyone who had a slightly muscular or bigger body than average, ate omena (sardines) or didn’t speak Kikuyu was automatically monikered ‘Mjaluo’ (loosely translating to “A Luo”). We were no exception to the hush tribalism as we met all the above criteria exceedingly. Where was my identity? Where was my story?

I pride myself on being half Luhya (dad) and half Acholi (mom). Going by culture, I naturally follow my dad’s tribe, but here’s the tricky part: Kenya still has strong roots in ethnic ties. While this is not bad, people who do not understand vernacular are considered less deserving of that tribe. Being born to a mixed language family and living in the Nairobi environs makes it difficult to learn either language as nobody speaks in everyday contexts. This often leaves one with an aftertaste of being undeserving or lost.

I lost my dad early during the turn of the century. My brother, who had a good command of Luhya, was then in boarding school. With nobody to teach me Luhya, my second option would be Acholi. However, what were the odds that I would ever meet someone from northern Uganda and speak to them in the language? Practicality and need didn’t coincide.

There was no impetus to learn either language since all my friends didn’t speak vernacular either. It was convenient for me to speak Swahili or English and not feel inadequate about it. I was Andanje – not the one who couldn’t speak his father’s language, but the Jaluo.

To my neighbours, no convincing could make them see the difference between Luhya and Luo. We were whatever was easy for them to place – tribal nomads. Like a piece of flesh in my teeth, being dubbed Jaluo was a nuisance, but I focused on the rest of the party – not sure when I would deal with the reminder of my lack of identity next.

I bet my ancestors tug at my collar whenever I consider filling English as my native language alongside Swahili on applications.

Ongata Rongai

I don’t know much about the place, but the Kandisi we moved to was a mouthful. Mom worked hard and bought her first piece of land on a slope that dipped to make way for the Mbagathi River. We put up a euphorbia fence around the land, set up a square tin house and surrounded it with a little farm whose soil fed us. We called the place home.

Kandisi was a harsh yet inviting change – a place that couldn’t fit in a picture. On a good morning, one could see the blades of the mighty windmills on the Ngong Hills turning lazily in submission to the power of the winds. Close by was the fierce Mbagathi River, whose waters quenched our soils. The river tore a deep valley through the rocks, where I often visited to marvel at nature. Once in a while, I would spot fresh lumps of dik-dik faeces. I would then look around in stealth and think to myself how good a hunter I would be. I remember geckos the size of cats also scaling the trees around our home. We weren’t one with nature. We were nature.

Kandisi was a far cry from the urban life I was used to. The distant tooting of horns from cars at the edge of the valley where 5^th Avenue met the main road was a constant reminder that civilization was not too far off. I always looked forward to Sundays as I got to leave the dik-diks and see the city on my way to church in Riruta. We faithfully took three buses to church for several years – never missing a sermon. Every so often, we passed by Kenya Defense Forces Memorial Hospital, where my dad worked at the time of his demise. Although still very lost, seeing the place eased the conversations in my head. Part of him was present.

The community we shared the bountifulness of Kandisi with was predominantly Maasai and Kikuyu. The family that sold us the parcel of land were well-off Maasais, who ran a school I enrolled in. I was the only Luhya at school, alongside a Luo and Kalenjin. The rest were mostly Maasais and Kikuyus.

Baba Christine tended our little farm. He was a farm hand by day and watchman over a Mzungu’s (white man’s)property by night. The Mzungu was never quite around, so Baba Christine spent a reasonable amount of time at our home making sure the fence was trimmed and the soil was ready for sowing. He was a well-built and kind man with calloused hands. He was dark and would pass off as a high-value slave in the dark days. He was Baba Christine to us, but to the whole village, he was Mjaluo.

Some distance away, my schoolmate, Odwori, lived on a farm that stretched for acres up to the main road. They, too, lived in a tin-walled house much bigger than ours and cemented halfway down. To other people, Luhya and Luo seemed pretty much the same. As such, Wajaluo seemed like a pretty good description for all of us. Tired of being the ones to do the explaining, we wore the badge we were given and moved with it. Here I was again, living up to an identity I could not make them understand because I, too, did not.

Bungoma

Half a decade later, we were on our way to Western Kenya – where my name got life thanks to a promotion in my mom’s banking job. She was now managing a branch zealously delivering work and Christian instruction. I was now around Luhyas – my people. I was finally free from explaining and being called what I was not. I was unashamed of my nakedness. Finally, nobody could call me a Luhya since defaults need little reaffirmation.

I enrolled in a school that had a predominantly Luhya population, but one could spot minority communities like Indians and Arabs. I was finally free of stereotypes and demands for explanations. I proceeded to a high school that was also very inclusive and accommodating of other ethnicities. While this aided in giving me clarity, the world outside didn’t.

Every so often, people would often start conversations in Luhya and go on and on, clearly seeing that I did not respond or reply in the same language. They would see my name and go into deep conversation in a language that is foreign to me. Feeling lost and deceiving, I would try to make them understand that I don’t get the language I am so proud to be associated with. They would shoot honest questions at me regarding my ignorance of Luhya. Here I was, again, needing to tell them about the army, pneumonia, Riruta and other reasons why I didn’t deserve to be a Luhya.

Then I begin to wonder, what makes me what I claim I am? What bearing does my language have on my identity and who I am? What is in my name? How bad is it being a tribal nomad?

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Photo courtesy: http://www.reckontalk.com/cool-weird-fun-facts-about-kenya-tourism-people/

Breaking the Horse

I don’t know much about life. It probably explains why we all learn until the day we die. Hell, I don’t know squat about horses. But I know these; If broken horses could speak, they would acknowledge the power in repetition. I also know that we would be decades behind in modernization if horses did not submit to carrying our ambition for modernization. Donkeys and oxen did a decent job carrying civilization, but you get my point.

Through repetitive reinforcement, a horseman works his way through a horse’s mind, breaking its spirit to total submission. The horseman understands that the horse may want its way. This will be manifested in aggression or rebellion. The horseman will take their time with the horse, slowly going over a repetitive cycle of activities that mould obedience to particular instructions through sounds and haptics.

Slowly, though hesitantly, the horse’s spirit will bend to that of its master. Once in a while, the horse will revolt and pull against the bit – as if to assess the gravity of the matter. With patience and resilient reinforcement, the horseman breaks the horse to their will.

One horseman will reward the horse for every positive sign of obedience during the breaking cycle. Another horseman will chastise the horse for falling out of line. While one may be soft to the horse and the other condescending, they both yield a broken horse. We all know the horse we want.

The little I know about life is that, just like a horse, repetitive actions and reinforcement knowingly and unknowingly break parts of us. Often, we may think that we are in control of certain things in life, while, in essence, they wield inconceivable power over us. Such include our thoughts and perceptions of life – our minds.

It takes a good deal of self-awareness to know what our minds are breaking us in favour of.

-Me-

The mind builds our confidence around our capability to do specific things. Resultantly, we master and transmute the energy into action, doing what we challenge ourselves to achieve. Through reinforcement of confidence and repetition of action, we continue to practice these things until we become exceptionally great at them. This may include sports, art or a trade we are good at.

The same mind will tell us how shit we are at other things or how less we deserve of ourselves. Over time, this continuous disapproval turns to self-pity and inaction. We shy off from progressive thinking as our perceived inability and incompetence shoot daggers at us every time we dare to try.

Hello, loss of self-worth.

The brain forms an almost lazy repetitive cycle around confirming particular strengths and weaknesses within us. It always seeks a reason to maintain the status quo, thus breaking our spirits in favour of or against them. Before we know it, your bosses’ repetitive condescending demeanour makes us feel inadequate, our fear of early mornings denies us time for self-development, our trust issues make us carry past trauma to current relationships, and our fear of being alone leaves us desperate for human connection to the detriment of your mental health.

While it may be something else to unbreak a horse, I am sure it is possible to work our way around our minds. When it comes to instruction, the horse-master relationship is more one-sided than it is symbiotic. The master may learn from feedback from the horse, but they are the ones with the cane. The relationship between us and our brains is one of fair share. It involves striking a balance of power of control.

There’s power in knowing that your minds are as malleable as we inherently are. See, the mind is only as powerful as we let it. Selfish as it may be, it is as willing to learn as we may desire to teach it. This tips the playing field in our favour. It gives us power over the bit – the resource to direct our ambitions and perceptions.

Knowing that the mind will give us positive energy and self-worth if we command it makes every challenge worth exploring. It gives us the confidence that we may not have control over everything, but we have the power to influence what matters.

In the book One Plus One Equals Three, Dave Trott gives a 235-page dive into how we can master our minds and build on our creativity for a more fulfilling life. In one of the anecdotes, he shares how belief trumps fact and how we should sell the need before the answer.

We should appeal to ourselves by underscoring the need to control our minds. This will ensure that we are always masters of our thoughts and destinies. It will also provide a healthy balance between our minds, spirits and the other horses we wish to tame.

As we build the pace towards fulfilment, create a repetitive practice around the thoughts that matter. Be sure to constantly feed on positive energy and reinforce the same through constant acknowledgement of the little gains in life.

Who has your bit?

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Featured Image Courtesy: https://www.hcn.org/issues/52.12/photos-race-black-cowboys-reclaim-their-history-in-the-west

Earning the Badge

There’s honor in a man in a badge. There’s always a catch though – you ought to earn that honor. Lest the uniform doesn’t fit quite perfectly. 

I didn’t go through cultural circumcision even though I lived most of my teen-hood at a place where the knife was the order of the day. My mom took me to the hospital and sat behind the door as the doctors claimed their pound of flesh. Walking out of the OR like a geometrical set compass, my ego was a bit grazed but I felt satisfied having earned a bit of my manhood.

I waived my rights to leave the house for a few days. A week or two after that, I felt as if Shaka Zulu and Mekatilili wa Menza had a baby. I felt as though I could puff my chest, take in a good one, and move the clouds out of my way. I had no fear. Not even of the little turd that won’t flush when visiting. Even with a dangle for gait, I could settle an ocean inside a teacup. 

High School

Soon I went to high school and had to find my footing in an ocean of men with similar ambitions as mine. Primarily being, to earn the uniform and the badge. 

At the time, Friends’ School Kamusinga (Frishka) was the pride of many. It still is. Even you might also be proud of the school even though you didn’t study there. Ex-Alliance guys might talk about their affiliation to their school at a job interview. Ex-Frishkans have no trouble wearing their uniform to the same. That’s how deep our pride runs. Once completing school, I remember hanging my full uniform at home, giving it a thoughtful wet kiss whenever I passed by. 

Kamusinga was a religion of sorts. We had our custom dialect of English. It came with a distinct accent that took a fresher some time to understand. We had the most beautiful bus at the time and had beasts for basketball and hockey players. Trivial as it may seem, having a beautiful bus was cause for good banter back at home over the holidays. It also scored points when wooing girls. Pocketing was a crime, and you had to move by running even when heading to the shower. We also had the fattest and heaviest bread around. We called it wishwa. The bread was so heavy that taking it raw would be akin to swallowing a shoe. Call it shoe-cide. In obedience to the saying that goes, ‘hakuna mkate ngumu kwa chai’, a cup of the thinnest tea saved our throats every other time. We lived to see another day.

We (Frishka) )were as good in talent as we were in academia. This made us the envy of many. In a population of 1,300, give or take, we all had to earn the badge whichever way we could. We were good enough to make it to the school, but were we exceptional to make a mark? Every other day there was something to contend about. 

The guy who got the highest in biology, the one who got the most mail from girls during assembly, the best sportsman, the one who talked to most girls during innings or outings, or the one who scored highly on the popularity score were titles we all fought to attain. You had to fit somewhere or be in the ballpark, lest you got lost in the crowd of relevance. Cognizant of this, I was a man on a mission to earn the uniform that defined class. 

Taller than most of my classmates, I immediately stood out. I was the middle-row-next-to-the-wall-in-class kind of guy. Cautious about making friends, I took well to silence. I also took tidiness to heart and often came out as not-so-fun at parties. I tried basketball, rugby, soccer, and swimming but I did not quite find myself in them. I was smart but I was no match for some of the guys that would read notes during judgment day. With the identity crisis dealing me a heavy hand, the pressure was piling and I was starting to cave in.

A Trip to Nakuru

In my 3rd year, we went on a Geography trip to Nakuru County. The trip was bait to help us develop an interest in the subject. It turns out I soon made the worst decision since the subject chewed me to my last day in high school. That was the most abusive relationship I had ever been in. I put in hours drawing batholiths, monoliths, and all those other weird glacial formations but the teacher had a way of setting what I had not committed to memory. It’s almost like he was intentional in seeing me fail. I was lucky to come out alive. Barely.

On the trip, we visited several places including the geothermal facility in Olkaria, a Coke distribution plant, et cetera. I was too excited to even remember where we were going. Oh! We also visited Lake Naivasha. I remember this because I ate some fish that gave me proper tummy runs. As the identity pressure had it, it was my time to earn my badge. It was time to show the world that I was man enough. We went to a one-stop shop along the Nakuru-Nairobi Highway to grab some snacks. I saw some of my friends pocketing Tic Tacs and other little confectioneries that would fit in the mouth if need be. As if to ask them to hold my beer, I went to the drinks shelf, slid a soda under my sweater toward the back, and put some snacks in the shopping bin as a decoy. Oblivious to me, the shop attendant was aware of the nature of high school students and noticed something fishy in my demeanor. 

Soon, he was on my case asking me to return what I took. Luckily, he had not seen me slip it inside the sweater I had worn. He did a random search the best way he could and found nothing. Patting my thighs and pockets, he was determined to nab me, but I was steps ahead. With my heart almost breaking a rib, I defended myself vehemently and threatened to report his churlishness. I soon paid and was out of the store. Scared, I left the shop unaccomplished but darting somewhere on the identity scale.

A Trip to Mombasa

Then I discovered that I had tuned lungs. One blow from these bad boys could spin a turbojet engine up the runway. I got my identity as a bass-2 singer for the school choir. I also learned how to play the siiriri. For those unfamiliar with the African instrument, this is a one-string ‘violin’ with a distinct high pitch. Like the little Piccasso I was, I loved playing common tunes like Mwana wa Mberi in the comfort of my solitude. There was no recognition for that but at that state, I felt accomplished. I soon realized the badge wa earned by the little improvements I made toward myself. Even though the fame came, It was more about where I sat as a person than where I stood in the crowd.

With carefully curated motion in two neat curves, we’d sing Bi Sofia by Maroon Commandos in such fashion that everyone stood to stare while we snaked through the chords in perfect harmony. I was in the back row at the proximal end, supplying the choir with the much-needed bass-heavy metronome and life. There was nothing more admirable than men who could sing like that. The song ended up second at the national level. It hurt like hell but it was a beautiful scene having put our school on the map. 

Even though geography chewed the dignity out of me, I still managed to earn a fairly good grade, I had my good memories intact and I earned that badge. Happy week ahead. Don’t let the cold chew you too.

Faith and Conscience

Growing up, my siblings and I had a very strong foundation in faith. We always took two buses on weekends for practice in preparation for Sunday Service and did the same the next day. We all had something we were doing at church. A calling. At home, we always prayed before meals and took turns reading a Bible verse and praying before bed. When grace was sufficient, mom would start a song and we would all join in unison. You could hear how deep she meant every word she sang by the punch in her syllables and a slight rocking motion that syncopated to the beat.

If anyone sees her around here, kindly tell her that it would be best if she didn’t read some of the preceding content about my life since it might hit differently. If she so chooses to, I beg to remain to be her sweet little boy.

Truly, Her Son.

Having grown up in a strict Christian upbringing, alcohol, sex and all things moral decadence were never quite discussed because they were not to be partaken of whatsoever.  We never read verses condemning them at home because they were obvious ills. We could see on our own how society portrayed drunks and the sexually promiscuous. As a result, we had to discover a lot of things on our own through personal, intimate interactions with the world.

Having lost my dad at the turn of the century, I could swear that sex was a sin because the Bible said so. I remember fighting tooth and nail with my friends when they said that I was a product of sex. In my eyes, my mother had my brother, sister and me just like Mary had Jesus. Nobody could tell me otherwise. It was one of those things I could never wrap my head around.

As I journeyed through adolescence, I was so confused about my body and why I had all these ‘wrong’ feelings. Why was I feeling this potent attraction towards girls yet in God’s eyes, it was all wrong. I knew the ten commandments by heart and the one on adultery came out strongly. It always flickered like a traffic light when I looked at a girl or thought of her in a way that Moses would not appreciate. To cure our curiosity, my friend and I resorted to Blu-ray porn – the kind that came in large plastic casings with photos of naked girls. We were men on a mission. In search of answers.

When we were done, we would trade the CDs and then repeat the cycle. Buy, watch, trade. I remember mom giving out our CD player with one of the CDs stuck in it. I couldn’t open up the player in time to get the CD out because it had some weird-shaped screws that could not unwind with the ordinary point of a knife. That was the best tool I could get my hands on at the time. I hoped the guy was wise enough to keep it safe because one CD at the time was quite pricey for a high school kid. At the time, KES 150 was a lot of money.

Even with bursts of testosterone awash inside me, I still had some footing in church. I spent a significant portion of my adolescence in boarding school. Whenever we were on holiday, I sang in the church choir. Once in a while, I also led worship. However, my church being the Pentecostal kind, I needed to be good with speaking in tongues – which I was shit at. The best I could do was set the pace and leave the spirit-summoning to the experts. After church, we would go home and conspire with my partner in crime on our next dirty little mission.

Bethuel, was heavy set but a bit shorter than me. He had a sister two sisters and an elder brother. As middle children, we took to each other because of so many similarities. Our elder brothers shared a name and we fancied the same kinds of music, cars and movies. It was no forced friendship. We glued perfectly.

Soft-spoken and smart, he reminds me of the silliest things we did as boys. Whenever we meet, we often laugh about it over beers wondering how fast time moved. He was one of the first friends I made when we moved to Bungoma and is pretty much the only one I have kept. With our bikes, there’s no dark corner of little Bungoma we did not reach. We were men on a mission. The itinerary was a little bit jumbled but that was the fun of it. We even burnt our scalps with hair relaxer chemical just to look good for the ladies. We were not stopping at anything. Not even New Year’s Kesha.

We were curious about nightlife. Particularly, I often wanted to know what it was like being close to the fireworks that illuminated the midnight skies on New Year’s Eve. During one Kesha, I excused myself, took out my phone and captured the lit-up night sky in awe, listening to the distant chants. We had little capacity to do this. But not for long. We made it my life’s mission to sneak out during the next year’s Kesha to cover the action as it unfolds.

Then next year, I sneaked from Kesha and him from his home. We soon met at one of the most famous joints that threw the best new year’s party. With little in the way of money, we carved out the verification stamp on our inner wrists with a pen and rubbed them off to look legit. Like pros, we walked right in unsuspecting of the guards. My heart beat from my mouth as the heavy bass thumped through the building. I had never seen so many girls, alcohol, and this much chaos. I felt like I had consensually lost my virginity. It wasn’t that bad. It was crazy good. We were too darn broke to afford a bottle of soda. So we strolled around. Guilty but satisfied.

The experience was so exhilarating we had to do it a second time. This time, there was a new club opening not far from where we stayed. We were close neighbours so the rendezvous point was easy to reach for both of us. As the escape time drew near, I climbed down from my bed, sneaked out through the door, pushed it back, slowly locked it and made a run for it. We met a few minutes later and off we went. Excited, young and curious.

This time, we had saved a little over KES 100 each. This was enough to earn us sodas and the courage for a dance on the floor. This short-lived newfound freedom was so potent that we got a high off of it. We were in some sort of a trance. It was as if we had inhaled a generous portion of angel dust. After a while, we were on our way back home, sneaking into our beds as if we had just left for a piss. I had crossed an ocean with one jump. Smiling at the ceiling, I must have felt like a god. A god over my oceans.

I soon had my first heartbreak, my first sip of booze and my first intimate encounter with a girl at around age 18. A lot more happened in between leading to this moment. I finished high school, went to university, met people, things and situations, graduated and still learning. I like to think that I have not turned out that bad.

As most of my adolescence curiosity has died down, I am still on a journey of self-awareness. Whenever I am at home, I still say that I will be running late. I respect the place faith has in my life and stick to the routine. Sing. Meditate. Pray. Am I a bad person? Am I a better person? Do I regret anything I did? What did all these life experiences amount to?

Taken back to 16, I would still do things the same way I did back then because I wouldn’t know better. For me, there are no regrets, just memories and lessons that built who I am today. As all these converge, my conscience and its bearing around faith, science, and my belief systems take shape and make meaning. Have you found your balance yet?

Ap-art Together

Growing up, I heard my mom sing all the time. Having spent most of my childhood in a single-parent household, my father (bless his soul) was pretty much in the literal picture. I always had this unbowed adoration for a man I knew from photos and other people. I jealously guarded the little memories I had of him. His strong, chiselled and refined ensemble of everything manhood took me to the hospital after a terrible fall that left my lip cleft in half. Other than that, I try to extrapolate what I think it would be like from the few photos I have of him.

My mother is not that open of a book. Taking up the role of a dad and mom came with extra ‘packages’ if I may. We never talked much about our dad. Not even with my brother. Once in a while, unsolicitedly, he shares his fondest memories surrounding their life in the Isiolo and Lanet Military Barracks.

To me, my dad looked like he lived by the quote, “it is not important to be a man. It is necessary.” He was manly as any man could get. Clean shaven beard, lean suits, and arms that looked like they had the firmest handshake. You don’t get that breed of men nowadays. Is short supply the word?

He was everything that ensembled manhood. Of course, closely followed by my brother. I borrowed a lot from the latter since he was the shadow of the man after whose image I followed even in his absence. I had fetishes with the thought of becoming a soldier once. A doctor too. Mostly, I wanted to be a recreation of the man whose name I carry like a crown over my head. “Heavy is the head that sits the crown,” they say. Thanking God for the strong neck too.

All my siblings borrow a lot from him. We are all taller than our average agemates and my brother and I took with us his deep voice. We also carried in us something plain to see but was never apparent to me – a mind-numbing sense of art that vehemently knocks at the doors of our creativity.

The man had a sense of style evidenced by how sharp he looked in photos. It never occurred to me that he was just as artistic as he was stylish. It’s no doubt my mom said ‘yes’ to him.

My siblings and I are all capable of expressing ourselves on canvas via visual art. My brother drew a lot back in high school. He also danced a lot both in church and school. He was a member of the drama club and had a pretty fluid body on the basketball court. I would bet my life on him if he went head-to-head with King James. My sister, on the other hand, has a good sense of virtual art too. She puts her happiness on paper and effortlessly carves out her wild imagination. She has her way around the microphone and works the flute like magic.

During one of the stellar episodes where he shares something about our father, my brother talked about how the latter had a collection of all sorts of music in VCRs stashed somewhere in the house. He was intentional about good music and made sure to listen to the best. I believe that this was the earliest run-in between me and music.

My mom was the second. She sang through everything. In church, in the house, and even when roughing me up for conspiring to keep the change after returning from the shops. You can tell that someone treasures their music if they sing when mad. Nobody was taking her joy away. Especially not even my cheeky little self.

I soon joined her in church, singing in the junior choir while she showed her peers how it is done in the women’s choir. In high school, I thought I would play basketball but I got a serious ‘sausage’ along with an epiphany that life was a little too precious for sausages. You get a sausage when a rebound ball awkwardly strikes the tip of one of your finger. The finger jams, swells, is difficult to bend and you can feel your heart beating through it. Given the rude awakening, I tried rugby for a while but I barely opened my eyes when the ball was passed in my direction. So I found solace in music.

At the music centre, there was no risk of sausages or a concussion. It was just me, resonance, and 40+ other people who just got it. In our little army, we conquered the world, tearing down our competition and stripping them of their identity as musicians. We were out to chew all that was left of their character winning many competitions and earning all the envy. It was good while it lasted. A precursor to a greater understanding of self.

***

Looking back, the times I stood in front of multitudes of many and poured my heart out were among the best I ever had. It was something special. It gave me purpose. Later on, we went ahead to form a band during my campus days. There were times when all my band wanted was just a place to prove our worth.

We could play music for free provided the hotels gave us a bite to sleep on. Don’t get me started with how many times the food never came through. Imagine a scenario where you go home hungry and broke after singing for hours on end for a multitude that was busy greasing their hands with steak. Add a smile to it. Double down on the passion. Remind yourself that just a handful looked up from their plates to appreciate your work. Does hunger matter now? Are you fulfilled?

Still, I think all of these moments counted because they gave me perspective. From my dad’s passion to my mom’s support, I was slowly growing into a man with a characteristic of each side for my own to keep.

It is quite a ride being a man of art. It comes with the persistent need to curate, create and make good of the little time on our hands. It means drawing energy from everything around us and giving life to new forms. It also means dealing with the struggle and the lack of appreciation for humble beginnings.

Moral of the story: Do not sing for food. Food is a woman. Speak into her and she will become.

Have a great week ahead!

Freedom

I have had this fixation on freedom for quite a while now. I tend to gravitate towards watching a ton of prison and crime documentaries. I often think about how a split of a second action could lead to a lack of freedom for a considerable amount of time. The thought of the lack of freedom often keeps my mind in an unending motion. A constant metronome. Everything I do seems to point in the direction of needing to appreciate the liberty we enjoy as a people.

I am pretty dark-skinned but I wouldn’t say no to the idea of a tattoo. For some time back there, I thought of trying an ivory tattoo, but I figured I would look like a snake. If or when I will have my first, it would be of a bird breaking off a circle – a symbol of freedom.

Innocently Guilty

I just finished watching a documentary on Netflix titled The Staircase. The story is a testament to how elusive freedom could be and how hard some of us fight to claim it, or at least the idea of it. In 2003, Michael Iver Peterson an American novelist was convicted for the murder of his wife who fell off the stairs two years earlier. As a self-certified couch detective, I believe that the legal system was simply working hard to get a conviction with complete disregard for actual justice – a complete irony given that justice is what they should deliver.

Peterson served a solid 8 years in prison whilst making his case but several of his appeals were thrown out of the window. As if his arrow prayers luckily poked the Big Man up there, the judge ruled a critical prosecution witness gave misleading testimony which warranted Peterson a second trial. He later spends 6 years earmarking the inconsistencies of the previous investigation and hoping that the case he was making would hold water in court.

Journeying with the guy since the death of his wife in 2001 and seeing him fight so hard to prove his innocence to little success sinks my spirit. With age now showing in his gait, kees, and shaky voice, a chance at a fair trial is all he is holding on to. This hope of a fair trial slowly wanes after legal counsel that there is no guarantee of exoneration, thanks to a flawed judicial system. Adding salt to injury, his kids admit to barely having the guts to go through a second trial. They don’t want to up their hopes only to suffer the same fate they did fourteen years back.

So in 2017, he submits an Alford plea to the reduced charge of manslaughter. In an Alford plea, a defendant in a criminal case does not admit to the criminal act and asserts innocence, but admits that the evidence presented by the prosecution would be likely to persuade a judge or jury to find the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

Peterson now has a permanent record on his name. A murderer condemned by the system – a smudge he has fought so hard for 14 years to rid himself of. He is now coming to terms with the realization that it is better to be called a murderer than to put up a fight he cannot win or will never. He would rather enjoy whatever time he was left with his children and grandchildren and live with the peace that he did all that was in his power than live in a concrete box with little in the way of ventilation, staring at a flickering light into hysteria because the second verdict came out worse than the first.

A Bowl of Rice

What does freedom mean to you? What works for you? Is it sitting in the front row or next to a window in a matatu? Is it an action? Is it a feeling? Is it someone? Is it something? Speaking of matatus, I derive a lot of freedom from sitting next to the driver by the door because of my height. Sitting anywhere else cuts the blood supply from my feet and the lower half of my body feels like a painful plank of wood. So the front peripheral raw gives me some much-needed freedom.

One day as I was leaving town from home, I had to wait for everyone else to enter the vehicle so that I could seat at the conductor’s seat since there is some element of legroom. As I waited, some guy who was standing by the front passenger door said something in the lines of ‘kiti ni kiti. Unawezaketi popote tuu.’ Which loosely translates to I could seat anywhere. All seats were the same. He had some little entitlement to his tone given that he had the front seat to himself as I later came to realize. I felt like he was belittling my concerns. My freedom of choice as a taxpaying citizen was being served in a pinch. I summoned my inner peace and took a deep one. We were soon out of the bus bay with the conductor’s crotch in my face every time the driver hit the brakes. The Kenyan public transport sector is a sad affair. But that’s a story for another day.

I also derive a lot if not most of my freedom from art. Expressing myself in music and writing is way up my alley. Here, I let my mind off the leash and allow my fingers to do whatever they please with words. In music, freedom comes both through listening and singing. Music, to me, is a special kind of freedom since it wells from within. It simmers from the depths of the lungs and fizzes through our spirit and into the air around us – carrying along with it everything that sank my heart. I cannot recall the number of times music has saved me from my mind and the things that give or deny life meaning.

Someone once said that we never know our chains until we start moving. How many steps have you made so far? Would you tell freedom from a bowl of rice or is it all the same for you? What breaks you free? These are not questions but onions. Things you peel slowly as you take them in. I’m Luhya so everything has to circle around food. I cannot help it. Let me be myself. Set me free!

One thing I know is that we are slaves to our minds and imagination. We don’t see the forest for the trees. We pretty much never think beyond our lusts, desires, and emotions. If you think about it, these are the upper bounds of our freedom. Like a ceiling, the three hold us like helium-filled balloons. The party happens all around us but we can’t go beyond the three. I may write enough books to litter the ocean. Hell, I could sing Russian to a ceasefire, but I am as much a prisoner to my mind and emotions as we all are.

As we go on with the journey of self-discovery, I am intent on making the most of the freedom I have. As I work toward this, I am cognizant of the fact that the only thing we will never be free from is loss. The loss of missed opportunities, love and life. Loss notwithstanding, it would not hurt to edge closer to true freedom every step of the way by appreciating life more and finding value in the little things we do and the people that give life meaning.

It would hurt to make mistakes on the journey of seeking freedom. But it would kill to not try at all. It’s time to call a bluff at situations, circumstances, and misgivings and make the best of the time we have.

In the eyes of the law, Peterson will never be innocent. Even as a free man, by the standards of the system, he will never be free to enjoy life to the full. But for how long will he let his freedom be defined by others? Fondle with my thoughts but do not steal my tattoo idea. Capisce?

Have a great week!

MAN OH, MAN

I have been out and about lately finding purpose in the abstractness of life and doing what most of adulting is about: finding means to get fulfilment to spend the acquired fulfilment. I have also been in a writing lull for quite a while owing to one thing. I have been at a place where my creativity has been tethered to some dark silhouette of perfectionism that I could barely break free from. The repetitive cycle is something I am working relentlessly to break.

Well, I have been doing a lot to counter it. I have done like 7 books already since January (I am saying this with the least self-importance. Ha-ha!), and I must admit it feels much better. I am also at par with my feelings and my being, thanks to good company.

Since I last wrote, COVID was probably on water break and I still had no idea that astigmatism was a thing. Well, a year down the line, I now wear glasses, I have two jabs of the vaccine up my upper arm and my feet get cold over colour, art and one particular set of eyes. Enough of me and what I have been up to. You may never get enough of that I swear. How are you? Are you happy? Does life make any little sense to you? What are you doing to give meaning to it?

As you think of that, I have gathered that the second biggest invention after electricity is non-stick cooking pots. Even ugali has got nothing on these bad boys! Taxis come in at a close third. I say this because moving from one point to another has been made so much easier. I have been finding my purpose this year by moving out and about and sampling life as best as I can. I noticed my creativity was becoming gooey sediment at the bottom of my soul and I needed all the moving about I could get to stir back the magic. Well, from one cab to the next I guess it worked in good measure.

I got to ride along with many kinds of cab drivers. The talkative, those who know the value of little pockets of silence, those who do little to speak like they have ghosts in their heads, those who make a 1-star rating an option you could quite easily consider, those who give you clarity and those who make you double down on your trust issues.

Once, after a visit to my brothers’, I journeyed with a cub guy around Nairobi at around ten pm to the hotel I was staying at. My geography tells me that were cruising past what seemed to be the Kilimani area in the dark car. Of late, I have developed an interest in cars. We were discussing how his car struggles over a hill as compared to one that zoomed past us whose make I cannot remember. Then the godsent pockets of silence filled the cabin just for the right amount of time. As though intentionally, the driver then started fidgeting with what seemed to be nylon paper on his right side away from my eye. It was dark in the cabin so I could not see what he was doing with his hand. I did not want to make it any weird than it already was by getting all suspicious, so I just sat back clutching hard at my bag while listening to the rustling with increasing acuity. I prayed hard that it wasn’t what I thought it was. As it turns out, he was fishing for what seemed to be a derivative of tobacco called ‘kuber‘ in street lingo.

I gave Mr Kuber a 5-star rating, regardless. I was happy.

This article is not about Mr Kuber but about what we make out of these trips. It is about the satisfaction we derive from them and the place they leave us at. More importantly, it is about what we pick up but never register in memory. What we learn in passing.

Fast forward. Nakuru. On a journey to my place of residence, I ride with one Juma. He has a clean-cut shave and doesn’t sport a beard. He has something shy of a Kikuyu accent and a rasp to his voice. He tells me how my request whisked him from the claws of a damsel he was with nearby. He doesn’t say what they were doing and I don’t ask. I just flow with the conversation.

He tells me how familiar the woman is to him judging by her name. He believes that he has carried her before. Not once. Not twice. At least thrice. By now, we are on the main highway with building traffic so we take a detour through Nakuru town to beat the traffic three exits ahead. All along, Juma keeps poking at me just above my knee with his finger as he speaks. He has no regard for personal space and seems pretty upbeat about his story than about what I may make of his demeanour.

The lady in question is on work duty but he has a gut feeling that she might be a prostitute (not that I have the moral authority to judge). I ask him on which premise he found his assumption. He points his clue to her hair and manner. He says that the former is typical of the ‘night’ lifestyle and that the circumstance that they met tells a tale. Deep inside, he admits to wanting to see her again curious of where the evening will lead. He says that he will be getting back to her as soon as he is back in town. But somehow, he must first make good of his suspicions. It is almost as though he wants me to validate his argument but I may not be of so much help. After all, he seems pretty excited. In all my years of giving free advice, I figure that when it comes to women, one’s opinion is as good as none at all. So I keep quiet and prod wherever I can. Trying as much as I can to seem helpful.

As we drive, he switches the discussion to that of faith. He tells me how woke filling stations are nowadays with many of them having a prayer section for Muslims on transit. He also shares his prayer routine: doing at least five prayers a day every day. That’s when it dawns on me that he is Muslim. There was a disconnect between the name and the accent but Juma has never been any particular ethnicity’s name so it wasn’t natural to assume that he was Muslim.

He turns out to be a devout one. As we drive, he opens up the glove compartment and inside it sits a well-folded mat that he spreads out and rests his knees upon every time he needs to pray. Along the way, he spots a mosque that he promises to visit on his way back once he drops me. You can feel how connected and proud he is with his faith as he tells you the strict prayer routine he follows. He does up to seven prayers in a day – something we Christians see as a ginormous task. Call it culture or commitment, he goes hard at it.

As he drops me by the gate, I see much of every other kind of man in him. He shows me that we are no different even when religion and spirituality paint a huge difference. Religious, spiritual, both or none, we all seem to have commonalities that define us. Things that make us men. Strong among these things is our need for and affinity to women. As he backs up to the road, I ask him to pray for me on his way to the mosque. Seven minutes, at most, is all he will take. What follows after that? Your guess is as good as mine.