How I Met Lorraine

And that’s how I met Lorraine. I was heading home one afternoon, and as I walked out the building I ran into a bunch of high schoolers hanging out. My eyes zeroed in on a Maxi skirt, this flowing phenomenon of fashion. A Maxi skirt is such a contradiction for me. My sense of style is all about minimalism; I dislike anything superfluous in a dress – bits the tailor should clearly have trimmed before the item made it to the store. Except when it comes to Maxi skirts: where excess is the new simple. And Lorraine wore hers with panache. The light grey skirt fit her perfectly, sculpting her hips and curves like marble. The cotton-polyester blend moved in waves as she stood chatting with her buddies. She wore her top a little small; if you paid attention as she balanced on one leg then the other, you saw a glimpse of her firm tummy underneath. And then her hair-do was a school-girl-blow-dried-pony-tail that’s quite common in Nairobi. More fashionable than corn rows, but not illegal like perms and weaves. Basically, she looked hot. I’d not seen this group of kiddos before, and they did not seem particularly studious. They all seemed to be at the library more for the company than for quiet study spaces. I overcame my prejudice. I also knew I had to step up and Carpe Diem, chances were that this beauty would not be frequenting the stacks. The surprise is that I somehow plucked up enough courage to walk over, say hello, and introduce myself. Two minutes later I could not have told you what her companions’ names were, but I did walk away with Lorraine’s email address. This was 2001, and we were all going digital. Cell phones were not yet in, so email was the way to stand out.

And we began an email correspondence. Mostly one paragraph messages that always started “I hope you’re well?” Sometimes I’d be adventurous and switch it up to “Sasa, I hope U r OK?” Once final exams were over, we had a lot more time on our hands. We could write more often. I was now a frequent customer at my neighborhood cyber café. Going to the “Cyber” was posh. This practice clearly marked as you not-villager, as destined for great things. It was all about being modern. Forget that connection was dial-up, and a few kilobytes of email took forever to load. The keyboards were clunky, and the monitors huge. Internet cafes crammed in as many machines as they could; most of them locked away in wooden cabinets for a semblance of privacy, but especially for security reasons.

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Going to the “Cyber” was posh. This practice clearly marked as you not-villager, as destined for great things.

Once Lorraine and I had established an ongoing conversation, email was no longer enough. We needed something more immediate, a way to hear the gasps, sighs, and heart throbs that accompanied whatever news we exchanged. And that’s how we graduated to evening phone calls. Lorraine gave me a cell number, and advised me to call mostly in the evenings after 5pm. The phone probably belonged to her parents. It was one of those 0733 numbers, the very first sequence of KenCell mobile subscribers. KenCell, rival to the much more established Safaricom, was rolling out phone booths by the hundreds, and signing new customers by the thousands. Their ideas was to grab as much market share as possible, then worry about profits later. At Vet, next to the first supermarket in the area, KenCell installed a phone booth. You couldn’t miss it if you tried: neon pink, bright and shiny. It called attention to itself, and whoever was suave enough to have business with it. The chemist in the same complex sold phone cards in KSHS 100, 250, 500, and 1000 denominations. My go-to was the KSHS250 card: affordable enough to my unemployed wallet, but not so cheap that you’d be embarrassingly cut off mid-sentence just as you were melting your Intended’s heart. Around 5:30pm I’d shower, get dressed, and walk to the phone booth. If I was too early, I’d hang around for a bit, before placing my call.

“Hello, may I please speak with Lorraine?” Most days, she’d pick up herself, clearly waiting for my call. Other times, I’d be less lucky. Or perhaps she would be on the line with other suitors. The worst was calling, one of her relatives would pick up, and let me know that Lorraine was around, just not in the house. That perhaps she’d just ran out for an errand and would be back soon; would I please call back in about 15-20 minutes? That meant waiting as the sun went down. And the mosquitoes came out!

Eventually, I did get through, and convinced her to venture out to my house. We arranged the trip; she was to come over next week on Tuesday. I was super excited; Lorraine was quite the catch – way above my pay grade. And I couldn’t wait to meet her at the bus stop and walk her home. I could just imagine how envious my Kangawa buddies would be. My instructions were pretty easy; she caught a 111 matatu, and got off at Vet. This stop was a little farther away from my house than Bul, but it was also more polished. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint my ka-babe by walking her through the dilapidated slum that Bul Bul township was.

I was feeling all kinds of nervous that afternoon. My mom had errands to run so she was out of the house. Home alone! With a gorgeous girl for company – 7th heaven! I made sure to set aside some food for her, a plate of the githeri we’d had for lunch. I met Lorraine, and we started walking back home. Just a few houses away, we ran into my mother, she was standing by the roadside chatting with Njane. We, obviously, had to walk over and say hello. This was an excruciating moment and I couldn’t wait to be done. Meeting with my mother, and Njane’s knowing glances, was seriously undoing the cool demeanor I’d adopted for that afternoon.

Lorraine had some of the githeri. Then we just sat chit-chatting about nothing. I wanted to kiss her. And having no idea how to ask her, I suggested that I show her my bedroom. I’m neat to a fault, so my room was always a pleasure to show off, especially my small fiction library. These were still the days when teenagers exchanged Danielle Steele’s, James Grisham’s, and Sidney Sheldon’s: paperback American thrillers and romance series. We sat on my bed and flipped through the books, our finger tips grazing as we perused the glossy covers. I had all sorts of dreams about physical intimacy. I was done with high school, my virginity intact, and ready to lose it. A part of me hoped this afternoon might be the day!

Then Lorraine started coughing. Our house didn’t have a ceiling. You could see right through the boxed rafters, originally designed for nailing the ceiling boards, to the green-colored mabati sheets. Our neighbor to the right had a tall Acacia tree in his yard. The Acacia did a wonderful job of providing shade during hot afternoons, but it also shed leaves like crazy. The small twigs, a giraffe delicacy, would make their way into the most counter-intuitive spots. For sure you could spot Acacia leaves on the gutters which harvested rain water, but you could also see some of these leaves caught in spider webs on the ceiling or indeed floating down towards you from the rafters. As I tried to assuage Lorraine back into health, one of those brown, dry twig floated from my bedroom ceiling, landing neatly on a shiny Sidney Sheldon cover between us. And just like that, I knew my dreams of being an afternoon Casanova were gone. My libido dropped in tandem with the falling leaf. She was now coughing up a riot; she was in no position for a kiss, much less a sexual proposition. I ushered her out of the seclusion of my room, back into the living room. I dashed back to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water, pausing momentarily by the side board with all of Mother’s delicate china. This was the stuff my family never used; it was only available for special occasions – like when we had guests over. Lorraine accepted the water thankfully, gulping it down before placing the glass – clear, with blue leaflets plastered on its side – back onto the table. We didn’t sit for much longer, since it was already getting late, and not only would Mother be back soon, Lorraine also still needed to catch a bus home.

Ever the gentleman, I walked her to the bus stop. Though disappointed, I had no choice since she would not have found the path back on her own. I’m glad that I did. I chose to use the shorter route through Bul; this was the path I had often taken to and fro school. Unless I’d gone to evening mass, I’d cut across town around 6pm, in my school uniform, and my back pack swinging on one shoulder. That late in the day, it was all survival mode: just make it home so I could sit down for a snack. With Lorraine beside me, though, I was in beast mode. I walked liked I owned the entire city, like a Big Dog. But I still had to play it cool: real men, I figured, don’t make it too obvious that they’re smitten by the woman whose hand they’re holding.

Deux Vultures had just released a hit single “Monalisa.” The song is all about this gorgeous babe whom the persona is in love with. His buddies are totally shocked that he snagged such a catch. Those lyrics described me to a T. No surprise then that just as we walked past the last block of shops, some joker belted out the line “Cheki vile Monalisa anatingisha!” “Watch Monalisa move her hips!” Lorraine chuckled; I squeezed her hand a bit and gave the guy a nod. I was basically like “yeah! You said it!” Heading to town on a weekday afternoon means you’re going against traffic. Lorraine didn’t have to wait for long before an empty matatu came by. One hug and a goodbye later, she boarded, and that was that. Lorraine and I met a few weeks later to watch “Captain Cornelius’ Mandolin” at Nairobi Cinema. But I moved to Singapore soon after and our love never blossomed.

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Study Habits Die Hard

I was hooked on success. After leading the pack in our end of term 1 exams, I wanted more of the same. I figured I could repeat this feat in term two. This was the genesis of study habits that have largely endured to this day.

KCSE exams are a big fucking deal in Kenya. And they were certainly a big deal in my house. But all these was unspoken, of course. My family was not rolling in dough, and I knew that education was pretty much my only avenue to get ahead. My parents worked hard, but I recognized that if I was to escape the cycles of debt which they endured, my path lay through those dastardly end of high school certificates.

I’d go to bed at 10pm, often sleeping mid-sentence as I was chatting with my cousin. Wainaina lived with us, and took care of the family quarry operation. Since we didn’t have a guest room, and he was a permanent addition to the family, he couldn’t sleep on the couch. We squeezed two beds into my bedroom. They flanked what was formerly my mom’s sewing table, which I’d converted into my study desk. By 3am the next morning I’d be out of bed, looking for a matchbox to light a kerosene lamp. It gets chilly in Nairobi at dawn, but often that was not enough to keep me up. If I started dozing off, I resorted to a crude technique that would have made the infamous Nyayo House torturers proud: sticking my feet into a basin half filled with cold water. That shit works. All of a sudden your brain is jolted back to reality and the Chemistry equations you were looking at begin to make sense!

Although I lived pretty far from school, and had to take two buses on my daily commute, I was often one of the first students to get on campus. Arriving at 6:30am usually gave me just over an hour to study quietly before the grounds got noisy. And this was the second pillar in my study plans. I either sat outside in the same spaces we occupied over tea break and lunch hour, or found an empty classroom and squirreled myself away in the corner. With time, I even found a partner in crime. Lois was a year ahead of me, so she had her big exams looming large. She was pretty good at school, and hence she did not wait to do last minute revisions. And while she had more material to cover than I did, I was often a resource when she had questions about topics she’d gone over two or three years ago. I loved my study sessions with Lois, and it certainly didn’t hurt that she was pretty. We had the same kind of demeanor: mostly quiet and subdued. But I also totally had the hots for Diana, her close friend. Tricky situation this. It was the year 2000 and Beyonce’s Destiny’s Child was topping global billboards. “Say My Name” was exactly what I silently willed Diana to do. But my infatuation was more often associated with the feelings evoked by Whitney Houston’s “It’s Not Right But It’s Okay:” sad rejection and unreciprocated affection.

Weekday study plans started at 3am, and continued once I got to school at 6:30am. I deliberately did nothing all day Sunday, except go to morning mass, read the Sunday Nation, and possibly go for a walk with Njoki, or jog by myself. Saturdays, however, were heavy lifting kinda days. I’d be up, dressed, and having had breakfast by 7:45am. This gave me about 20 minutes to walk to the main road from where I could catch a 111 into town. The goal was to be at the Kenya National Library HQ by 8:45. 15 minutes later, I’d have deposited my bag – you couldn’t walk into the premises with that – and I’d be sitting at a desk ready to get work done.

 

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KCSE exams are a big deal in Kenya.

The Kenyan exam school is pretty big on rote learning and memorizing facts. The best students are not necessarily the most creative, but rather those who can regurgitate what they get from their teachers or their textbooks. I had problems with the system, but I also knew I’d have to play by the rules. I planned my Saturday study sessions in such a way that I could review 4 years’ worth of material for every subject. Form 1 and Form 2 lecture notes were fairly quick to go over, but by Form 3 the material becomes more challenging. The stuff we covered in Form 4 was of course super important since that would come up in our final exam. I’d slowly work my way through Math, English, Kiswahili, Biology, Chemistry, Physics, Social Studies, and French.

Math and Chemistry were totally intuitive for me. As long as I made time for practice questions, I was OK. English, Kiswahili, and Social Studies were all literature-based. So that was pretty fun for me. But Social Studies was ridiculously counter-intuitive. In Form 1 and Form 2 I approached the subject like philosophy – that all questions were open to interpretation and so the examiner and I could debate on the merits of an answer. Well, turns out I was dead wrong. In response to the questions, “what makes a good society?” there was apparently only one answer. And that was the response you gave in Form 1, Form, 2, Form 3, and … guess what? Form 4 as well! Once I figured out that Social Studies had pre-approved answers I was expected to vomit on my exam paper, I started getting A’s!

My library sessions ended at 3pm. I’d not carry lunch, so I had to make sure my breakfast that morning would tide me over, but I stopped for a break every 45min. I’d walk around and browse rows of old Physics and Chemistry texts from the 50s and 60s. Safety in the reading rooms was not exactly tight, and this was before the era of security cameras. Which all meant I either took my books with me during break – and risked having someone take my spot, or I stayed within sight of my property, lest it get jacked and re-sold as 2nd hand books on Nairobi’s streets. To go to the bathroom you did a quick Hail Mary, and bolted there and back!

Studying at the library was not all work, however. There was a lot of play to be had. In early October, just before KCSE finals, we got about 10 days to go study at home. I spent every day of my study break in the reading room. This was now the last stretch, serious stuff. I even brought lunch with me so I could sit for an extra two hours till 5pm.

Read, To Promote World Peace

In my current Caribbean Literature course, my students and I just finished reading V. S. Naipaul’s Miguel Street. I’ve loved this book since I was in high school. In some ways, it was surreal to be using the same copy I read back at home, while teaching at a state university I never knew existed until just a few years ago. The humor in the text still entertains, and the depictions of violence that Naipaul deploys are just as troubling.

Lincoln, Nebraska is not your grandmother’s holiday destination. In the public eye, especially to folks in the North East or the West coast, this is the middle of nowhere. Literally. And there may be some truth to that. Whenever I’m in Kenya, friends and family always ask me where I currently reside. In college, when I said I lived in Pennsylvania, that made sense. Miami was the cause of envy during my stay there for graduate school. I’d often get concerns about how I was EVER able to study while living so close to the beach and all the debauchery that Hollywood portrays about South Florida. None of that happens now that I’ve moved to Lincoln. More often people are just confused about where on the U.S. map they’d locate  Nebraska. For me though, what’s most remarkable is that there’s always something familiar about the unknown.

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The humor in the text still entertains, and the depictions of violence that Naipaul deploys are just as troubling.

We read Naipaul’s Miguel Street but we didn’t simply turn pages. We also listened to Calypso by Harry Belafonte and Calypso Rose. The novel has so many allusions to music it would have been crazy not to. Looking to better understand how humor works in Trinidad, we watched drama by Learie Joseph on YouTube. We engaged with Trinidad and Tobago’s history vis-a-vis Caribbean institutions of slavery, the production of sugar and rum, and foreign occupation. This last one came under many forms: Spanish, Dutch, and French dominion, British colonialism, and even American military installations during WWII. In other words, we approached “reading” from a very expansive point of view. My intent was to make familiar a small island nation in the Caribbean that most students may not have previously heard of. And for those who had, this was more often under familiar narratives of tourism–and the paradise waiting to be discovered in Trinidad–or third world poverty–and the hungry, naked children in need of western charity. Rarely would western media highlight the creativity in the region: poets, musicians, or even Carnival attendees.

It’s easy for me to find commonalities with strangers. As a child, I grew up plugged in to a diverse range of global cultural production. While I physically didn’t leave Kenya until I was 18, for years before that I’d intellectually explored North America, Britain and parts of continental Europe, India, Australia, and South Africa. How did this happen? By reading.

Growing up, whatever disposable income my family had was geared towards funding our education. And even then it was often not enough. Hence, toys were mostly out of the question. I got a bright red tricycle when I was three. Once I out grew that, that was the end of me having a bike at home. I loved wristwatches. To get one, however, I’d often have to bargain with my mother, and the purchase was conditional upon me performing really well at school. Our TV set was a 14″ black and white tube for the longest time. But even though toys and cool electronic gadgets were rare at home, the trappings of middle class respectability that really got me green with envy were BOOKS.

I especially loved detective stories. And Enid Blyton’s Famous Five series was absolutely at the top of that list. Following the adventures of four kids and a dog solving crime in the English countryside left me feeling like I’d just travelled with them. Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys had the same effect. Caroline Keene’s and Franklin Dixon’s books, respectively, helped me map out the United States long before I ever set foot here for college. I crisscrossed Europe with TinTin’s eponymous protagonist, his pet dog Snowy, and his occasional companions: the Captain and the two professors. Right alongside Asterix and Obelix, two cartoon characters, I fought colonizing 1st century Romans, rooting for the Gauls. Obviously.

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Caroline Keene’s and Franklin Dixon’s books, respectively, helped me map out the United States long before I ever set foot here for college.

Reading such a wide range of stories was great. It was, as I’ve also come to discover, terribly one-sided. Keene and Dixon each have about 65 books in their series. I can count on one hand the number of characters who are people of color. Between the two of them, these authors wrote an America that was white-washed to the extreme! Unintentionally, on their part, that glaring omission actually speaks volumes. It is wholly representative of how the American nation has historically reacted to communities of color. But in some ways The Adventures of Tintin was actually worse. Belgian Cartoonist Georges Remi DID feature Native Americans and even Congolese Africans in his work. But these appearances were soaked in racial stereotypes. “Red Indians” attempted to scalp Tintin, while big-lipped Congolese savages cooked him in a pot.

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Keene and Dixon each have about 65 books in their series. I can count on one hand the number of characters who are people of color.

India featured large in my childhood. There were Asians in Nairobi shops, some of whom were newly-emigrated, but many of whom were third and fourth generation Kenyans. But even more exciting were Bollywood films on national TV every Sunday afternoon. Yes, these movies were sappy, and the characters broke into song every ten minutes. But the storylines were great. Recreations of the Hindu epic, Ramayana, had small boys naming themselves Hanuman and re-creating the struggle to save Sita during lunch break at school. There was much that was strange about this cinema, but there was so much more that we found intriguing and cool. India might have been far away, but it was portrayed to seem much closer. Perceptions of distance shrunk. Home and Away, an Australian TV show broadcast the land Down Under straight into my living room on weekday evenings.

Reading will not singlehandedly stop WWIII. But fiction, music, cinema, poetry and a range of other cultural artifacts are a great way to begin conversations with “strangers.” Reading, widely defined, inspires the imagination. We begin to seek new connections that emphasis curiosity over prejudice, understanding over antagonism. Reading is not an end by itself, but it’s a pretty good first step. White Allies of the BLM movement have been directed to online reading lists. Reading might seem passive and solitary, but regimes that ban literature know this is absolutely not true. Reading can also mobilize communities of resistance. So go on, find a book, song, or film from a place you know absolutely nothing about, and make the strange familiar. Alternatively, dig a little deeper into someone, something, or somewhere you know pretty well, and discover aspects of their existence you’d never imagined. Make the familiar strange.

In the Zone & Loving It!

Over time, I came to accept that I really enjoyed school work. This was a big deal. Acknowledging my own nerdy tendencies happened slowly. I resisted the process every step of the way wishing, instead, that I was more macho. In the first and second grade, thankfully, I had not yet developed such inhibitions.

My Standard 2 class teacher, Miss Grace, groomed me to self-confidence. This was despite my very reserved nature. Her and I came to an understanding where I’d do extra homework and she’d review it next time we met in class. Taking on parts of the syllabus we hadn’t tackled in our lessons,  or completing more than the assigned homework assignments felt great. The more I practiced my math and English skills the better I got, and this increased my sense of accomplishment. I could clearly tell that I was good at school. This compensated for many things. For one, I was pretty mediocre at many of the activities boys my age engaged in. I couldn’t slay birds with a catapult, score goals in soccer, or swim at a pond in our neighborhood river. Although tall, I was still kinda puny, and had no fighter spirit in me. But the hours I spent hurdled over grammar exercises wiped all those inadequacies away.

Being a private school, our curriculum often meandered from the government regulations adhered to by public institutions. Nowhere was this more apparent than in our English classes. We read from, and worked through, overseas grammar textbooks with glossy hard covers. These texts were imported and cost a pretty penny. Consequently, I’d often spend the first half of the school term borrowing my friends’ copy of Better English or looking over their shoulder. My coping mechanism, other than enviously wishing I had access to all the resources my peers did, was to make the most of the few times I could get my hands on a book. More than once I’d stay behind at my desk during Physical Ed, finishing my homework assignments using a classmate’s textbook. This way, I could hand it back to her when she returned after an hour spent running, jumping rope, or playing hide and seek in the school’s outdoor gymnasium: a grassy field. Other times, Tr. Grace would let me take home her Haydn Richards’s Junior English. I have a really fond place in my heart for her and Tr. Ones, my grade 3 class teacher.

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It’s not until many years later, when I was completing my Kenyan Certificate of Secondary Education, as well as the International Baccalaureate, that I knew the luxury of having all my textbooks provided for. In retrospect, this is really how education should happen, but back then it simply seemed magical. Free textbooks? Sign me up! Through college and graduate school, I wouldn’t have been caught dead without my course books. In addition  to signaling me out as an unprepared student, I always felt that sharing texts with my colleagues drew unnecessary attention to my socio-economic background. Now, as I stand in front of, and conduct, my own courses, I cannot fathom student behavior when they appear in class empty-handed. It’s bad enough that they show up in a literature class without the primary resources – kinda like turning up at the lab without your lab coat, long pants, and closed shoes. Yet to make matters worse, my students will simply sit, taking no initiative to get their hands on a copy. As one colleague after another reads a page from the day’s assigned text, the student in question will keep squirming. Finally, when I ask them to read – naturally, I must put them in the spotlight to passive-aggressively point out their showing up in my class unprepared – they’ll murmur something about not having a book with them. Argh! Often, I’ll notice that 1 or 2 students are staring off into space as the rest of us reads and I’ll enquire where their texts are. “I don’t have my book today.” I will inwardly roll my eyes at this juvenile behavior, before asking them to move and share with a peer. Clearly, these kids lack my own prowess at finding resources by hook or by crook. That’s a luxury I cannot identify with.

More than once, after our hot cup of tea around 10am, I’d head back to class to wrap up a few more math or English comprehension passages for Tr. Ones. A few hours later, after the rotation of dishes that made up our lunch menu – ugali and beans, rice and beans, boiled potatoes and cabbage – I’d make my way to the dreaded Ngong Hills Academy lavatory facilities before heading back to class. Mother had brought home a thick, bound writing pad. I carefully split each page into two with a straight line down the middle, and proceeded to cram it with extra grammar activities. Each pupil had 2 exercise books, one for classwork, and another for homework. It made sense for me to have a third that compiled my own solitary attempts through the syllabus. Sometimes there’d be play: a game of cops and robbers. With thumb cocked, and  the two-finger barrel pointed at an adversary, we’d recreate last night’s TV episode of Tausi, Superman, or Renegade. But I was just as likely to be found sitting alone, working through some work of fiction. The NHA school library was actually well-stocked, for its day. It had, unfortunately, more been designed as a lockable room to store valuable resources, than as an open space when students could freely interact with books. One might have needed an ID or a teacher’s permission to walk in, I forget which. A ridiculous regulation from when colonial Kenya policed its subjects’ access to knowledge. There was a long boardroom-style table in the middle, with about 15 to 20 chairs around it. The walls, however, were a sight from heaven. Floor to ceiling shelves filled with books. It smelled like paradise. And not even the devilish librarian, who’d much sooner that we’d not stepped into her domain could ruin the atmosphere. In any case, it was easy to forgive her. She was sharply dressed, in her early twenties, and fascinating to our 10-year-old eyes. One collection in the library held stories from the United States about a young black girl. On the one hand, these were the rather expensive books our greasy hands were only permitted to handle with extreme care. On the other, the texts must have been the first attempts at representing diversity. They were barely captivating, despite their foreign setting, and more often off-putting for their prosaic nature.

Football was a fully-sanctioned playtime activity. Boys would bring home-made balls to school in the morning. The compressed rolls of  plastic bags were wound together so tight, they actually bounced. Depending on the skill of the fellow who made it, the outermost layer would be a web made of red and yellow tough nylon string. These balls were a precious commodity. As replacements to the more expensive inflatable soccer equipment, they helped popularize the sport to kids in all social milieus. Teachers understood this perfectly. Staff on duty would happily confiscate a soccer ball, stashing it in the staff room as punishment for some infraction or other. Any student brave enough to venture into that lair of male and female educators, asking after his prized possession, must have had a death wish. Some kids could pull it off. Most, however, only got their balls back after receiving several strokes of the cane for their trouble. During P.E., we’d be separated by gender. I never saw girls play soccer. Often, we’d start the class with a co-ed circle of game songs. Each student sat on the grass, and 1 randomly selected pupil would walk around on the outside as we all joined her in singing “I sent a letter to my father…” At the end of the song, as the walker chose the individual who’d found the lost letter, we’d all perk up. “It wasn’t you! It wasn’t you! It wasn’t you! But. It. Was. YOU!” The person tagged last, and the tagger, would run in opposite directions. The goal was to return to the empty spot before your opponent, in which case you’d get to sit as they walked around the circle for another round of the game. It helped to tag one of the unfit kids.

Another favorite group activity was “nyama, nyama, nyama.” Everybody stands, one student facing the rest of the group. He chants “Nyama! Nyama! Nyama!” And the group replies, “Nyama!” The soloist will then reel out a list of edible meats. “Ya ng’ombe?” “Nyama!” “Ya kuku?” “Nyama!” “Ya kondoo?” “Nyama!” Expert players would then rush their audiences through a quick succession of edible meats: chicken, mutton, camel, goat, and each time the group as a whole would jump and shout “Nyama!” Yes, indeed, that particular animal is edible. The point of the game was to trick a member of the audience into jumping and affirming edible an animal that was known to be anything but. Having lulled his listeners into a soothing pattern of palatable meats, the leader would throw in “Ya paka?” If you were alert you’d stay standing and shout back “Sio nyama!” If you’d been duped into jumping and shouting that cat meat is eatable, you’d get laughed at, and have to swop positions with the chanter. You were it. Not until later did we appreciate the fact that cat, dog, donkey, zebra, and many more besides, are all delicacies in spaces outside our Ngong Hills experience.

Following this, the girls would go off on one side to play Kati, while the boys would walk towards the goal posts for a match. Renowned players always got to be captains. Let’s just say I was never captain. These two would then get to pick their team, strategically trying to get the best men on their side before the other side did. There was never much hurry to pick me. If given a choice I’d more happily have walked off the pitch. Under a teacher’s duress, however, I was content to play defense. I accepted my handicap as a forward striker, and would rarely attempt anything so skillful. But I was a dogged defender, left or right, but more often right. I could mark my man, and really throw myself into the scuffle until my opponent either lost or passed the ball. There was a stubbornness associated with defense work that I truly enjoyed. A certain risk-taking did not hurt either. It was not uncommon to collide with your opponent’s shin, boot, or knee. Often we played barefoot. Cleats and shin guards were completely unheard of. Meanwhile, the girls would be playing 1 or 2 simultaneous games of dodgeball. Two girls would stand in a line, and everyone else would stand in the middle. The girls at the end would throw a small fist-sized ball between them. Their objective was to hit one of the girls in the middle. Those in the middle strove to either dodge or catch the ball without dropping it, before sending it back to a thrower at either end. It made sense to pick the low-lying fruit first. Any girls who were even slightly overweight and challenged in the fitness department were eliminated first. Expert players could crouch, jump, and swerve in acrobatic moves that defied the throwing capacities of the strikers at each end. These would be declared the winners.

On the First Day…

We’d just moved house in June 1990. We were now living about 4km from Ngong town and it was time for me enroll back in school. The 2nd academic term runs from early May through end of July; after catching up, I’d have almost 6 weeks before the end-of-term assessments. That first week, I was accompanied by my mother who helped me figure out the bus route. We boarded a 111 matatu at Bulbul Market on its way from Nairobi. During peak hours, passenger vehicles heading to Nairobi would be crowded with private employees and civil servants on their way to offices in the CBD. Squashed next to each other, passengers suffered the indignity of smelling unwashed armpits, stale breath, and rancid week-old socks. Given than we were heading in the opposite direction, it was easy to get a seat. As soon as we boarded, the van drove downhill past a former meat processing plant. At Vet, a bus stop named after the agricultural and veterinary extension farm that ran beside the road, a few older women got in and sat  in front of us. Given their baskets made of recycled nylon sacks, they were headed to the Ngong Market. Just past the PCEA Enchoro-Muny church, and before the matatu got to its last stop, my mom and I alighted.

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Right to left, Joram N. and I. Circa 2008. This kid was legendary! A goof who was ever willing to explore the lighter side of life.

We’d walk the rest of the way to school; 5 minutes later, she pointed out where one of her uncles lived. With time, this would be my favorite alternative after-school destination. But for now, I focused my energy on getting the hang of this new community: Ngong Hills Academy. A place I’d eventually call home for the next 8 years. Mr. and Mrs. Mureithi, the proprietors of the school, had turned the institution into a brand name associated with academic excellence. The private school education did not come cheap. But both parents and faculty understood that the hefty investment in a child’s future would certainly pay off.

That first day, we walked into the receptionist’s office. Mom and I met Mrs. Mureithi, the headmistress, and I was led to my class by a staff member. I was enrolled in Standard One with Teacher Christine. The thing about Tr. Christine is that she was cute, in that attractive aunty kind of way. She presided over her quota of 6 and 7-year-olds with magnanimity. I was assigned to a large table where I sat on a wooden chair and avoided eye contact with the other 3 kids who, already seated, preferred to stare instead of crayoning within the line. Like mine, their chairs were painted in the primary hues of the color wheel: red, blue, yellow. This vibrant background helped highlight our school uniforms.

Being a proper academy, Mrs. Mureithi’s institution set itself apart in many ways. Not for her pupils the earthy brown, dark green, and slimy pink that public schools in the region mandated as school uniform. Instead, she chose a blue sweater, red and white checked shirt and grey shorts for boys, or red and white plaid dresses for girls. These were crowned using grey socks with blue, white, and yellow stripes at the top. Footwear was standard issue, black or brown. In the right conditions, this combo reeked of middle-class dreams and anxieties about one-upping your neighbors. It was the perfect advertising strategy.

I began my Ngong Hills education with a bang and I blame it all on Wakori. It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill story. Classroom bully always seeking attention. Spies fresh prey on whom to exercise his power games. Pounces. The victim strikes back, viciously. Bully, totally stunned, sees his young life flash before him, and vows to reform his ways. Everyone lives happily ever after. And that’s the way it went down between Wakori and I. Almost. Except for the part about me standing up to my tormentor.

This is how it really went down. It was right after lunch, a bowl of boiled rice and bean stew. As usual, Tr. Christine  prepped her class for the daily arithmetic exercises.  I was nervous, and really wanted my penmanship to be perfect. This was a new school after all, and first impressions count. I pressed the pencil too hard into the square-lined exercise book and it buckled under pressure. A few seconds later, the lead point on my HB no. 2 flew half way across the table. I stood up to bend forward and stretch my short arms towards a pack of freshly sharpened pencils in the middle. Wakori saw this, smiled smugly, and went into action! I sat back down, expecting my chair to be exactly where my bum had left it a few moments before, Instead, I met nothing but a void. As I lost my balance and scrambled on the table’s edge to regain composure, I had that sinking feeling that accompanies public humiliation. A few sniggles later, with more wounded pride than broken bone, I pulled my chair back into place and concentrated on the task at hand. Tr. Christine was aghast. Wakori had been caught picking on the new kid! She not only gave him a good talking to, but may also have spanked him. At least I like to think she did. In my 7-yearr old imagination, Tr. Christine immediately transformed into a saving angel. And did I mention that she was cute, in that attractive-aunty kind of way?

What Eye Saw – III

The kisses. Many and often. Passionate, in a plastic kind of way. Self-conscious smooches that ride on the back of the Queen’s English to spread a Latter Day Pax Britannica. Frail, in the end; yet effective. These scrounged lips and bared teeth mole their way into teenage minds in Nairobi. They are suave and chic, and in the peri-urban Ngong area, as provincially anxious as we were of our small town roots, we lapped these up. It helped, too, that the token black girl was cute. Long flowing hair, heat treated to decorum. An upper middle-class sheen dominates the arrangement of hair ties and pins. The front bob is uppity personified. We eat it all up.

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Not just the possibility, but the actuality of being anyone, anywhere. On the back of his white, middle class ancestry, he rode on to be a pilot, a surgeon, a fireman, an engineer, a college professor, sometimes even an actor. This genius, was, as I’d later come to appreciate, an apt manifestation of privilege, and the mobility that accompanies it.

Hence, given the politics, this was a vision of life that was wholly seductive. And also adaptive. We marveled, in our school boy yarns, at his use of mobile phones. Plus, at a deeper level, a more guttural, instinctual, eat-meat-raw-and-bloody moment, we understood him as men. His pursuer was a Jezebel –  a wickedly beautiful tormentor none of us could resist, even if we’d tried. And yet he attempted, always no more than a step ahead of her long grasping nails. Barely out of reach. And yet, getting captured by this modern day Delilah, would it really have been such an awful thing? That was how blinding her sex appeal.

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Majestic twin peaks in Arches National Park

I think it was mostly the flowing hair, perfectly fanned and billowed into a cinematographic sculpture. There was, too, the dark green truck. I don’t know why green, when my TV set was black and white. But dark leafy hues best suggest the wild and untamed look he projected, assisted by a faithful companion. These were two men bonded in nature and violence, and not broken by any mountains. The poise between expansive outdoors and close-quarter combat.

Modern day cowboys. American Indians who seemingly preferred to not stay dead. Bobby-Six-Killer never sounded more poetic. A private eye duo that cleansed crime from a land wholly condemned of the original sin. The settlers on the land quipped, ” we shall miscege-Nation our way to Americanness;” successfully burrowing into claims of autochthony that 30, 000 years of settlement decried. But who’s counting?

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It was a millisecond moment that promised a whole life of adventure. Just that exact moment as the soundtrack began, and the TV series title appeared. Before, as it were, the blonde, bronzed limbs of Brooks Shields and her uber-suburban community unfolded. Way in advance of, it turns out, the bedroom misdemeanors that had had the program relegated to 2130 hours: post-national news hour, when adult supervision could be counted on. And if absent, not Kenya Broadcasting Corporation’s care.

The click from the shutter, opening, not closing, uncountable doors in the visual world. I birthed by dreams of dying a photographer midwifed by a Hollywood lens that peddled American sex, drugs, and violence. Could that I had belonged, even as an afterthought, in this pristinely white movie set. Scrubbed entirely of, the Civil War, and the Civil Rights. This was the Nineties, after all, and heaven forbid that the bitter aftertaste of history trouble our determined march towards the future of a new millennium. This is how it was, to be Bold & Beautiful.

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This is the monk who became a daddy. And the son flails in tight upper cuts and round houses, achieving a sense of release unrecoverable since that moment of birth. What weighs this family down, and together, is the impossible search for mother. Mother earth, and Wife earth, absent. This unholy crime-busting trinity is incomplete. The quest is incarnate, as spirit. And so we have before us, ladies and gentlemen, the father, the son, and the searching spirit. There may, too, have been whiffs of whiskey in that deep-pocketed shoulder bag slang on top of a trench coat above the old man’s shoulders. A rebellious spirit this. A spirit of color. A spirit with color.

What Eye Saw – II

Part of my religious education since elementary school has always revolved around Hinduism. Sita and Krishna were not merely names on temple sites in Nairobi, but also deities I read about.   But what really brought this education alive for me was watching the Ramayana epic on TV. Back in the day when Kenya Broadcasting Corporation was the only TV station available, they aired Hindi movies every Sunday afternoon. Most of these were Bollywood hits, complete with subtitles and the musicals. We never watched these films for the acting; it was subpar, and yet there was an allure to viewing a small sliver of a continent we knew little about. Unlike the West, India did not bombard East Africa with enormous amounts of cultural artifacts. Instead, over several centuries, India had shared with us her traders, her laborers, her sailors, her cuisine, her spices, and eventually her rail building expertise.

Ramayana, hence, was both exotic and familiar. Kenyan folk lore was populated with animals who spoke, fought, and interacted with humans. Seeing Hanuman and his monkeys was merely an extension of the hare, leopard, and lion who connived with humans in Gikuyu oral literature.

Sita. Beautiful Sita. 8-armed Elephant God. Multiply armed mihiananu. Idols populate a Hindu mythology book. “That is worship of false gods,” quips my nanny. And yet. And yet, these manifestations of godliness fascinate. Even the winged horse beckons to me, offering insight on the nature of divine power. I know not to how explain these allure, much less to others than to myself. I let go, and dive deep.

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Hindu temple, Mombasa

My canoe. This weekly escapade from an island, waters shimmering silver off the screen. The moon glowing blue as I tune the VHF. I voyage forth into the unknown. My will unfolds ahead of me into adventure. The unknown seduces me into forsaking home. Forsaking chores as I while away in my thoughts; indulging my  whimsy and mind mapping exotic destinations I am yet to call home. Coconuts and palm trees occupy the thin space between dreaming and waking. Sand filters down into my bed sheets, and my piss laps back and forth on the mattress, softly like the sea-green waters. The dimly lit room smells of a beach at dusk, and I peer my eyes into the horizon, confirming that I’ve indeed left all else behind. The firewood kitchen next door wafts into my nose, and I flutter my eyes. At once catching, making, and digging into my piscine meal. I am my own Man Friday.

Because soon, I shall be Home & Away. Not even the thick Aussie accent keeps me at bay. I wander, in and out of these middle-class lives, intent on small town living. The restaurant. The beach. Each spot echoes back to me, frustratingly, mirroring my own inactivity. The girl. There’s always one. This time she has long flowing hair, brunette. And dimples that wink each time she yells at an older, ruder brother. Teenage pregnancy. I plug in and out of the thickening plot. The predictability of the narrative is a large part of its success. This could be me. Could be us. If you ignore the trappings of the first world. Later on, when I finally visit the Opera House, I shall wonder at the writing off of darker hued peoples from this landscape. The result of anxious settlers eager to assuage their own culpability.