My last year in high school was a flurry of activity, both academic and romantic. At home, I was making eyes at Eunice and Mercy. Eunice was in college; and being a young professional woman, she was attractive to a lot of guys. Tony and his younger brother were both jostling to ask her out. My only real chance was in the evenings when I went to pick up milk from a local farmer. If I was lucky, I’d have timed my journey at just about the same time Eunice was heading back home. She spent her days at the Nairobi Institute of Business Studies, studying Information Technology. As a kid in high school, she was a role model. And easy on the eyes.
The trick was practicing my Casanova moves on Eunice, without prematurely ending my chances with Mercy. A tough juggling act given that the two women lived on opposite sides of the same street. I was bad at this. Tony, older than me and thus with several more years of flirting experience, beat me at my own game. I didn’t know this then, and it’s not until recently that Tony confessed, but he’d managed to have his cake and eat it, too. He’d spend his afternoons making out with Mercy, only to switch allegiances in the evening – and profess his undying Love for Eunice. He kept the whole act up and running for 3 months. When Eunice came home early one afternoon, and discovered that her and Mercy had actually been sharing details about the same sweetheart, the two dupes combined forces and dumped the T-Man simultaneously.
I didn’t have much time for mourning. I was once again in love, and this time it was for real! The lady had an alluring name: Sonia. And her beauty was everything you could imagine someone with such a moniker would possess. And more. She was Indian; so she came with standard issue copper skin, and long flowing black hair. She was a little more bronze than her Indian friends, as though she was racially mixed. I desperately hoped that she was. I figured that if her dad was Kenyan, meaning black, perhaps I had more of a shot. I never found out. I preferred to dream about the subject of my crush from a distance. I did chat with her once or twice, but I was too nervous not to say the wrong thing.
I changed tactics. I decided to approach Sonia through a third party, her friend Lucille. Lucille was gorgeous in her own way, and, thinking back, very personable. She could clearly see that I was smitten, and she did not begrudge me information about my intended. Lucille gave me tips on where Sonia hang out over the weekends, Sarit Center, a new mall that had just come up in Nairobi’s wealthy Westlands. Lucille also suggested ice cream and movies as a possible first date activity. And my heart was willing, but my wallet was weak. Sarit was the kind of place you drove to. Sure, there was public transport available, but it was totally not the same totally. I let my family’s financial background limit my imagination of what I could or could not achieve, and who I could or could not be friends with. Perhaps rashly so. Sonia was a hot cake. Boys were scrambling to woo her. We joked that an angel such as herself never had bowel movements; and if she did, it was only to eject perfect baked chocolate truffles.
There wasn’t much time to mop about Sonia. Our end of year Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education exams were fast approaching. These were scheduled for mid-October through early November. By June, we’d worked our way through the entire syllabus in most of our classes: Social Ethics, English and Swahili literature, Chemistry, and Maths. We still had a chunk of work to do in Physics. Partly because we’d had to switch teachers in 10th grade. But we soldiered on. In July, we sat for a big exam that mimicked what we’d encountered in our finals. I did well. On our last day of classes, as we embarked on our August school holidays, I went home feeling accomplished. As usual, at 4pm, I went to the bus stop and waited for a number 11 matatu. These plied the Odeon-Highridge/Parklands route. I tried to not be too bothered by the fact that my peers were chauffeured home daily. I’d gotten used to their privilege. And for once, I may have been using public transport, but I was doing so with an impressive array of grades in my back pocket. Boo yeah!
In third grade, Teacher Emily’s class, I sat next to a girl called Virginia. She was so birdlike, I couldn’t help but have a crush on her. She was kinda shy, but also talkative around friends. She expressed herself in little flighty movements. Not quite a damsel in distress, but enough to awaken the knight-in-shining armor within me. Even if just for a minute. Naturally, as a third grader, I sought Virginia’s attention by playing a prank on her. Around this time, canvas book bags were the in thing. These sacks were pretty barebones, but sturdy as hell. They could serve you from Mt. Everest and back, no problem. They were also made in Kenya, so they came in cheap. The downside was that the were no where as colorful as the plastic stuff just beginning to arrive from China. Dull, durable canvas spelt poor, while the fancy but shoddily manufactured imported items signaled money. Virginia’s rucksack was so identical to mine, it wasn’t until you’d used the sucker for a while and stained it that you could differentiate the two items. So, one evening I had the bright idea of swopping her bag with mine. I did the switcheroo just before the end of class, as we came back from Physical Ed in our dusty soccer pitch. Virginia never noticed the difference. Not till she went to pull out her math textbooks for that evening’s homework did she realize what had happened. The next morning I arrived at school earlier than usual, having sufficiently practiced my fake indignation at being pranked. As soon as Teacher Emily walked into the room, I went up to her and explained what had happened. Virginia hadn’t arrived yet, so I got to control the narrative from the start. I explained at length how I believed we’d been pranked by some of the naughty boys, no names mentioned – wink-wink hint-hint – just before the entire class went for PE the previous afternoon. I was generally out of trouble, so Tr. Emily had every reason to accept my version of the events. It was indeed very sad, she agreed, that silly boys had played this prank on us. She excused the fact that neither Virginia nor I had obviously had the chance to complete our homework assignments. I went to my assigned desk and sat down. Although I’d already deposited Virginia’s ruck sack on her chair, I still held onto its perfume scent. I felt that much closer to her for having interacted with her books and her pencil set the night before. That girly smell lingered on my fingers. Virginia finally got to class, and we swopped back our bags. She too expressed her astonishment to Tr. Emily. Unfortunately my prank never truly got us any closer. I never asked Virginia out, and in the end she transferred to another school.
The next year, in fourth grade, I met Asya Changu. Asya had one big thing going for her: she was smart and would often kick my ass in math quizzes. Virginia, while super cute, was not the sharpest blade in the set. So I always had some misgivings about asking her out, dating her, getting married, raising a family, rising in our respective career fields, and just generally being an all-round awesome power couple. Plus, Asya was from the coast; she had that lilting Swahili accent that lulls you into affirming your own emasculation.
“Ewe Kaka, naomba kukukata!”
“Buddy, may I castrate you?”
To which, under the assault of coconut-scented hair oil, long curly eyelashes, henna-ed and manicured long, slim fingers, you’d dreamily nod yes.
“Take me now; I’m all yours! If this is what it takes to enter the inner sanctum of your harem, do it!”
Add to all that eleven-year-old sexiness a brain that was quick-witted, and it was clear Asya and I were destined to go places. Of course the problem with meeting the angel of your dreams in real life, is that you’re still mortal. And she is too heavenly. It’s impossible to approach her and make a proposition, in the highly likely event she rejects you, and yet impossible to look away. Instead of getting to know Asya closer, I spent most of my time that school year dreaming about our offspring: these brood of infants who’d be so smart, they’d probably have PhDs by the time they were eighteen. I should have dreamt less, and acted more. In less than three semesters, Asya had transferred to another school; her family had moved and she was no longer my classmate. Bah! I knew this was too good to be true.
Where Asya was ethereal, Peninah, my grade five crush, was only too real in the flesh. Hers was not to conquer the heights of intellect, but rather the baser nature in all pubescent boys. She was curvy and on the cusp of womanhood. She was ripening in a way only fully captured by the Swahili word, Kubhaleghe. It means both a human, and hence utterly expected, physical transition, but one that also unfolds in ways that whet desire and drip with sin. Peninah was baleghe-ing to the full extent of her hormones, and we boys could not have enough of her. To baleghe is not a thing you speak of in polite company; heavens no! You save such titillating details for the whispered exchanges between confidants, preferably in the shadows. We were drawn to Peninah likes bees to honey. Hers was a heady concoction that hit us right below the gut, and we could never have too much. You offered to do Peninah’s homework, or else the rest of your sorry earthly existence was wholly futile. You stood so Peninah could seat, otherwise you deserved to be struck by lighting – after drowning. You stayed alert for the whiff of her perfume, just a hint, to confirm you were still within the realm of the living and had not descended into Hades due to longing and a broken heart.
With Peninah around, you couldn’t think long term. This was neither the time to pen bucket lists, nor to ponder on your future career. How could you, faced with a budding chest, and swinging hips? There was no time for tomorrow. It was all about the present: this smile, this touch, this wink, possibly even this hug; after which you could die in peace. Where Juliet, my arch academic rival, pretended to let me win, Peninah took no prisoners and suffered no fools. She was slaying our adolescent minds long before the concept existed. I envied whoever she spoke to. And I hated any boy who seemed close to her. And while I may not have cried myself to sleep missing her, Peninah’s face was the last thing I saw every night, and the first thing I saw every morning. This went on for three weeks, an eternity for a boy such as myself, who measured time in terms of romantic fantasies. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before my heart was smitten by someone else.
Or rather, I should say, two new girls: Irene and Caroline. They were sisters. Irene, the younger one, was in my class. Her sister was a grade above us. I never could fully decide on which one of them to invest my emotional energy. Caroline, being in class eight, was clearly way above my pay grade, but a boy can hope! She was a bad girl before Angelina Jolie. She had this Je n’ai sais quoi elegance about her. She was sometimes rowdy, laughing out loud, messing with the boys. She broke the rules. Her hair was braided in fascinating ways. When we read about Delilah and Jezebel in Christian Religious Education, I empathized with Samson. Against such charms, the sucker had no chance. Whatsoever. And neither did I. Caroline was only too aware of her looks; she was gorgeous and totally in your face about it. There was to be none of that shy, cute, femininity for this queen. She owned this joint, and did not care who was watching. And the boys loved it. They flocked to her like moths to fire. And I watched as they crashed and burned. We kids in the lower grade gossiped about who was interested in her, who got dissed, and who hang on.
Irene was in the same class as I was. Sometimes we even sat together. Talk about bliss. As a boy, when you get to sit next to your crush it’s butterflies 24/7. You don’t wanna gawk, because then you’re just weird, but you can’t simply play aloof. You want to subtly let her know that you’re interested, but not in a creepy way. Aargh! So many emotions. What a juggling act. You watch her during break to see who she hangs out with. How she comfortably laughs, and teases, with Hilda, her best friend. They whisper to each other. You know it has something to do with using feminine products. They seem embarrassed, but also grown up. They’re on the cusp of adulthood and their bodies are maturing. You’ve learnt about this in Home Science, but it’s an entirely different thing to consider it from the perspective of someone you know. You want to reach out and say it’s OK. How do you step into this circle they’ve created for themselves? This intimacy where they share love letters, delivered through third parties, from forlorn boys in school? Irene has this neon green toy, a slinky. You watch her play with it. She sometimes leaves it on her wrist like a bangle. You envy that cheap Chinese toy; it has felt the kind of physical contact you’d die to experience.
The waiting game is fine, but as often happens, past a certain length the attraction fizzles out. Through the end of primary school, Irene was permanently at the edge of my awareness when it came to girls. She was a rung higher than Mary W., but not as friendly or approachable.
On the other hand, Mary S. was smart, chatty, perhaps even flirtatious with me. And while outwardly polite, she had a rebellious streak deep within her that startled even Mr. Kariuki, one of the strictest teachers we had at Ngong Hills. Karis was being a faculty member, possibly throwing his weight around – mark you most teachers did that. Well, Mary S. had had enough of that crap. She drew a line, Mr. Kariuki stepped over it, and they almost came to blows. Scandalous! A pupil refusing to submit to a teacher’s corporal punishment? What was the world coming to?
Mary’s partner in crime, Silvia, was this lithe cat. She had long Nilotic limbs, the kind you could imagine pharaohs fighting over. She was languid, easy going. Not to say you could mess with her, but rather that she was long suffering. Yet when cornered, she was a formidable foe. She had a strong personality, in the way quiet people do. They don’t talk much, not because they have nothing to say, but because they’re quite content in themselves and have no need to convince anyone. Nor do they need to justify their lives or their choices. Even clothed in thinning school uniform, Silvia was so graceful. If she even went into modelling, she’d be great – so regal!
Sheila was the bane of my existence. I loved her. Deeply, in that teenage boyish fashion. Sheila’s beauty was a little bit physical; she was short, dark, curvy yet lean. Her hair was always tied in a pony tail, blow dried. She mostly wore pants, denim, with a plaid jumper just a size too big. But this simply added to the allure; it made me imagine what lay underneath. Mostly though, she was just cool, and suave. In a way I could never hope to be. Her eyes had this way of passing over you that left you feeling both the luckiest man alive, and also the sorriest human anywhere! It was bittersweet. It was a drug that I could not get enough of. And I craved for my daily fix: every weekday evening on my way home from school.
After getting off the bus at Embulbul terminus, I’d walk through the one-street town. The main road splits the shopping center in half. Right next to the tarmac was a government-sponsored water project which in addition to selling portable water to local households, also had a tree and flower nursery going. You could buy trees every rainy season to fulfill your part in the national drive towards reforestation. The plot next to the tree nursery was empty, offering space for events as varied as evangelical Christian crusades, or open-air film screenings courtesy of the Kenya Film Commission. I only attended these night events once or twice, but I knew the routine well: action flick projected onto a white sheet, powered by a rowdy generator. Once the cowboy, or more recently, Kung Fu picture was over, you could expect the violence to migrate from the screen to the audience. Rotten eggs, moldy and smelly vegetables, and sometimes human feces, would fly in between rivals gangs: boys with grand dreams of thug-dom.
Fittingly, the opposite side of the road housed Embulbul’s bastion of peace: the Catholic Church. It was still under construction, a mabati structure that was a sizeable upgrade from the timber church a few blocks down. The congregation had expanded, enough to afford the architecturally ambitious edifice for which we were forever contributing donations and performing funds drives. There was even a 3-D model displayed at the church’s main entrance. Right next to the fountain containing Holy Water. Our future cathedral promised to be a scenic upgrade in a town where half the homes were still built of mud and wattle.
An avenue branched off to the left towards Wa-Job’s shop. He was our family grocer. He extended us credit, as well as other smaller favors. I could deposit my gumboots in his shop if it had been raining on my way to school in the morning. Two blocks down, on the same side of the street, was the local Masjid, the mosque. The Muslim community was not that large, so their white and green structure would not need an upgrade for another decade or more. I’d branch off the main street and weave in between narrow footpaths, past Peninah’s house, and John Mzungu’s compound. Peninah was cute, but she had nothing on Sheila. Sheila was a bad girl, Peninah was just nice. Mugumo-ini Bar and Restaurant was at the edge of town, just where the nascent municipal council ceded authority, and plots were actually titled. D.O., as the proprietor of Mugumo-ini was called, having been a former District Office, had opened a beer and nyama choma joint. It was frequented by some of our neighbors, at least on those off days when, lacking cash, they needed credit and could not visit the more popular watering holes such as Jamba Square.
Past Mugumo-ini you go down hill, with two local tycoons’ homes on your right: Jimmy’s first, then Kirui’s. Both men made their money from quarrying stones in the area. This was Embulbul’s version of industrial magnates. Opposite Kirui’s house was a large real estate development that had been built in the late 80s. It probably held close to a hundred 1 and 2-bedroom apartments, all single storied. For some reason, however, Kamunya’s private development never took off. Most of the houses were empty, despite the formidable stone wall that fenced the entire estate. This was in contrast to an 8-roomed affair that always had tenants right opposite the main entrance to Kamunya’s property. The wooden structures of this two-rowed apartments were already aging by the late 90s, but that did not detract potential tenants. And right next door lived Sheila, with her mother and elder brother.
Mama Sigidi, as Sheila’s mother, ran a small vegetable stall right at their front gate. The structure was hurriedly knocked together using Eucalyptus poles, poached from Oloolua Forest, gunny sacks, and one piece of mabati to keep away the elements. The mabati mostly failed in its duties. The produce was often sitting in the sun, or had to be shelved away whenever it rained. Sheila ran the stall. As children are expected to. She’d open shop in the evenings, just in time to catch the work crowd hurrying home to prepare supper. Kale was on offer, so too was spinach, tomatoes, onions, sometimes even a few roots of garlic. There were also fruits, depending on what was in season: avocado, bananas, oranges, and plums. Other than plums, the rest could be bought wholesale at Mkulima’s farm – a big operation on the next ridge.
So get this, Embulbul has a sizeable farmers’ market, where you could find all kinds of fresh produce. In my pubescent infatuation, I would however, walk right past all these offerings, just to go buy a banana, at Sheila’s stall. And if I was feeling particularly wealthy I’d throw in an avocado. The 3-minute interaction I’d have with Sheila was absolutely worth it. That I was also getting a healthy daily serving of fruits was just an added bonus. I’d say hello, my school bag slung on my left shoulder. Looking cool even as my heart fluttered. I’d stretch my arm, snaking it past the small window where customers handed in their cash. I’d point to the banana I wanted her to sell me. Having chosen an avocado that was just ripe, I’d reach for my wallet in right back pocket. If I was lucky our fingers would graze as she accepted the cash. Heaven was finding her in a good mood so that we could chat for a few minutes longer.
The magazines I’d read about girls told me it was quite important to establish what their hobbies were. Sheila’s were reading novels (Danielle Steele), traveling, and swimming. In hindsight, we all had those canned responses. Borne out of strange fantasies to connect with foreign pen pals who would revel us with news about the west, perhaps send us expensive books and electronics at Christmas, or possibly airlift us out of Moi’s austerity-prone autocracy into legal adoption, free tertiary education, and a Green Card. And so we all listed swimming as a hobby. Even though we could not have seen a swimming pool but once, or twice, and even then only on TV.
Often I was unlucky. And the girl of my dreams would be sitting with one of the tenants who rented a room from Mama Sigidi. While I didn’t hold grudges against the lady, given that I didn’t even know her name, I did grow to loathe her. She seemed alive merely to thwart my romantic aspirations. She would impatiently stare at me while Sheila counted out my change, as though I was the intruder. I resented those looks! And I envied her easy familiarity with Sheila, that she lived right next door to the woman I wanted to take out for a date. Since I could not genuinely hate her, I transferred my dislike to her diseased ear lobe. She had a tumor the size of a golf ball growing off the top cartilage in her right ear. It was ripe and shiny, swollen tight. And sometimes I could spot a dribble of pus making its way down past her ear lobe. Probably an ear piercing gone wrong. I never found out, and had no sympathy. The universe, on my behalf, had served her poetic justice for her rude interruptions.
The best part about having teenage infatuations is meeting these people, fifteen years later, and seeing how much or how little they’ve changed. Sheila is still good looking. We’ll walk past each other, like ships in the night, perhaps once every time I’m in Kangawa. Cheers to our younger selves!
I accumulated my cash slowly. I took to carrying lunch from home. Mother would boil rice for my sisters and I in the evening. Often the dish would be sprinkled with tomatoes, or carrots. Mostly with potatoes, since these were cheaper. Taking lunch to school was tricky business. A dish of plain rice, flavored with leek onions, salt, and a spoonful of oil could not compete against the sumptuous dishes served at the Aga Khan cafeteria. There were all kinds of goodies to be had: half chicken with fries, burgers, meat, chicken, and veggie pies, beef sausages, and pizza. For drinks, you had a choice of smoothies, soda, fruit juice, or chocolate milk. But all these goodies cost money: more cash than my lunch allowance. It wasn’t too difficult acknowledging that this diet would not be for me. I grudgingly accepted my simple bowl of rice. Gradually becoming less and less embarrassed about joining my peers at the cafeteria bandas while they feasted on juicy chicken thighs. I watched my piggy bank grow, even though once in a while I’d indulge in a bottle of Picana mango soda.
Finally, one Monday, after receiving my weekly bus and lunch money it seemed like I had enough cash for my RENKs. I put aside what I’d need for my five-day commute, feeling very rich. But I chose to bid my time. It was better to wait till Friday, or at least Thursday, in case it rained and my bus ticket went up which would have skewed my calculations. School couldn’t end early enough on the Friday afternoon I picked up my boots. All through Social Studies I dreamt about that new shoe smell. I skipped my evening library session that day, and dashed out the gate as soon as we were let out. One matatu later, I was speed walking from Odeon Cinema towards King’s Collection.
Most of these shops are owned by Asian Kenyans, with a black labor force. The black guy watches you for a bit once you enter the store. You’ll probably have to leave your back pack at the entrance with the guard. In his store keeper’s coat, the salesman looks short for his height. The shop is plugged with an aroma of ubani, Indian incense; other exciting spices mingle in the air. But I hadn’t walked in to exercise my olfactory muscles. I made straight for the boots, pointing them out and inhaling deeply as the salesperson placed them on the counter in front of me. This is a big ticket item. The guy doesn’t know whether to begin anticipating a nice commission or to indulge my obviously overpriced dreams. He plays along when I ask to try on the shoes. I sit at a bench, emblazoned with a scale that customers could use to determine their shoe size, and take off my black and dusty school shoes. The fellow comes around from behind his counter; what the hell, his demeanor suggests , it’s a slow afternoon after all, I have a few moments to indulge this kid.
I tried on the size 9s; they were a bit too small. I had no wriggle room at the back of my foot. The attendant suggested I try a size 10. the second pair fit a lot better. With a pair of socks on, they were just snug. I concluded that’s the pair I’d be taking home with me. It was now time to see if I could squeeze a discount out of the Mhindi. I asked again about the price as I put my school shoes back and stood up. The sales attendant repeated the original sticker price. I’d shopped with my mom often enough to know that the shop would offer me a small discount if I persisted. I looked at the main boss, seating behind the register in a sleeveless cardigan, holding his unshaved face in his left arm. Bored. He dismissively interjected and gave a slightly lower final price, only KSHS 50 discounted. I figured I should take what I got. The shopkeeper suddenly got a lot more animated when I moved to pull out my wallet. He was glad I hadn’t simply been wasting their time window shopping out my price range.
I handed over the cash. The manager rang up the till, deposited the cash, and handed my receipt to his clerk. The sales attendant looked at the receipt, confirmed that indeed I’d paid for my boots in full, even though he’d witnessed the whole transaction. Bureaucracy! He then proceeded to pack my boots into their box, carefully extracting the old bunched newspapers which had been used to help keep the shoes in shape. After being deposited in a cardboard box, the shoes were placed in a plastic shopping bag. The big shiny kind that you take with you on your annual trip to the folks upcountry. This is the kind of plastic bag that declares its modernity; it screams of middle class luxury and is content in its ostentatiousness. It calls attention to itself. You cannot face it and not marvel at its holder. I walked out feeling richer than I’d walked in. And isn’t that the marvel of consumerism? You spend your hard-earned money and walk out feeling as though you’ve just made a billion dollar investment.
This was Friday. I couldn’t wait for Sunday mass. I woke up to prepare for the first service at Embulbul Mother of God Catholic Church. I always went for the 8am service. I liked how efficient it was: one hour, in and out, and you’re salvaged from eternal damnation. It was such a good deal, I usually threw in a Wednesday evening service at half past six on my way home from school. Another great bargain: you got served prayers, worship songs, AND Holy Communion, in under 30 minutes. Sunday eventually, slowly, rolled in. I might have been headed to church, but I was dressed to kill. My pants were tailor-made; the material had a brown sheen to it, like velvet, but not quite. I wore my trousers above the waist at the time. It was a classic mode made endearing to us by Congolese Lingala musicians. I paired it with a white t-shirt, with yellow arm bands. Then I had my boots; I was looking hot.
I got to church on time, and mass went on without a hitch. There was one girl I’d been eyeing for a month or so now. She usually sang with the youth choir, and also served as the liaison between the youth group and the parish administration, including Father Kevin, the in-house priest. It was with much dismay that I realized she’d missed first mass this morning. Perhaps I’d run into her on the way out, I consoled my disappointed self. Once we exited the church, back under a clear blue sky, with the sun already promising another hot equatorial afternoon, I forgot all about Ciku. I was off chasing another skirt; one who lived much closer to my house. I’d spotted Waithera sitting on the other side of the church from me. She was not an early morning kind of person, so this was my one opportunity to chat her up as we walked back home together. This was going to be exciting! I’d almost walked towards her to say hello, when I remembered I had some shopping to do before going home. Argh! My Casanova role was immediately replaced by the butler in me. It was off to the grocer’s for sugar, salt, and flour. If I was quick, I thought, I might yet catch up with Waithera. Needless to say, that walk back to my house was hurried, and fruitless; either the girl was too fast for me, or she took an entirely different route home. What a waste of an entirely handsome outfit!
By the time I spent my ill-gotten wealth on the camera, I’d been dreaming about it for several months. On my way from Odeon Cinema, where the passenger vans from Aga Khan/Highridge dropped you off, to the bus station where I’d get onto a 111, there was a photo studio. The first floor had a shop window facing busy Ronald Ngara where you could buy film, flash, and cameras. I chose an MDx610. It came in a crispy blue box, with dark grey corners. The camera itself was made of plastic. There was a shutter button on the top right, and a sliding lever to open the lens cover on the bottom left. This was a big purchase. I knew my mom would ask where I’d gotten the money. I did not want to get into trouble. I was happy committing the crime, but had no intention of doing the time. I spoke with my cousin, Wainaina, to figure out what to do.
Wainaina lived with us at the time. He was the day-to-day manger on our family quarrying operation. He doubled as a laborer while also managing the books. As a result, he always had cash on him. I talked him into agreeing to convince my mother that he’d fronted me the money to buy a camera, and that I’d pay him back with time. Mother did not bring it up with me; if she did follow up with Wainaina, it was behind my back. I began my photography career taking portraits of quarry workers. I knew them through my cousin, and given how notoriously bad they are at repaying debt, it was important to have some sort of relationship that I could lean on when it came time to collect. Each copy was KSHS 25. Men would pose shirtless, holding steel rivets and stone mallets, or with the 30 foot hand-held drill bits used to prepare cliff walls for blasting.
I might have had the hardware, but the skills were still lacking. Pressing the shutter release button was easy enough. Making sure the image was properly focused, and that the lighting would not mess up the portrait was a lot harder. To get better, I began diligently perusing the photography books and magazines that our school library stocked. In one part of our library, closest to the entrance, the staff had arranged glossy copies of PC Magazine, Digital Photography, National Geographic, Reader’s Digest, Time, Economics, and Newsweek. These material was meant to complement our studies and open us to a global stage full of opportunities. It worked to varying degrees amongst the student body, but it certainly gave me a better idea of what I was aiming for in my photography. Alongside portraiture, I began to venture into landscape shots. The 35mm lens, however, was ill-suited for the kind of wide-angled composition I imagined in my head. I’d take images to document the environmental degradation in Oloolua Forest, courtesy of a rampant quarrying industry, and the resulting work came out looking weird. Instead of expansive vistas, my developed pictures would mostly have ghostly-looking bushes with objects out of focus.
To make matters worse, I often never got paid for my portraiture. Quarry workers are experts at getting rid of creditors. By tradition, they get an advance on Wednesday evening, and their weekly pay is calculated on Saturday afternoon. They are paid by the feet. Say they’ve cut 400 feet of 9×9 stones, 600 feet of 6×9 stones, and 250 feet of 4×9 stones. Each of these will be compensated at different rates, with 9×9 stones fetching the highest price. As stone masons are wont to do, they let slip from their minds that they got an advance just three days before. When their weekly paycheck is tallied up, and the cash they got on Wednesday deducted, they always walk away with a feeling of being robbed. They were rather impossible fellows to please because if you ever suggested doing away with the mid-week advance ritual they were sure to howl oppression and bloody murder! What all these boils down to is that quarry workers are rather hard to part from their hard-earned cash. It must have to do with the back-breaking work they do all day, crushing rocks, and cutting quarry chips. I was not the only one to suffer this fate. Quarry workers eat 3 meals a day, at work, after breakfast in their own homes, and they fully anticipate a heavy dinner in the evening. Suffice it to say they run up a pretty tab at the lunch shacks they frequent. The understanding is that the ladies who own this establishments advance them credit under expectations of receiving an advance on Wednesday, and for all accounts to be cleared on Saturday. Since the men have to eat every day, these ladies had a better chance of recovering their debts. I only saw these fellows on Saturdays, by which time they’d be in a great big hurry to get home, take a shower, and hit the town for a round of drinks with friends and colleagues. Many of these Saturday night debacles left the fellows quite penniless by Monday morning. If you didn’t get your money on Saturday evening, you might as well forget it till next weekend. I was too often faced with this scenario that I soon came to the conclusion I’d never turn a profit from this kind of photography.
Turns out I was as unsuccessful a photographer as I was a pick-pocket. I still remember the time I got caught. I’d just replaced a wallet I’d hoped to fish some cash from. The thing was empty, so I put it back in the back left pocket, folded the pants as I recalled finding them, and turned to exit from the changing room. And that’s when several form two boys walked in. Fortunately, they found no evidence on me. Unfortunately, that did not stop them. They had very strong suspicions of what I’d been doing, and they simply ran with that. They questioned me, demanding to know whether I’d been stealing from them. I objected. They did not take kindly to my resistance. Georgie began to look unsure, maybe I really was as innocent as I claimed. Moha ignored any doubts. Stano had the most resolve in this gang of three. He wanted answers, yesterday! His open hand connected with the right side of my face. I winced, but did not give them the satisfaction of seeing my tears. They grabbed my collar and threatened even more violence. But I knew I had them; I stood my ground. Eventually they pushed me out of the changing room. I walked out silently vowing revenge.
The next morning, I went straight to the Dean of Students’ office. I knew that Stano and his buddies were often in trouble. However guilty I might have been, I resented being bullied. Combined with the fact that I always came across as a goodie-two-shoes, I knew that in a he-said-they-said contest, the school administration would side with me. The Dean of students was a 50-something Asian lady; I laid out my complaint: three form two boys had bullied me. Aga Khan was a private school, where parents paid a tidy sum to get their students a cushy high school education. Physical violence was not tolerated, not even if it was only directed at the poor scholarship kids. Dean Prajani was mad. Georgie, Moha, and Stano were summoned to her office. I repeated my complaint. They brought up the whole pick-pocketing thing. But they had no evidence, and a long record of delinquency. I had a nice row of A’s and B’s on my report card. I won. They were pissed! And I could empathize. They had basically caught me red handed, yet they had ended up being reprimanded. All because I came across as a good boy; I never forgot the power of perceptions.
I also learnt my lesson: crime does not pay. I scrimped lunch money for my next purchase. On Tom Mboya street, there was a clothes emporium called the King’s Collection. It sold everything from colored pairs of socks, to pocket handkerchiefs, dress shirts, suits, blankets, and rain jackets. On their display window, they had a dazzling pair of brown boots. I loved those shoes, and the day I purchased them, with cash from my own savings, was so fulfilling! They had a thick rubber sole, black. The label, RENK, was embroidered in yellow letters on the outer side of each shoe. They had laces and a metal buckle. And imitation felt cushion at the top. I desired those boots more than I’d ever wanted anything else. I salivated over them. I stood opposite the display window and imagined the kinds of adventures such boots would lead me to. I conquered the world wearing those shoes. I beat off school and village bullies while donning those boots. And, of course, I swept gorgeous ladies off their sexy feet and skinny legs in those brown RENKs. It was clear I had to own them and add them to my wardrobe. They were a good KSHS1,500. My lunch allowance was KSHS50 per day. This was going to be one long month!
My parents might not have placed any silver spoons in our mouths at birth, but they did try their best to instill high morals. Essentially, even though cash was sometimes hard to come by, the little they had was acquired by honest means. One would expect their son to have inherited the same values. But alas, it was not always so.
Aga Khan Academy had a swimming pool; and in our first year, Mr. Mdogo the Physical Ed teacher, took it upon himself to teach whichever one of us villagers who still couldn’t swim. I’d of course previously done the usual accompany-other-village-boys-to-the-river thing in Kangawa. We’d undress to our undies and jump in. Some of the kiddos actually knew enough to float and kick in the right direction. But it was such a high bravado activity, the boys as intent on getting wet as they were to wow the group of girls watching, that I normally shied away. Not to mention that we often went to Ngai Ndeithia, as the pool was called, on our way home from the forest to gather firewood. I’d already be feeling inadequate that my load was the lightest compared to the other boys, no pun intended. The last thing I wanted was to display one more area where they excelled better than myself. And there was also the potential for trouble. No one quite knew how deep the pool went, or what debris was underneath the water. Hence the aptly chosen Gikuyu moniker, God-Help-Me.
So Mdogo got us into the pool. We were a gang of four: Muthama, Orora, Bajaber, and myself. This was humiliating work. We were out there on the shallow end treading water, holding onto the ropes for dear life while other folks performed fish-like tumble turns. Learning to swim is like being re-born. All of a sudden you’re in a new dimension of the universe where you’re expected to keep your mouth open, breath, and kick ALL at the same time. No wonder newborns look so damn grouchy. And it was probably worse for the other three because they were all very skilled footballers; I wasn’t. I was just as likely to score past my own goalie as not. But I did have a tenacity and stubbornness when it came to “marking my man” that made me a formidable defender – when I put my mind to it. For me, swimming was a new skill; for them, every second spent inside that Chlorine soup was psychological torture designed to keep them away from their first love: the soccer pitch. I also suspect that Mato and Pato couldn’t swim, and never learnt, but they were hardened Don’t-Cares so Mdogo might just have given up! There was also a future Miss Kenya in the group of novices. But for her it made sense; soon to be clad in two-piece bikinis, it would be a good thing that she didn’t drown during a photo shoot.
That was us on the shallow end. On the opposite side, acting like they’d literally been born in water were Hussein and a bunch of form two boys. Man, those guys were good! From the effortless dive into a pool, to the strokes, to the turn around, they all made taking laps look as easy as eating buttered bread. Needless to say, I was envious. And I vowed that even if I couldn’t do a perfect butterfly, I’d at least make sure I learnt enough not to drown. So I practiced during Physical Ed: that one hour break we got once or twice a week in order to exercise our pubescent bodies. And I practiced after school. At 3:30pm, with classes over, one could go jump in the pool, as long as there was a lifeguard present. Sometimes I even practiced during lunchtime. I was slowly making headway. Even though I couldn’t do it for more than five strokes, I at least understood the concept behind bringing my head up to breath, rather than making a complete halt just to fill my lungs with precious oxygen.
I even got mother to buy me a pair of swimming trunks. Nylon biker shorts, really; blue, with some floral patterns in white, they definitely looked somewhat feminine. I didn’t let that stop me. I’d change in the bathrooms located right next to the pool. We all did. Boys had their own changing/shower space where you’d don your swimming costumes, or your soccer kit. There weren’t any lockers so we’d just leave our bags in there. It was then that I started going through people’s school bags, looking for their wallets. I’d identify a rich-looking bag, quickly rifle through the pants and pull out any cash I came across. After returning the clothes same way I found them, I’d walk out trying to act normal. I did this a couple of times without getting caught, and used the stolen money to buy my first film camera.
I’d always been into photography, and was at that time obsessed with Mo’ Amin. Amin was a legendary Kenyan-Asian photojournalist. He’d been to all the hotspots in the region, from Somalia, to Zanzibar during a coup in the early 60s. When he had his arm blown off during an assignment, he recovered, got a prosthetic, and kept on working. His tragic death in a 1996 plane crash was surreal. The Ethiopian Airlines flight he’d boarded to Nairobi was hijacked, only to run out of fuel off the Comoros coast. I would look at Amin’s photobooks and dream of travelling as much as he had. A camera seemed to be the magic wand to make that happen, and I was eager to acquire one. Getting my parents to buy me one was out of the question. I could have saved my lunch money, KSHS 50 daily, and accumulated enough for the camera. But that would have taken several weeks, and, after all, forbidden fruit tastes sweetest. I was experimenting with being a thug, and chose to go all the way in.