A Gorgeous Woman in a Movie Theater

Walking across Bul, my old haunts, with Lorraine gave me mucho social capital. This was quite an improvement from the surreptitious caresses I had previously stolen while watching action flicks in a makeshift cinema hall. I was in form 2. This is the age when high schoolers begin to stretch, bend, or wholly ignore the rules. Form 1 is all about survival, and the excitement of finally leaving behind the churlish world of primary school. Often, you’ll be bullied as older and tougher students set you straight on how beneath them you are on the totem pole of high school hierarchies. Monos, the as the sniveling, low-life form ones are called, have two options: cry for help, and be mama’s baby for your entire high school career, or bite your lip, persevere, and look forward to meting out the same punishment to junior boys next year.

Well, Aga Khan Academy had no space for bullies. No government minister, or wealthy business magnate, was paying a fortune in tuition just for their kid to get knuckled every afternoon. Aside from that, my cohort never got a younger breed of monos on whom we could exercise our tyranny. AKA offered three kinds of high school education: the Kenyan national curriculum, the International Baccalaureate, and the British IGCSE. Students studying the KCSE paid the least in tuition. We were the poor distant relatives. No wonder the institution decided to do away with this option. We were the last class to take sit for national KCSE exams in 2001. and we knew better than to try and intimidate our richer compatriots.

That, however, did not stop us from breaking the rules in other ways. My favorite was making an unsanctioned (by my parents, that is) stop at an Indie movie theater. These venues were the height of ingenuity. Kids love TV. Unfortunately, in my version of suburbia, TVs were a luxury – not so much in terms of buying, but in regards to maintaining it. Sure, you could arm yourself with a cheap Chinese-made home theater – aka a 21″ black and white telly – but that didn’t solve the energy challenge. We were not connected to the national power grid. Up until the 2002 Kibaki administration, connection to power was a political largesse reserved for the well-heeled. You prayed that one of your local councilors or Members of Parliament was in the good graces of the Big Man in State House. If not, languish in darkness! You’d use kerosene lamps for the house, and run the TV using a car battery. Bul Bul was a major enough town center, right on Ngong Road, to warrant connection to the electrical grid. An entrepreneur rented space, placed about 10 wooden benches in there, all facing a 32 inch TV that, for security purposes, was always locked in a metal cage. Even when you paid the KSHS 10 admission fee to go watch a movie. This was such a rare treat, the proprietor must have been anxious someone would walk out with the electronic equipment just as the main actor was about to kick ass.

You could watch all kinds of things here. Saturday and Sunday afternoons offered English and Spanish soccer matches. You may have been born in Kangawa, had no idea where the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport was, but you lived, breathed, and bled Manchester United. Or Barcelona. Or Deportivo La Corona, Chelsea, Arsenal, and many more. But these team afiliations were also about glory. I’m yet to find someone who roots for Newcastle Upon Tyne. No space for losers here.

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Saturday and Sunday afternoons offered English and Spanish soccer matches.

Weekday evenings, from about 5pm, featured action flicks. Think of the big global brands in action films: Rambo, Terminator, Bond, Jean Calude Van Damme, The Rock, Bruce Lee, Steven Seagal and Jackie Chan. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson appeared on the screens multiple times during the week. The movie operator decided to start showing World Wrestling Federation matches on Wednesday nights. These were apparently as big a hit with grown men as they were with school boys. In primary schools, we adopted WWF monikers: The Undertaker, Hulk Hogan, Papa Shango, Coco-T. if boys wanted to tease you, they snickered Yokozuna each time you walked by. If you’ve ever seen the 400 pound Japanese Sumo wrestler, styling a thong, you’d clearly see why this was not a complement.

I went in mostly for the action. Martial arts, close-quarter hand combat, crime thrillers with epic car chases, those were my staple. I craved the adrenaline. Loved the sweaty smell as strangers squeezed onto an uncomfortable wooden bench, craning their neck each time a new patron walked down the aisles. Since the cinema needed zero light penetration to ensure the best movie experience for its customers, this meant the theater was a claustrophobia-inducing cube. No light in or out. And no air, in or out. It was stuffy as hell. And by the time you exited, as the credits rolled on, you’d re-emerge almost as though from a cave. Blind as a bat.

And then there was the commentary. This is a unique phenomenon I’ve not seen replicated anywhere else. It’s kinda like having subtitles on your movie, except that they’re provided as live commentary. The same kind of commenting that accompanies sports events, soccer, baseball, football, or basketball. It’s often in Sheng or Gikuyu, and it’s amazingly hilarious to listen to. Since we were mostly watching Hollywood hits, American English was the default language. Which is fine until you’re faced with an audience that has not graduated high school, and whose comfort with accents is minimal. But why should that stop anyone from enjoying a movie. The solution Nairobi designed was to have commentator who, even though his level of English may not be much better, had pre-viewed the movie, and could walk the audience through the plot line. Hollywood action flicks have a fairly copy-paste plot line: good guy enjoying life; bad guy messes up good guy’s life; good guy has to kick some ass; bad guy is taken care of; good guy gets the girl and drives off into the sunset. The End. Commentators helped the audience figure out Good guy and Bad guy. And then they began to add their own sound effects. And, since they provided commentary in local dialects, their storytelling was inevitably colored by local colloquialisms.

“Basiiiii, wapenziiii, watazamaji!” “So noooow, dear audience!” You inevitably smiled when you heard the DJ begin his film commentary. These folks actually have a lot of fun at work. If you get the movie’s dialogue, it’s annoying as hell to have to listen to their often inaccurate voice-overs. But once you give yourself into the experience, it’s actually super funny. The descriptions of the villain and the hero are laced with innuendo, and whatever insults are currently hot on the street. In case you’ve missed the “Word of the Day” during your matatu commute, the DJ makes sure you’re all caught up.

There was more than language to be appreciated from these spaces. Did I mention that the space had an air of debauchery? I’m pretty certain they’d air blue movies after a certain hour. Movies Za-Kaende, as they’re known in Sheng, needed a 21+ rating. No Kids allowed. I couldn’t stay out past 9pm on a school night, so I never had the pleasure. I did indulge, however, in flirting with a regular. I never quite figured out why she was often in the audience. She could either have been the proprietor’s daughter, or the DJ’s girlfriend.

But she was more comfortable in this macho theater than I was. And that was sexy to watch. One time I was lucky, her usual spot next to the DJ was occupied. Her only other option: the empty bench beside me. I scooted over in a welcoming gesture. I didn’t dare hope that she’d take me up on my offer. I struggled to hide my excitement when she did! We whispered hello to each other. The best thing about chatting up a gorgeous woman in a movie theater is that you have to get real close. The sound track is booming, and other patrons don’t appreciate being interrupted. No choice but to get inside each other’s personal bubble. Her shoulder brushed up against mine, our fingers were soon dancing, seemingly on their own. They yawned for each other, before filling up with the other’s palm and warmth. Our only acknowledgement for this pleasure: an occasional  smile, barely visible from the light bouncing on our faces from the TV screen upfront. That is one film I’d replay ad infinitum.

 

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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.

Herds Boy Tales

One school holiday, after spending all term making puppy eyes at Irene – to no avail – I went to stay with Grandma. It couldn’t be a school holiday without going to Ocha in Juja. Grandma’s was great! First of all there was tons of milk, weather permitting. And for lunch, she’d often make thoroko. These vegetables are great in fiber, which I couldn’t have known back then. But thoroko have such strange texture; they’re really chewy. You could masticate on a mouthful for 5 minutes, and still not have sucked out all that juiciness. As a little boy, chewing on these strange tasting veggies was such a delight. Then there was always the chance of taking grandma’s dog for a hunt, and returning home with a rabbit or a young antelope – both delicious game meats.

In April, during the rainy season, Juja floods. This meant herding grandma’s livestock shod in gumboots or plastic sandals. Turns out you get terrible heat burn when you do that. For an 11-year old boy, the best part about living away from your mother for 3 weeks is that you don’t have to shower every single evening. Hence, all of a sudden, I had more time in the evening to challenge Njoro, my uncle, and grandma’s youngest kid, into farting contests. This being just a few years after the 1st American adventure in Iraq and Kuwait, our flatulence was appropriately named SCUD missiles and RPGs.

Our evening competitions over, we’d go to bed. Or rather I should say, I swam to bed. I was one of those kids who didn’t stop wetting their beds till really late. I mean like 10 or 11-years-old-late. My mother took me to see a sleep specialist. But that didn’t help. And once she quit her job, out went health insurance. I never returned to see the doctor. Instead, I went through a ridiculous number of mattresses, each lasting only slightly longer than the previous one as I doused them nightly with urine. In the middle, where a puddle would form each night, was usually the first spot to wear thin. Then a large tear would appear, eventually making its way to one of the corners, and thus rendering the mattress quite useless. With time, it made more sense that I use the hand-me-down mattresses that either my parents or my sisters had worn thin. That way it wasn’t such a loss to witness the mattress shrink and shrivel a la my nocturnal activities. It did, however, mean that I’d have to make several trips each morning taking out individual bedding pieces to dry in the sun. Usually I’d try and hang them out of sight; that way no neighborhood kids would ask awkward questions.

When I spent the holidays at Grandmas, I’d sleep in the living room, on the couch – my uncle Njoro having had it till up here with my nightly liquid adventures. We tried all kinds of tricks. One night I was banned from drinking tea just before going to bed. That didn’t help. Then I was asked not to drink any water after sundown. The next morning my couch was still soaked. As a list ditch attempt, Njoro woke me up around 3am to pee outside. I staggered out the door, eyes half-closed, tried not to pee on my feet, then stumbled back to bed. I woke up to even more pee than usual; this time not only had I wet the couch and the cushions, the floor was also flooded. Peeing in bed was like a curse! I started to worry that someone with an evil eye had indeed bewitched me, jealous that I was doing so well in school. Grandma and Njoro resigned themselves to the daily stink. And like clockwork, the sun would rise on me and my soggy beddings. December days are usually pretty warm and dry in Juja. That was lucky, because then my cushions would be dry by the evening when I brought them back inside.

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When school was out, in addition to cows and goats, they’d also send him young boys to help in tracking and corralling the animals.

Having laid out my beddings and cleaned up, I’d quickly do breakfast – often a plate of whatever was left over from dinner last night – and head out to meet Wa Ngoiri, our herdsman. Folks in the community sent him their livestock daily, and he’d look after them for a fee. When school was out, in addition to cows and goats, they’d also send him young boys to help in tracking and corralling the animals. And this is how I met Githu; he and I were assigned as Wa Ngoiri’s helpers. We’d get together first, merge our cattle, and drive them towards the larger herd. The rest of the day was spent sitting, whistling after errant goats, and stoning any village dogs that came too close to the sheep. While our supervisor may not have allowed it, we’d certainly have tried to initiate a bull fight between our largest animal, a light brown steer named Kilonzi, and smaller young males from competing herds. At lunch time, we’d find some shade, and while the animals chewed curd, we’d munch on ugali – soggy from sitting in sukuma wiki stew.

The day Wa Ngoiri “called in sick” Githu and I took charge. There were no cell phones so we didn’t know our lead herdsman won’t be at work till he sent a neighbor’s five-year old boy to my grandma early that morning. Granny explained that we’d have to make sure we keep the cattle in the old sisal plantations; this was the area with the most grass. I was also directed that in the afternoon we slowly make our way to the usual watering dam so the cows and goats could drink. Ever dutiful, I made sure Githu did all that. Finally, at 3pm, when the air is filled with bees shuttling back and forth to their hives, we sat down for lunch. We chose a rocky formation, giving us a good vantage over the resting animals. Today’s menu was cold rice, cooked in a broth of onions, tomatoes, and potatoes. This was 5-star dining and Githu wanted in. I was not too happy to share, especially since in return I only got his githeri stew. I took a few spoonfuls of the watery lunch and gave up.

Lunch over, we nestled in the grass to digest our food. Our backs rested against the rock, mimicking the animals when they wanted to scratch an itch. Lazily, we ended up on our backs, staring up at the sky. My hands wondered first, on to his pants, and eventually slid in under the loose elastic waistband. He sported neither undies nor boxers. No surprise there, he was a village boy to the core – after all. He took his penis in his right hand, grinning, and lanced my hand with it. I accepted the challenge, drawing forth my own weapon in preparation for this close quarter duel. Githu sat straddling me, his legs on either side of mine. I lay on my back, gazing through at the clouds when not engaged in the sword play we’d invented. I also kept an eye out for any intruder. Although we couldn’t exactly name whatever we were doing, we’d been socialized well enough to anticipate that adults would not appreciate our nudity. Eventually our curiosity abated; the mutual exploration ended and we got dressed. The sun was sinking in the horizon and it was time to lead the cattle back home.

A Series of Unfortunate Crushes

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.

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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.

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!

Njoki on the Weekends – II

I’m glad I persisted; Njoki and I ended up being pretty close. We had a routine. We’d meet up on Sunday afternoons and take walks, sometimes holding hands, into Oloolua Forest. If we discovered a meadow of some sort, or a spot by the river, we’d seat and chat about anything and everything. We shared an interest in Reggae music, UB40 especially. Even now, I can’t hear “Cheerio, cheerio Baby” without thinking back to those conversations. We knew the same people, so we gossiped about them: who committed what crime; who was dating whom; who died.

If not strolling through Eucalyptus trees, we’d sit at an old bridge long into the night, whispering sweet nothings. Njoki fascinated me. She was more mature, but that never came across as condescension. Our friendship puzzled onlookers. She was also really good with animals. She had a pet dog, Mickey, who followed her everywhere and would have defended her with his life. Mickey eventually accepted me. He’d lie down at the foot of an old culvert, while we sat on a low reinforcement wall. One evening, we’d sat so long it had gotten dark. Several pedestrians walked by; they could tell there were two people on the bridge, but they couldn’t see our faces well enough to recognize us. The spot was renowned for muggings. Women hurrying home from errands looked in the general direction they heard our voices and sped away in fear. Mickey quietly kept watch while Njoki and I continued chatting. A little after, a rowdy drunk passed by. I recognized him from his slurry speech. It was Sancho, a young no-gooder who was involved in several robberies in the neighborhood. To make matters worse, he was known to openly smoke weed. If no one openly challenged him about his behavior, it was only because they feared a violent retaliation.

 

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Mickey quietly kept watch while Njoki and I continued chatting.

Sancho heard us talking, and he took it upon himself to investigate. He ambled towards our general direction, swaying. Mickey’s ears went upright, cocked towards this intruder. Sancho took a few more steps towards us, and Mickey knew it was on; this is exactly what he’d been born to do. He was about to be a star. Sancho approached where we sat; he was no more than a few meters away. Mickey was positioned between us and Sancho; he’d now stood up on all fours. I could hear him growling low in his throat, but Sancho had not yet realized the adversary he was walking into. The moment Sancho made the final step, closing the gap between him and us, Mickey erupted into a frenzy of barking and growling. I’d never seen him on the defense before, so I was shocked at how vicious he’d suddenly become. Sancho was taken unawares; he stumbled back, attempting to flee from what might as well have been a lion now right up in his face. He tried to simultaneously turn around and run; while his mind might have been shocked into soberness, his body was still not fully functional. His escape failed, landing him flat on his face. He groaned loudly, probably having grazed himself on rocks. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I couldn’t believe that Sancho’s famous bravado had been reduced to whimpering. Njoki had a hard enough time calling off Mickey who, like myself, seemed to truly enjoy terrorizing Sancho into further hysteria. When Sancho finally got back on his feet, he was terribly disoriented. He veered off in what was certainly the wrong direction. And the loud splash that followed confirmed my observation. Sancho was now fully present, yanked back from whatever substance-induced paradise he’d ben enjoying. He cursed, loud and long, something that included both dogs and mothers. But that only added icing to what had become a veritable comedic cake. Sancho knew as much. He waded out of the murky river, shot one last “fuck you” in our general direction, and hurried away from lion-inspired dogs and dark pools that terminated your buzz. Njoki and I figured we’d had sacrificed enough blood to the resident mosquito population. We hugged goodnight, and went our separate ways.

Njoki on the Weekends – I

If I failed horribly at sweet talking Sheila during the week, I more than compensated over the weekends. Sunday afternoons were spent with Njoki, another star in the constellation of village girls that I dreamt about dating. Sheila was definitely the  morning star, brightest of the bunch, and wholly out of my league. I consoled myself with the fact that Sheila never went to high school – I was too good for her, I concluded. Then there was Shiku, her neighbor. Shiku did go to high school. In fact, her and I attended sister institutions; I was at the Aga Khan Academy, she was at the Aga Khan High School. In the ‘academy’ lies all the difference. Her school was clearly a charity case, mine was the real deal – never mind that I was no more than a scholarship student. Shiku had that advantage over Sheila, but she was also way too wild for me. I’d see her hanging out with the boys I knew better than to associate with. These kids were partying, drinking and smoking, way before I even knew to worry about whether I was still too old to be a virgin. This was the crowd your parents went to church for, hoping and praying that you do not fall in with . These fellows skirted at the edges of the Anglican Church of Embulbul Youth Group; but it was quite obvious their suave moves were not confined to merely accompanying good, pious, Christian girls down the aisle. They had designs that were way more sinister, and the wickedness to target impressionable girls in the congregation. Someone shout “Safe sex!”

I convinced myself that Shiku didn’t really mean to be with this kiddos. I simultaneously dreaded and craved for a chance meeting on our dusty village footpaths. But such luck only opened further conundrums: whom should I look at when we passed each other. Should I stare at her face and ignore the guys jockeying around her like young lions? Would that not be interpreted as competition, and possibly get me an ass whooping? Sure, I wanted the girl, but not if I had to fight a pack of village thugs. In any case, the boys were their own downfall; they were too successful with the ladies. And so, inevitably, they’d get bored with Shiku and move on to the next conquest.

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These fellows skirted at the edges of the Anglican Church of Embulbul Youth Group; but it was quite obvious their suave moves were not confined to merely accompanying good, pious, Christian girls down the aisle.

In Sheila’s social circle, there was also Sara and Emily. They were sisters; separated by an almost 10 year age gap. For some reason, Sara, the younger one, shared a Christian name with their mother. The older Sarah had a mental illness, and thanks to village prejudice, she was more commonly known as Mad Sarah. Mental illness ran in the family. At least two of the girls’ uncles were eccentric to the extreme. One of them, Wachira, was actually under medication; he would often disappear for a week or two. Upon his return we’d learn he’d been admitted at Mathare Hospital, Nairobi’s main mental health institution. Mwangi, the other uncle, was not under any treatment. He’d drink and turn into an entirely different person, physically violent. I watched Sara and Emily closely. I was fascinated by the lives of their extended family. How does one navigate such outrageous characters in the home, I wondered?

Mental illness was rather familiar, but not in any personal way. Walking to Ngong Hills Academy, I’d often run into Brownie and Njeri, our resident mad man and woman. Njeri was old, probably in her late 40s or early 50s by the time I started noticing her. You could go for months without sighting either of them, and then she’d be seated by the road, with a sack of her belongings. She was homeless, as far as I could tell, with minimal opportunities to shower and change her clothes. She held continuous conversations, either with herself, or with invisible companions. Njeri would gesture and her face would contort assent or dissent, as the dialogue progressed. Her right arm, missing a sweater sleeve, would point sideways, and then she’d burst out laughing, only to stop just as abruptly. Dressed haphazardly – a sweater missing buttons, tucked on top of a zipless coat, and underneath which you could see a floral dress – she was more to be pitied than to be feared. Brownie was known for walking. You could never see him seating. He was ever on the move. One day you’d see him at Ngong market, nonchalantly walking past the stalls filled with fruit and veggies. None bothered him. The next weekend you’d be driving past Karen, three kilometers away, and there would be Brownie, still on his walkabout.

The girls, Sara and Emily, were gorgeous. They set many hearts on fire. Mine included. Unfortunately, Sara was in class eight at Embul bul primary. I may have been a randy young he-goat, but even I knew that a high schooler such as myself could not be seen dating someone that much younger. Instead, I set my sights on her sister. Emily was older than me, more worldly. Her and Sheila frequented The Nest Pub & Restaurant when this joint first opened. The Nest was a spot filled with fast money. Matatu crews and young professionals, both just coming of age, would congregate here on weekends. Nest was THE place to see and to be seen. Shiku and her crowd of male peacocks were frequent customers. This was a lifestyle of partying that I could neither afford, nor explain to my parents. I was still in high school after all. And although I had undergone the customary rite of circumcision, I knew not to push my new found independence too far. If I couldn’t party with Emily, I appealed to her romantic side. Running into her one Sunday afternoon by the bridge that straddles a seasonal Kangawa river, I said “Sasa.” She paused mid step, and replied, “Poa, niaje!” We were walking in opposite directions, so we stood facing each other. She just stared back at me, letting me stew under the gaze her elongated eyelashes. I squirmed, willing my brain to not fail me at such crucial a moment. And, before my courage zapped out, I quickly blurted out my proposal “would you be my girl friend?” Although our greetings had been in Sheng, my appeal was delivered in English, of course. The Queen’s language was the surest way to a girl’s heart, so I’d learnt. She smiled, I think, then proceeded to reject my interest in her. She was too hot for me; in many ways I could have predicted her response. In any case, I may have been down, but I was not out, yet. There was still Njoki, Emily’s aunt, for me to proposition. I was hell bent on having a girl friend; I felt the deep urge to catch up with my compatriots. Having survived one let down, I was not too frightened by the prospect of another.

 

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.