STORYMOJA

Isn’t it funny how things work out? You know, for better or worse? I pick worse. Its true, I’ve heard I’m skeptical, cynical even. I suppose my view of most things in this tide called life is somewhat bleak and for all those self-righteous, self-made gods of karma, I always say: everyone is given the chance to play the devil’s flute even be his advocate at one point or another-I just happen to be very skilled at it.

Right now I’m walking towards some high class restaurant in town. The half asleep half awake Nairobi lights don’t seem to be doing their job. I wonder if it would be possible to serve them with a performance contract. I don’t really mind the dark African nights which seem to always be rife with mystery, like the black sun before dawn with her mischievous smile, knowing tomorrow’s dos and don’ts but never daring to say a word. 

Destiny is truly rigid. Another city tale; just when you thought it was safe enough to be… some misguided soul is flickering his headlights directly at me and to think after consoling my poor feet that maybe in the future we wouldn’t have to walk. We’d be one of those Mr. Tumbo Kubwa, with plenty of cars and big houses. Not because we needed five cars or the always empty houses in Runda, Lavington or some lazy ranch in what used to be the white man’s paradise. No, it would be just to flaunt them around. Fix our bruised skins and never-ending egos; truly it would be a sight to behold. I think it’s a Mercedes Benz or a BMW. 

Whatever it is, the man is probably overcompensating for his small equipment down there. I can only imagine the myriad of excuses tucked up his couture Valentino-made sleeve: having to go home to his once-hot-wife who now resembles his ancient mother-in-law. Heh! Imagine she goes to bed with one of those granny nighties and that kigunia she always wraps around her head right before bed and she can’t even think of supporting her knee-length breasts, poor guy. Then there’s his seed- the ones that came with the devil’s genes. He’s sure they’re not even his – or at least I’ve heard. I hate these lights. They peer and stare and threaten to expose any secrets that one struggles to have over looked or never looked on at all. I can almost hear that phrase from the Deux vultures’ song “haya kapatiana.” something about lights, cameras and stolen souls.

Back to the question at hand: why did I agree to this rendezvous again? The deja vu feeling never disappoints. Hmm…. and to think that that mama mboga-turned-psychic-from-ushago said that my New Year’s resolutions would definitely be realized this year. I always ask myself the same question, mostly out of habit and regret, every time I have to run and meet the “girls” knowing full well that the only barrier between me and that poverty line is 50 bob. I’ll probably ask Ciru, my best friend, to cover me while those other two look at me wondering what kind of business I have here other than applying for the doorman job. 

It must bug them to think that I’m proud even in my mtumba clothes and two-month old weave. Coming to think of it why can’t they buy clothes that actually fit? Not those things they throw over their backs which seem to only cover their nipples and nothing else. Si I thought once you have money it’s so easy to buy clothes worthy of the name. I bet I can get something like that in the Gikomba kiddy section for just 5 bob. At least for some folk money can’t buy class. I wonder if this restaurant will have English terms in their menus this time.

Aah… there they are. At least it’s warm inside and the music is splendid- not to be a spoilsport but a bit of Juacali, Harry kimani, Muthoni or Oliver Mtukudzi would have been so much better but I doubt whether half the people in here would be able to pronounce such glorious names without wrinkling their noses or consulting that western accent they so clearly haven’t gotten the hang of yet. If my old and fragile cucu knew I was fraternizing with the white Africans who tweng she’d walk all the way to “nailombi” in the name of cleansing my soul. She always says “musungu alitolewa haba na sasa analundi tena? Aiyee ndienda” (The white man was removed here and now he wants to come back? No I don’t want.) Of course, what could be more welcoming than Tracy and Angela’s man-made smiles? Completely empty and fake

“Hi.” Hugs and kisses. Honestly this is a social ritual newly adopted by the upper echelons of Nairobi’s socialites- and those only too willing to get there someday all in the name of finding that evasive piece of ugali, that I have never understood. Is it simply a gimmick of diplomacy or an enabler of shallowness?

“Hey, you’re late!” Ciru, always calling the kettle black but did I complain when she kept me waiting for over an hour at my graduation?

“Sorry, you know how traffic in Nairobi gets.” I give her a smile. That always gets me out of any future arguments. Those evil twins give a fake cough no doubt intended to scare me off. That’s when you know the gap between the rich and poor has widened- When they reduce you to a pet.

I never noticed the mzungu sitting with us. After today, kwanza at work, humph, I am in no mood for any kind of conversation but the show must go on.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. My name’s Susan. Susan Mwende.” After shaking his big tan hand I pay full attention to the glass of water in my hand. I think the formal nature of the introduction should ward him off so that conversation is held to a minimal.

“Sema. I’m Kevin Park” I am seriously surprised. No. I am in awe and not because I’m chatting with a white man but because he is talking to me and in that street language resented by my English teacher for years. She called it the devil’s dialect, only a preserve for the uneducated in their idle forum. There’s irony for you. I can’t hear the rest of his sensational going-ons at least for the mean time but I hear enough to know that it isn’t a myth after all- African Whites do exist. My dear sir, I am extremely impressed. Those other two! Si their faces have such a comical-constipated look. I’m really eager to see where this will go and maybe this won’t be such a bad day after all. 

Well, so far at least the menu is in English lakini I doubt we are in Tao. Ati the cheapest meal is 750 bob. Kwani, they heard I was an MP? People, whatever happened to cost sharing one big round of unhealthy Nyamachoma with a side dish of kachumbari? Kevin offers to pay for all our meals. God bless his little white soul. If he only knew how indebted I am to him right now. Things are going great. While talking, I realize that he works for a top notch NGO in the city and has lived here for 5 years. Passion for the poor, check. Crusader for justice, check. Empathetic towards refugees and IDPs check. Oh wait! Materialistic, superficial, pretentious, check, check and check. 

Our conversation is clearly sabotaged when Angela reaches for some pepper across the table purposely exposing her succulent orange shaped breasts to Mr. Man who pauses waiting for the drool to hit his plate. I can kiss that job interview at the NGO goodbye. Tracy gives the final blow. Dropping her fork and reaching down under the table careful to expose her petite figure and stroke his heaving mound gently. They’ll probably end up milking the poor guy out of his 3-month salary. Poor obiero. The whole night is a buzzing dine of distasteful flirting, pretentious talk of the economy, bonds and banks. The only thing keeping me on the edge of sanity somehow is Ciru’s constant whining of her loveless life. Better the devil you know. 

Same routine. She’ll talk of all the men she meets and compare them to the perfect ones in her dreams. Ciru is one of those girls you would have to describe as perfect because no other term would suffice in her place. Perfect face, perfect body, perfect smarts and so on. I think it’s getting to her brain and making her hallucinate. Poor thing she’ll go crazy waiting for her perfect man. She always turns them down. Should I tell her that Prince Charming was just a story told to little girls to make them go to sleep by dreaming of fairytale horse rides with shining knights in armor into the sunset? No she’ll figure it out even if it’s when she’s all old and alone.

Will wonders never cease? Probably not. Mr. BMW-Benz has just walked in with a girl his daughter’s age. She’s quite a catch. I’m sure it was probably on his ego-pampering chore list. I should take some lessons from him. Flash some Kenyattas here and some Mois there, buy her a ridiculously expensive meal with the best red wine the place has got to offer and make sure to over pronounce the French and she’s all yours for the taking. Heh! But the price of passion nowadays has gone up! After a hasty and passionless session of lovemaking, he will go home to his wife who will smell the cheap perfume unmistakably from Garissa lodge and demand a divorce but not before castrating him or literally skinning him alive. The children will suffer trauma from custody fights marked by a life full of long-term depression, short-term relationships and longer ones with the bottle or worse, suicide. Yin and yang. The tale of good and evil and their annoying child-karma. But for now “tujienjoy” I’m sure you can fit two pregnant women in that kitambi of his. With someone like him getting a girl with a face like that! “Love” must really be blind.

I leave and head for the ladies room. The mzungu doesn’t even flinch. He’s too engrossed by the talk of shoes, mansions and Tracy’s dreams of Hollywood and Broadway. Stranger things have happened. Yes! She can. Oddly enough, the best part about these five star restaurants is the bathrooms. So clean, spacious and personal. There’s no one around so I can breathe and relax. That’s hard to do with two years of beer down your gut while spotting the perfect little black mtush dress. It is while looking at the mirror that I realize I am not happy. What is it about mirrors that always seem to judge you? I have a good job, friends, family, the whole enchilada. Why? I’ll eventually get down to bottom of things but for now that craving for a swig of ice cold Tusker and a puff at my favorite local bar at home seem to be stronger than my Sherlock Holmes instinct.

As I head back, I can’t help but notice the smiles all around the room. Are they all real? Happy? Meaningful? For instance, the dark, lean man opposite our table has been smiling for quite a while. Not the happy one. He’s really sweating because he knows he’ll end up chongaing the viazi leo after paying for his second wife’s dinner and mortgage. She might not be so arrogant when she finds out that someone else has already beaten her to that elusive spot in the heart of hearts titled ‘first wife’. She’s better off with her ignorant smirk. 

Then the 30 something-ish woman wearing the lovely West African regalia signing her first major money making deal after all the women in the chama told her she couldn’t make it. i can’t help but think to myself that that is the smile I envy. Truthful, content and pure because it is earned earnestly. Then there’s the five boisterous gentlemen sitting at the far end of the room, sipping on expensive champagne perhaps celebrating a friend’s recent engagement. If the splurging is an inkling to go by, I would say that amongst them is a politician’s kid slowly draining away funds meant to feed the hungry somewhere in Loitoktok or build homes and schools in Budalangi or Mt Elgon.The sins of the father do catch on very fast don’t they?

Those smiles – the spiteful ones that always say checkmate, It doesn’t matter, I won; even though I didn’t do it fairly.

I can’t wait to leave this place. It always inspires a trail of thought that Freud would term “self-destructive.”

“Ciru I have to go. Its getting late and I have jobo kesho.”

“I’ll call you.”

I resist the urge to beg her not to.

“My therapist claims I need some alone time”, I would say.

Its raining outside. Sadly my ancestor’s rainmaking instincts were never passed on to me. I have no umbrella and by the time I get to the stage, matatu prices will have been hiked from 20 to 100 shillings and just for a fifteen minute drive. They’ll blame it on the fuel shortage or inflation. They always come up with these kinds of excuses only when some drops of water are just about to fall. If that ATM doesn’t work… I finally know what it means, you know… kuvumilia kuwa mkenya.

I get to MUTISYA’S local bar. That smell of cheap booze and cigarettes seems to be more inviting than that of lobster or any fancy Italian meal. I go straight to the counter and order my two rounds and a pack. That first puff is the one that always gets me. How stupid can you be? Waging all your bets on one thing? I confess that I have never been good at gambling but this is all so worth it. I sit there recapping the day while people judge me for not having the courtesy and decency of acting like a classy lady in public.

 I am glad that the day is finally over but tomorrow it begins again: city madness, rushing deadlines, pot-hole filled journeys, exhausting elites and the likes. Oddly, I seem to remember our pot-bellied pastor screaming to always count our blessings. It hits me. I am happy sometimes but I’m always bored. 

Isn’t life supposedly a cycle? Even those blessings, they have seasons in which they come and go. A timetable of sorts. Those ancient philosophers were right after all. There is nothing new. And to think after trying to find fulfillment and adventure throughout life we die still as travelers on a journey that we will never finish. After all that we are still put in that black box we call home and your loved ones will mourn and miss you and still have to say ‘goodbye restless sojourner’. 

On your tomb stone will lay an epitome 

“Wife, husband, mother, son, daughter ………………………….Beloved.”

Death summed up in life which by any other name would still be as cruel as it is predictable.

© Connie Mutua 2009