Wednesday, 24 December 2014

Nyar Lang'o



Today would have been our anniversary
Yet, here I stand-  your adversary
Six months ago, you issued your travel advisory
Banning me from ever touring your stunning geography


Today, a year ago, I met you
You were the only thing beautiful about that sunny day,
You were the perfect Christmas gift; funny, simple, large, and warm


Today I was by your Facebook wall,
Hoping to climb in like I used to mount your window

You looked more enchanting than ever,
Ur lips sweet red as ever; 

I see you have remained loyal to your brand, 
Just the same way you've been disloyal to us

I wanted to like your Instagram photo
And comment just how radiant you looked,
But then I remembered I can’t; that I shouldn't....


I really miss you,
Everything reminds me of you; our rendezvous point, our juice place, our dark city spot............

So here's me just living my message here,

Hoping that somebody who knows somebody who knows my lang'o gal will tell you that I haven't forgotten how you made me feel

Here's me putting my faith in the gods

Here's me waiting for them to lead you to me once again....

Mzee Varaq


Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Remembering Campus



















It's a hot Friday afternoon in Oyugis Town. My soon to be ex-girlfriend, her future ex-boyfriend and I are sitting on the edge of the bed. The air is loose and uneasy. It's that kind of feeling you have when a beautiful lady walks into a lift and finds when someone has ‘spoilt’ the air and left.  You are torn whether to assume she can't feel the stench or to open up and say it wasn't you. So you steal glances and smile sheepishly when caught.

The friend and the soon to be ex-girlfriend must either be doing it or planning to do it. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this development. I think I was annoyed that they thought I was too dumb to notice. But it was exciting to play the game. Don Corleone, The Godfather, says that it's better an enemy overestimates your faults than a friend overestimates your virtues. 

I remember getting a text that the 'list' was out and I should go check what university and what faculty the all-powerful JAB had given me. I excused myself from the amorous duo and went to a nearby cyber to check. Back then, the kind of gadgets that we had as phones could not successfully load a page without running out of memory.

The course that had been chosen for me was Population Health.  My dream of being a city lawyer dressed in shiny suits, cross examining 'ignorant' witnesses in scandals of Biblical proportions, in the full glare of the local and international press, and letting my clients off the hook while getting filthy rich in the process, had met its untimely death. It meant I couldn’t strut in the court arena in the Perry Mason swag- the type I had but visualized in detective books and tried, successfully, to the chagrin of many an opponent in moot courts. 

I couldn’t let them know that I was disappointed. 

No, they were already behaving like they had gotten away with murder. The realization that good JAB had condemned me to an inferior course would be news most welcome to them. So, like a guy holding on to the last shred of dignity left, I extolled the virtue of the JAB choice. I told them that I hadn't really wanted to do law. That course X was the new thing in town. It actually helped that the course was new in the University and was only being offered in one other institution of higher learning in Africa. 

Prof J F Koga would send a signed admission letter a fortnight later later but it would be several months before Kenyatta University would open its hallowed gates to us. By then, I had decided to be the bigger man and seduce the ex-girlfriend’s best friend and the friends now ex-girlfriend.  

The thing about time is that it passes too fast to notice. New Buildings come up, people get married and beget kids, others grow bellies and die from heart attacks, others break up and beg each other on those sleazy breakfast shows, wounds heal, you meet interesting people and life generally goes on.
I've met really interesting people in campus. People who are so fascinating that just mentioning them in this rushed blog post won't do their characters real justice.  These are People who deserve their own blog post.  People like Omosh Jilali. The only fresher I knew who had an actual TV set. Not those laptops fitted with TV cards or TV boxes. He used to watch news religiously and he would tell us what Baba has done or what Baba planned to do. I hear he nowadays doesn't watch TV. He isn't interested in anything those two camera loving silly boys have to say. Not my words.
Omosh was the first guy I saw who actually ferried sacks of maize from the Nyanza Republic. At the beginning of the semester three full sacks used to stand erect in the corner; at the end of the semester, the sacks would be lying on the floor like a spent penis. 

In deed he was the kind of guy who would share with you his fish but would think twice about letting you into his plate of ugali. It's a shame he won't be graduating alongside us because he raised his voice when KU, in cohorts with IEBC decided to steal Baba's kuras. 

Then there was msee wa shorts.  He was always in shorts. Word had it that they were easy to remove whenever the lasses visited. The smell of fried waru would float across the rooms followed almost immediately by the sight of his four roommates suddenly leaving for the library or group discussions and then the almost ubiquitous loud hip hop music to muzzle the expected sound of people fighting for their lives. Literally. 

There's this day that one of his concubines must have found the going too tough. Msee wa shorts could be seen in his OMEN boxers, large veins protruding from his forehead, thick sweat freely flowing from his face as he dashed from his room carrying a seemingly fainted lady wrapped in blue sheets across the hostel’s corridor and into the abolition block, obviously to sprinkle cold water. She survived.  She was back the very following day. The music went up too. Msee wa shorts was now the undisputed Usambara Hostels msee wa shots. Jaduon'g Thuol and Adush Latif (rest in peace) would threaten to snatch the title from time. But it would only be a matter of time before Lord Rungu entrenched himself as the undisputed champion of the arena. 

What about Gythy? The only guy I know whose relationship survived the four years.  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was a student from another campus. Every Friday, Gythy would shower, apply expensive cologne, lock his cabinet (his roommates were Maseno Boys who thought everything was communal), pack some gloves and the Manpower’s book he read like a Bible. Only then would he make his voyage to Kabete. He would return on Tuesday evening and head straight to the gym, perhaps in preparation for the next weekend. 

You see that's just the thing about campus.  You meet people who make you question everything you once considered normal. The kind of guys who start putting their livers to the test on Monday and do not stop until Monday, when they start again. 

You meet those guys who wear their slim colorful trousers on their knees and spot dirty Green Boxers. They, in most cases, have very colorful earphones, matching trousers and those uniform T shirts written something like MY MONEY GROWS ON TREES. They are either spotting Mohawk or their hair is braided.  You can bet your arm that in the whole setup there's a chain somewhere.

You meet those whose idea of lunch is boiled water and yellow mandazi, the broke ones who buy two ugalis at the school mess at five shillings each knowing very well that the good university will throw in two leaves of cabbage and a jug of soup. You meet sons and daughters of hooligans just as you meet sons and daughters of Kikuyu tycoons who make money by selling the government air. Their sons and, by extension their weekly chicks, will without a doubt never be spotted in the students messes or those ‘dirty low class’ hotels in KM. 

In campus you learn that there will be good and bad seasons. You appreciate that you won't be at the top always, neither will you be at the bottom always. You get to understand that powerful people (read HELB) may dictate your highs and lows. You will not always be in control. And you get Okay with that. There are times you laugh, and there are times you cry. I remember my stillborn KUSA race with a glee of disappointment just as I replay my medal moments with the Vultures Hockey Team with pride.

You meet those guys you can always relay on. The kind of guys you call at 11 pm and tell them that there's an assignment due the following day, and they'll offer to edit their cover page for you and make minor textual changes to the assignment and hand in.  Mzee Mchil and your Inda enterprises I raise my glass to you.

You meet lecturers who see you as a threat to their mating habits. You meet field supervisors like Jacques, the one I wrote about in the Diary of a Rookie Health Worker who was just too eager to remind yours truly here who the boss was.

You meet those nice girls who will always invite you for fried omena and come over and surprise you with sweet uji severely laced with citric. Lady V and Lady B thank you. 

In campus you meet those friends who are always having great ideas. 

                                      Tuende Swimo Lambada usiku.

         Bwana tupike mayai na omena pamoja (Mzee Fisi and Wekemeu am not talking about you here)

So this is not just for those graduating this week. This is for all of you who made campus, campus. This is about all the roommates who started reading immediately a beautiful girl walked into the room. This is about all those girls who made me clean the room upside down, changed sheets, missed classes or hockey training, cooked chicken knowing very well it was that time of the month. This is for all of you. This is for my big sisters who are big sisters in every way. 

So congratulations to all graduands at the 37th KU graduation! Graduating from some of this public universities is just as easy as finding well behaved Paradiso touts. 

Aluta Continua. 


Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Sober Reflections of a City Drunk















It’s a few minutes past midnight. Not that you can tell from the flurry of activities going on in the sin city. The city is so full of life; night nurses fighting for the strategic parts of the streets, street families hurdling together to fight the biting cold, alcoholics dragging themselves to yet another bar, while the true champions of the night lurk in dark alleys waiting for prey. Meanwhile miraa and muguka sellers proudly display their wares for their unending customers.

He's never known what the difference is between the two. He will ask Owen about that.

The queue at the Cooperative Bank ATM is just getting longer. The bank must be making a lot of money on Fridays. Unless of course people are too inebriated to remember their PINS.

He's on his fourth Guinness. He will always be grateful to Sir Arthur Guinness for such a rich and rewarding drink. His eyes are now getting a little bit heavy. He can still see though, clearly so. Today he’s not at his favorite joint. They didn’t find any seats there. The new place is not bad. From the balcony of the new joint he watches Embassava buses come and go. He watches lovers cling on to each other while prolonging their good byes. Such people make him believe in love again. Until thirty minutes later they are prolonging a welcome hug. The day lass has exited, the night nurse has arrived. He smiles knowingly. A man has to do what a man has to do.

The Nairobi air is so much loaded. There’s a faint but unmistakable smell of the ubiquitous teargas wafting in the air. It is punctuated with the nauseating stench from heap of garbage and refuse, heavy dust, thick dense smoke from the matatus that only ply their trade at night and the smell of ladies perfumes, weaves and makeup.

Today is not the best of days. But it’s still a good day nevertheless. His companion is a great man. He's reliable. He's consistent. He’s the embodiment of greatness. He just has a tiny flaw. He's never on time……unless it's a summon to appear for a drinking session or a Gor Mahia match. The pursuit of greatness waits for no man. As for Gor, Srikal cannot be kept waiting. Even if you are the mighty queen of England.

The guys on the other table light their cheap cigarettes and there’s a fresh scramble for the loaded Nairobi air. He doesn’t like smokers. He loves his lungs and so loathes smoke. But then hi bar si ya mamake. He’ll have to endure or retire early to the warm welcome of his apartment’s solitude.

The music is okay. It's not Rick Ross but thank God it’s not riddims either. It will do.

From his spot the entire city is right in front of him. He sees her. She's in a skirt that's obvious the tailor ran out of material.  She's sexy. It’s clear her dress is her choice. He would want to strip her.  Not in public, just in private.  She looks quite sophisticated. These yellow women will be the end of us all. She looks like she's the type of girl who drinks tots the size of his salary. He escorts her with the eyes till she disappears into a taxi …..To Caramel Lounge probably. One day he might just be able to take her there. A man is allowed to dream.

He's trying to close a deal on WhatsApp. She's some familiar stranger on one of his WhatsApp groups. She seems intelligent. And funny. And beautiful. Yes, he did stare at her profile picture. He’s superficial. He knows.

He must not seem pushy. So he takes his time. Complimenting and laughing at her jokes while appearing uninterested in pursuing a personal conversation. It’s still a group and he is trying not to be noticed.

The phone goes off. Tomorrow he'll have to start again.  F*ck Android. He needs to buy a kabambe to feel the void in situations like this. Wait, kabambe doesn't have WhatsApp.

He is thinking about her. He’s thinking about them.

What's she doing now? Watching Scandal in her bedsitter at Kahawa? Does she have somebody over? Has she introduced him to their motorbike guy or their local mama mboga or their butcher? Has she cooked for him? Hope it’s just mukimo or waru. Has he discovered that spot by the neck yet? That exact spot that ignites her passion and drives her crazy? Does he make her scream? Does she love him?  He misses her. He really wants to text her and spew nonsense. Break down and ask her back. Beg if need be. He misses her sweet scent, her soft perfect lips and her homeliness. He's saved by the power shortage.  It’s ok. He'll text her when he's sober.  He never texts back when he's sober.

He thinks about her as well. His Mama Mitch. The closest to Halle Berry he’s ever gonna get. He thinks about her dreadlocks. How he loved playing with them. He remembers her white teeth and her bewitching smile. He remembers Mitch. Their son. Mitch is a teddy bear but he was a son to him. He truly loved their little family. Is she out? Is she with her gang, the ones that she always showed up for a date with or is she with her new guy? Is he strategic? Will he score tonight? Will he change the name of their son? Will she let him and thus close the door on the beautiful memories they shared together? He’ll text her in the morning. He never texts her when he’s sober.

He thinks about her too. Is she at the kesha tonight? He remembers her telling him she can’t date alcoholics. He remembers explaining that he isn’t an alcoholic. He just drinks Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays only. She’d dare ask him to choose between greatness and him! Women!! He shakes his head.

Had he made any right choices in his life? His peers are getting married and begetting twins, divorcing and remarrying, going to statehouse for tea and giving out sewing machines to poor women, getting philosophical and motivational and commanding the respect of fellow men. Yet here he sits at this crowded bar. Consuming beer from a recycled bottle somebody used a year ago.

He thinks about his mum back home. Is she thinking about him? He knows she is. She’s probably kneeling. Praying. Praying for him. Praying that he goes to church the following day. Praying that he gets good health. Praying that her son doesn’t get swallowed by the Sodom and Gomorrah of our time. He’ll call her in the morning. He will always remember to call her when he’s sober.

He shuts down the train of thought and hugs his cold, bitter, crisp, dark love even tighter.

Maybe he’s an alcoholic after all.


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So did you notice anything new in the blog? Anything. Sorry, I forgot you are on your mobile . It's okay. I'll tell you. There's a social media plugin. You can now comment and share on Facebook and twitter easily.

That's courtesy of some great work from the one and only Owen Habel Lwanda. You can interact with his creative side on his blog http://owenhabel.blogspot.com or his geeky side at http://in4addict.blogspot.com.

He has also featured prominently on sabhinajoy.com and weed.com.

Otherwise keep calm and keep sharing.