Why I’m Changing Names

I recently met this Kamba lady at a meeting. To quote Shakespeare, “...she was fair and fairer than the word”. She had on her pink flowing dress that rolled gracefully accentuating her screaming figure. She was perfect. She had a slight Masaku accent that made her nibble her words. But that didn’t dent her ethereal beauty nor make me desire her less. She must have been using those Eastleigh perfumes where one spray is enough for all in the room. But it wasn’t toxic or choking, it made her smell like a rose in the morning. Strong enough to get the bees attention but not sufficient to kill it.

Honey is her name. And that’s not just her Facebook name. You know all those girls called Gaudencia Akinyi and calling themselves Princess G. Honey isn’t like that. Even Ole Lenku and his boys down at Immigration recognize her as Honey. What a sweet name. I think that’s how I begun. 

Honey tells me about her. She’s a nurse somewhere in one of these rich people’s hospitals. Those hospitals that make disease look exotic and and dying sophisticated. Those hospitals where helping somebody go to the toilets are labeled big names such as ‘stool incontinence services’.  Her patients are the who’s who in Kenya. 

I tell her that I go to such hospitals, it’s just that I’ve not been sick of late, that as a sportsman I keep healthy and take good care of myself. That’s a lie of course. Am healthy, yes, but I’ve been to Mama Omo’s Dispensary frequently of late. Maybe it has something to do with the chapo madondo I’ve been taking for lunch of late. I can’t tell her that of course. I have to protect the good name of my community.

She tells me to check in at their hospital one of these fine days, just to have a routine body checkup. 

Am tempted to ask if NHIF covers that.  I don’t, I’m not that dumb. 

We make a date and I promise to go by the hospital. Am not crazy about hospitals, not since J. Ngumbao fired me from Mama Lucy Kibaki Hospital over some personal issues. I’ll tell you that story another time.

So for the lure of the skirt I went for the date…..at the hospital. Don't say anything, I know it's low.

If she was elegant in her pink dress then she was picturesque in her well-fitting white uniform complete with a princess’s tiara. It was decent enough but yet still intriguing, fashionable yet still professional, revealing yet dignified. It’s the kind of dress that makes one just wanna reach for the honey. But of course that’s out of the equation. These days writers are being sued right left and center for sexual assaults. 

She’s a great story teller, my Honey. Oh, she’s already mine in my head.

She asks me about my home. I prepare to patiently explain to her that it's a small town near Kisumu.

For some reason all Luos come from Kisumu. I prepare to extol the virtues of my home town. Though we do not have CCTV cameras on the street like her county we are not that bad off. We do not have airstrips and running tap but we do have huge primary school compounds where choppers can easily land. We do have a running river. Our governor may not have fancy names for bicycle races such as Tour de Machakos, but bicycle races are not a new thing in my county.

                                                    “Wewe ni wa huko?”

I naturally assume that she's talking about the inhabitants of the shores around Lake Victoria.

From her face it’s obvious nothing good comes from there. She tells me how hooligans destroyed their state of the art stadium. She's bitter at the lawless who have no human decency, no scruples and no sense of responsibility whatsoever.  The animals who go on unwanted wanton destruction of goods just because they lost a game.

                                           “It's not just a game. It's the league that was going away.”

Of course I don't tell her that.  That would be seen as justifying hooliganism.

She tells me she would never marry a Luo. That they have to have more than one wife. That there has to be a city wife and a village wife. In her case there would be a Kamba wife and a Luo woman to be trusted with the secrets of the community.

“And what's up with them and funerals?”

Apparently over the weekend she was in some town called Oyugis. The road was so bad they had to push their four wheel drive to overcome the mud.  And she had just done her nails in one of this saloons that does your pedicure for the price of Land in Ruai.

And that's not the worst. Apparently Luos are stubborn even in death. The corpse apparently refused to enter the homestead and they had to tilt his coffin facing the other way. It seems their brains don’t live for long though. And the way they were behaving! Wailing loudly without a drop of tear then disappearing behind the food tents.

Oh Honey, what a keen lass.

But the main reason she won't marry a Luo is their superficial nature; their obsession with what is seen over what is there. She tells me that they were forced to sleep in a car at the funeral because their bereaved friend despite his many cars had no house at home.

                    "Oh, am sorry I've talked too much. So where's your home?"

                    “Ummmmmh……..ummmh…………..Am from Lamu.”

                     “But your name......”

                     “Forget about what I said earlier. I am Alhaji Alamin Varaq”

                      “But your colour?....you dark…..”

                       “And handsome?..............Thank You”

I'm sorry I denied you three times grandpa.

But I hope you'll understand.

You remember when you went to fight for the white man in Egypt and Burma, this right now is my world war. You remember when you used guerilla tactics to win deceive and ambush your enemies? Let this be my guerilla time. .................At least for a month.

Shujaa Tom Mboya

He stands there towering above other mere men, water gushing from his feet, his trademark African hat and whisk unmistakable; the slight blimp on his belly, clearly visible. His presence is loud, ubiquitous and unignorable. Though not drawing of breath, he is everything but lifeless. 

Around him ducks swirl, men and women seduce each other, others backbite, others plan major heists and yet others just stare into their clueless immediate future. Friends who haven't met for a long time warmly embrace each other and chat happily; for a few minutes and then realize that they are both in a hurry to get to something important. They exchange some ten useless digits and promise to keep in touch. Your guess is as good as mine; they will never call each other. Each will be embroiled in his nation building duty, giving birth and collecting their children in limo convoys, investing in real estate, making counterfeit money, caning Raila, throwing shoes at the other guy etc. 

I think he has grown immune to teargas; be they provoked by city hawkers or the trouble loving Kogallo faithful. To him, teargas now just smells like a rich kid's fart. Harmless. Undisruptive. Tolerable. Immature. Okay. 

Students will start their three months of automobile Engineering in the Interglobal Institute a few steps away and graduate with honors; others will start relationships, post their pictures on Instagram well captioned with words like #bae #forever and still break up. 

Yet he’ll be there; stretching his arm into the Moi Avenue traffic.  I wonder why they made him point at the railway station. Is it coz just like Paulina, he came to Nairobi via train? Martin Were was there to receive Paulina. Who received him when he came to Nairobi for the first time? 

I wonder if given a chance he would change the direction his outstretched arms are pointing at. I wonder if he would accept to face Mount Kenya. I wonder if he would instruct us to retain our foreskins or to fit into the bigger civilization. I wonder what his reaction would be to this mushrooming statistics that put his people on top of all the bad things. HIV, poverty, teenage pregnancies, harmful cultures etc. 

I however do know that he would be excited that Barrack Obama, son of Barrack Obama Snr, a beneficiary of his famous student’s air lift program is the 44th president of the United States of America.

He may have been modest but he would still be a Luo about that. I imagine him calling the white house and being taken through the necessary protocol.

"Bwana give me the president now…..ati he is busy?… you should know people. I found his father hungry herding goats in Kogello and took him to America…..Were it not for me… ……………"

He would leave the statement trailing, just like any Luo who wants to be taken seriously.

I wonder how it would be like if he were still alive. Will HELB have doubled their loan?  Would he have organized another airlift? If he would have, I think I would choose Brazil. It’s not just because of the sexy supermodels in colorful bikinis (though that's a huge factor), but it’s mainly because America is too cliché. Anyway after Uncle Barry became the president there, there isn’t much record to be broken anymore.

Among the Luos, individual and family successes are measured in records. 

Bwana I have two degrees. 

Bwana I went to Maseno.

There's a way that Maseno is said with an accent that makes it sound like the Harvard of Kenya. 

Were he alive today, would he be inwardly pleased by the man who caned Baba? Considering that Jaramogi and Mboya weren’t the best of friends back then?

Given a chance today, would he choose to remain dead and worshipped or alive and unsure? I don't think he would be ready to forgo the daily Kogallo rituals or the prayers in his name. Am not sure he would want to come back and live in this era of MCAs and Duale. He would rather not engage in such base discourse.

Maybe he won't mind going back home in the evening for a change of clothes and warm embrace from his family. If he would be swayed by such sentimentality, then perhaps he would remember that these days’ old men are quickly found insane and incapable of making sound judgments regarding their own hard earned money. 

But what if he could open his mouth and speak.  What if he could see beneath our unrevealing facades and easy smiles? Would he tap us in the back, look us in the eye and say 'it’s okay son, you got this'. I didn’t meet him but his legacy says he is that kind of a man.

What if he could reveal our secrets? Yes, what if he could list the number of guys he's seen holding your waist leading you into the land of milk and honey (Pizza Inn, Creamy Inn, Galitos). 

What if he could let the world know that you've just been sitting in front of his house admiring the Africanness of the Nairobi woman while claiming that you are busy and that you are not to be disturbed on phone? 

Will he tell us that you buy your shirts from the hawkers in front of Mr. Price and still claim to all how you love your new Mr. Price shirts? 

Would you be afraid of anything he’ll have to say?

Personally there are a lot of things I wouldn't want him to say; chiefly that infamous day I ate too much at a party in Ngong and the queue at the public toilet outside his house was so long.

I won’t mind him revealing the breakup speech I gave to Njeri when she called Kogallo faithful uncivilized, uncouth and backward. Am sure, he tapped Robert Ouko, JM Kariuki and Jomo and told them, ‘now that’s ma nigga’.

 

I like to tell myself if he could he could sprint to Dedan Kimathi some hundred metres away and tell him, ‘in your face bro”.

Maybe am just idle enough to let such thoughts find home in my mind.

Sydney Adoli L, The President

I consider myself a rich man; A very rich man. I know some petty thieves are already making grand plans in their heads to rob me. So let me save you and I all that trouble. I didn’t mean that kind of richness. I am one of those guys who believe that a man’s richness isn’t determined by the number of ATM cards or buildings in his name. A man’s worth should be measured in two things; his word and his friends. A man who has the solid support of people who can help him whenever need arises, is in my opinion a rich man. There are those times that people will come through for you when all seems bleak. I guess that’s why our forefathers married forty women. It ensured you had sufficient and free labour, security, and a voice. I’m not of course suggesting that men should marry many wives today to be considered rich. It doesn’t work like that nowadays.

I have very many interesting friends; people as diverse as heaven and earth. Whereas the ideal weekend for one would be somewhere on top of Mount Longonot struggling to light a fire with the remaining match stick, hyenas howling in the background and the rains threatening to fall any second, another would require a room to himself, unlimited high speed internet, a laptop, TV, perhaps a music system and a shelf of the latest movies. Others love swimming, or so they say, yet while at the pool they will just be lounging at the shallow end, watching, admiring, selecting and short listing. But whatever these people are into; they are great men and women.

They are competitive, they are loyal, they are fun loving and most importantly, they challenge. Sydney Adoli is just but one of them. We don’t call him that. We call him Mzee Sad News. Mzee is not because he is old; it’s because of his wisdom. It’s because just like an old man, he listens, he consults, he weighs before making sound judgment. Is he a bearer of sad news? I know that’s what you want to know first. Calm your titties; lemme tell you a story.

A long long time ago before I started visiting the barber to do a job on my chin, before I knew the price of suits, before I knew there was a town called Githurai, even before I knew that that thing wasn’t just for passing urine, I met a man. It’s now almost decade. He wasn’t that big himself then. I’m tempted to say he was a boy. He was a member of my class in Form One Green, in the school of men. We were commoners; we had our slippers stolen together. We were rudely welcomed by zealous form twos who were eager to shed off their mono names and compensate for the frustration of being a Maseno mono. A Maseno mono had no rights, owned no property and it didn’t help if you thought yourself above the rule of mere men.

But Sad News wouldn’t remain a commoner for long. He quickly became a dispenser. No, he wasn’t distributing condoms in schools. He was dispensing drugs and food to students who were sick and couldn’t make their way to the Dining Hall to serve for themselves or those who feigned sickness for any reason. And in Maseno school there was always a reason to feign sickness.

The dispenser’s job was one with huge responsibilities and no pay.  It involved shuttling from the school dispensary, to the dining hall, the deputy’s office, boarding master’s office getting prescriptions, medical sheets, taking care of sick people and having to put up with pretenders who complained that the food they were being served was not adequate enough.

But he enjoyed his work; in fact he did it with gusto and determination hitherto unseen. To most, this was a position which meant you got to eat twice and maybe throw in the relished top soup once in a while.

I know you are still waiting for the sad news part, I’m getting there.

Maseno School had a certain kind of language that was uniquely interesting. I can’t say it was sheng coz it wasn’t.

Instead of saying ‘ntakupiga’ for example one would say, ‘ntakuingia beat’.

The beat would be said while dragging the vowel sound in between such that it would sound like biyiat.

The language was however more complex than that. If you wanted to say something was good, you said it was bad.

And just like English, there was a degree of badness. A great man was referred to as sad news and a really really great man was referred to as melancholic news.

We used to call him melancholic News but as humble as he is, he felt that was too huge a title and once the Don speaks you argue a little bit and then accept his will.

He was later to become the school uniform prefect a post that was not only reserved for the neatest but was also a symbol of standing out among the people.

But that’s not why I think Mzee Sad News will be among the best presidents KU will ever have. If you noticed I used when and not if. This guy is a real force, a natural leader. He is the guy you follow without asking questions.

I remember in our freshman year of college, Sad News used to organize a forum every Friday where Maseno old boys could dine and talk and of course make fun at each other. It didn’t have to be something fancy. Dry chapattis from the Western Mess would do just fine. It was never about the food or the venue, it was about the company.

He didn’t change much when he became Mr. KU. But he wasn’t content. He used his position not to get likes and shares but to start a foundation; Hope Hands Life. A doctor in making, he devoted his time to organize political leaders and organizations to commit resources to give information, provide free screening and treatment of common cancers such as cervical and breast cancers. He used his position to organize runways for pregnant women and thus raising awareness on challenges of pregnancy. He used his position to ensure that through his Foundation, he could touch a needy child with a dream. Give them hope and a chance at realizing their dreams. Yes he is that guy.

Ladies and gentlemen am not describing an angel, am describing a man with faults and fears, a man who may sometimes, even without meaning, err. But the good thing is that he will always pick himself up. He is that friend you can’t stay mad at.

It’s a shame I won’t be able to vote for him because KU decided I had overstayed my welcome. If I were to go back to KU today, it would be for three reasons; to play hockey, to chase after those damsels I hear recently got admission and definitely to vote for this nigga.

Long Live Mzee Sad News. (‘Yule Miss Taveta nilikuona naye kwa picha sasa story yake niaje?’)