THE FLOWER IS TOO LAZY TO BLOOM

Peer into my soul with those lifeless eyes

Look at how I am floating in the abyss

Do you see the valor in my eyes-do you?

I will guide my form in this abyss of your oblivion

For you are a flower that’s become too lazy to bloom

Why feminism is a big farce

If you take a brisk walk into the distant past, you will meet your great grandfather obliviously enjoying the setting sun outside a newly built hut. It is crisp. In mint condition. It belongs to his third wife, or fourth, or fifth. Does it matter? Absolutely not. He has on a leopard skin, covering just his loins. Children play around naked, as the older boys drive the animals in their respective shades. The day is breaking.

During those days, there was order and everybody had their distinct roles. The women bore children and reared them; the men protected and provided food for the family. The children on the other hand concentrated on being children, until they came out of age, where the boys got circumcised and became men, and the girls got married off. Occasionally, sacrifices would be offered to appease the gods when a villager commits a serious offence. Other than that, nobody lacked anything.

Then the white man comes, inspired by the conquests of Alexander the Great back in time. He declares that Africa and Africans are indeed backward. The industrial revolution had depleted their resources and they were out and about shopping for them. They took lands which were available in abundance, owned them and later sold them to Africans. Isn’t that one big cruel joke?

As they grabbed lands, they preached of a new god, who was more powerful than the rest; a god that towered above the African gods who had guided and protected Africans through bouts of diseases. Generations and generations came through various calamities, scathed but undeterred because the gods wouldn’t let them. But this was the hallmark of primitivity, as if Africa and Africans just came into being. Schools came up to teach Africans new ways of life, and make them like the whites, so that they could homogenize the world and create a market for their goods in the long run. Like darkness gradually disappears with dawn, and eventual rising of the sun, Africans abandoned their gods, their ways of life and adopted the new one, that would see them fight and gain independence.

The white man realizes that he made a mistake in bringing education to Africa. It would be nice if they just remained primitive. Then they brought AIDS to make Africa close to permanently subservient to the west. When we fight, they turn a blind eye, take out oil if there’s any or just leave us fighting to our ends as with Somalia. They don’t need charcoal, which apparently is the leading export of Somalia.

Because of the dwindling resources, and white man’s knowledge, things got tilted. Women began demanding more and more things. They were no longer content staying in the kitchen, and ruling it. Just like Alexander the Great, they were also keen on expanding their territories. And so they began using fancy terms such as ‘equality’ and ‘empowerment,’ aided by another term ‘marginalized groups.’ Men deliberated and came up with insightful conclusion which was ‘why not?’ FGM came tumbling down, although not completely. Women now wear suits and high heels, to attend meetings in Geneva and new York,  where they discuss at length the effects of FGM, whereby they are given some funds by donors. As a matter of principle these women come to purchase houses in high end neighborhoods and roll out in luxury SUVs, while some girls still get mutilated in Marsabit and Pokot.

More and more women are breaking the proverbial glass ceiling. Even with this kind of empowerment, women are still stuck with the traditional role of the man, that he is the sole provider. He pays the rent, educates the kids, and pays the house help even if he earns less than the wife (in case she chooses to remain a wife). When calamity strikes, as it sometimes does, and the man loses his job or is struck by a disease, the next thing you hear is the woman complaining about how he has suddenly become a burden just a month into the situation. The man, mind you, has been footing bills unflinchingly for the last decade, but then one month it becomes burdensome. She wants out. She reaches the media, just in case a couple of anonymous people will support her decision. A month later she is out leaving us with the question: what’s the need of women empowerment if they can’t raise a man to his feet when defeat is on repeat?

Enter the constitution. A two third gender majority. It is not achievable in polls, so they create an extra seat for the women, just for women to compete against each other just in case we end up with a man. The crafters of the constitution did not think this through. They were obsessed with gender rule, not knowing that the common voter doesn’t have a clue what that means. For that, we may have to pay by nominating a whopping close to fifty women to the house, just to attain the constitutional threshold. As far as I am concerned, the women want to remain marginalized forever, where they will speak forever about empowerment and equality, and in the process earn a few free seats to parliament, and of course not take any share of responsibility whatsoever in an union.

THE BALCONY

 The good old balcony at F Block, with its peeled grey painted walls, where we our skins enjoyed sumptuous sunshine in amounts that made its stomach grumble with satisfaction. It’s where loafed time once a lecturer has been caught up by more important things than teaching, which we liked anyway. Some would grumble at how they wasted their money, you know how matatus charge an arm and a leg during rush hour. It’s at this balcony, on the fourth floor, that we sympathized with them, cracked jokes, dirty jokes. More importantly it’s this balcony where we met before exams to plot our sitting arrangements and hold prayers that the lecturer woke up with beautiful lass by his side, thereby less troubles as he invigilates.

The Balcon, as our Luo friends called it, served as a de facto picture snapping place for the ladies.  They loved that damn place, like it enhanced features most important in their bodies. Often they borrowed those 13MP phones, ask a dude to take them as many pictures as possible, in different poses then ask the owner of the phone to send via WhatsApp pictures that she’d select from the many that were snapped. I wondered silently what happened to Bluetooth. There’s a queer fascination that WhatsApp inspires. I think I have found a subject for my PhD thesis.

For some of us who didn’t have lives, or stayed at home with their parents or siblings, those who found it boring to be wherever their heads rested every night, this was our place, our refuge. We’d crack jokes until a lecturer chased us for disturbance, some would even threaten to call the security guys for civil disobedience. Its here we’d admire how ladies had their asses packaged, rating and cheapening some. You can bet this was a favourite, for the boys. 

I seemingly didn’t have a life, probably because I came to Nairobi for the sole purpose of acquiring an education. And you’d find me there miserable, deep in thoughts about how to save a world that was rapidly sinking into oblivion, my world. I felt crushed and defeated every time a lecturer said he wasn’t going to make it to class. I would sit there with my black brief-case like bag, with it straps still running over my shoulder. I held that bag in high esteem. It had seen me through a high school, through a diploma course bag in college and now a degree course. It had faded slightly, and the right seam had got worn out through incessant rubbing with my ass. I think they made terrible friends. Years and years of seeing each other must have driven them nuts. Then this dude retired it unceremoniously. Oh my black bag, I can write an ode for you. I will write an ode for you, dear black bag.

 A moment worth mentioning here, is when I spent with a Kao chic. She had on a red dress that clung to her snugly like paint. On her feet were black slightly high heeled shoes. She was, and I still think she is, a lady of zero respect at least to me, based on my own parameters which might well be off track, though they head somewhere. And that place demands respect which wasn’t forthcoming from her. I am not going to divulge details of the nature of our relationship; because it is tinged with failures I have never wanted to learn from. 

She had asked me to take pictures of her which I promptly did. She has never bothered about them once I snapped. It’s like she wanted something fun to do. The balcony, being near the lecturers office, meant that male lectures would peep and call her in, which she obeyed pliantly. Some passed by and talked to her with those overtones that did not attempt to conceal intimacy, rushed as it may have seemed.

Now that she is back in the picture, I remember some of her not-so-good moments. She often asked very stupid questions like why is that chic wearing those tights? Hell, she could even ask why cars have wheels. She never knew where the @ sign on the computer was up the last semester of our university time yet she graduated.

Back to the balcony. Having decided that I actually had a life (you had to have one in her presence), I told her I wanted to leave for my hostel. She asked me to stay a little longer, as she made calls. Her phone never stopped ringing. Then a Luo dude pops up from the stairs, short and dressed in official attire. At that time a dude who had been hawking candies and sweets since we the university walked by. Luo dude asks her to take some. She says she didn’t want.

“Why?” Luo dude asks probably wondering her mental make-up.

“I don’t want to destroy my teeth,” she answers.

“Chuku ntalipa mpaka bill ya kung’oa meno,” the Luo dude says with the kind of false bravado associated with the lake side brothers.

I laugh a little and she does hysterically. She ended up taking a lollipop, having been assured that should she have a toothache, funds will be promptly disbursed to the dentist of her choosing. A little banter here and there told me that I was being intrusive to a couple. I strapped by bag on my shoulder and hit the road to my hostel. 

THE SMILE

That smile-your smile- appears to me

Like a well sculpted piece of art

It appears to me

Like God use its specifications

To create the sun

And in His generosity spoke

“Go ye and light his dull world”

And it was so

For you are shining in it, and owning it

What more could I ask for?

That love-your love- appears to me

In the silent throbs of my heart

It appears to me like a gold mine

A whole world of treasure

Treasure that mere mortals seek

And yet to find, a vanity

But you are here…with me… for me

You are my whole world, and you are shining it

What more could I ask for? 

FRIENDS AND FOES

We make acquaintances along the road of life. Some we decide that they are going to be our friends without any rational reason as to why, may be because they look good on camera or something related to it. Then you are friends, just like that. And because nature is a good teacher, it brings misfortunes to these people called friends to taste their loyalty, or lack of it, to rid us of inconveniences that comes with the bs that’s friendship. But then again, in the course of our lives, nature tags along people who remain aloof, mysterious and detached from what insane people consider normal. Some of them however reveal a little about themselves, that when we sit in the middle of the night when lovers have decided not to be lovers anymore, and you try to find out why you may deserve that kind of life, you are relunctant to imagine the cards life dealt to some people. Your mind cannot help but conjure unsavoury images such as them waking up from trenches if they ever did anyway…

One such a man is Kipketer.

He often sat alone in a corner, silent. He seemed a man deep in contemplation of course of the inconveniences caused by living. Judging from his nonchalance, a half cut exercise book, or sometimes an upgrade, folded foolscaps that he seemed to have picked from a trash can, I knew he was experienced in matters academics. He knew the uselessness of taking notes in a serious manner, and even more important, he knew the importance of not doing his assignments at all. Sometimes he came to class smelling cheap alcohol. Almost always, he often left with the lecturer, as if they had important matters to attend to. He of course the finish up the bottle of Jebel he left, and the lecturer to silently note the effects.

And because our names share a prefix, people often wanted me to talk to him or rather talk sense into him. I did, and now I am one of his students, the few of them to have ever graduated. Sometimes I do go to the hospital worried why I am not drinking as much as I should. Unlike most people, which no one does anymore, I am completely uninterested in intruding other people’s worlds. People may see chaos in other’s lives but to them there is perfect order. People may see ruins but to others that’s where they thrive. There were many ‘maybes’ to leave him alone, until one day, drunk on cheap alcohol, I ventured into his unchartered world, a world where every sane person wanted to be in and probably make the sun rise from south.

He had just emerged from a brief sojourn into his world of stupor, drunk as a kite. Kipketer was not the type to stagger, and with a loosely hanging pullover, we met by chance; teacher and student. The sun was blistering as if someone had abused it. Drops of sweat gleamed on Kipketer’s forehead, either unsure where to go or because they were waiting to swear in their president then troop down his face. We exchange greetings in our language.

We trudge along Baricho Road, I heading to my shithole, and he to meet a friend at the Baricho-Uhuru roundabout. Because Kipketer had no phone, I assumed that they had devised a language of their own, that they would communicate over long distances without any technological aid. Pride welled in me because Kipketer would teach me that language in the near future. As at then, we were still stuck at basics, like where to get cheap liquor. He carelessly gesture with his hands as he talked, as if words were not just enough. And that’s when I asked him what inspired his lifestyle.

“You need to find what makes your happiness, “ he said curtly.

I looked at him, urging him to go ahead.

“Sometimes, in this world, people will struggle to understand what makes you tick. They want to control the way you live your life. That wasn’t with me,” Kipketer launches his monologue. “When I joined campus, I asked my parents to reserve a room for me when we closed for long holidays. The hustle of getting a room in this part of town is akin to a villager hoping to land in the moon. Even though the rooms dilapidated, they scarcity makes it worrying. For their denial, I vowed to revenge. “

At the roundabout, the guy he was to meet was there waiting. He did not even reprimand him for being late or something, and that was amazing. Or maybe Kipketer was on time. The guy urges him to talk to him, to take education seriously. I think they shared blood. I leave them and head to by sheethole, may be catch some forty winks or type away random words that I would later call poetry. He asks if we have class the following day. I don’t remember if there was. And so we part.

Life goes normal, I stranded with the normal routine and he trying to spice up normalcy. He showed in class rarely, and when he did no one even noticed he was around. Time flies. Before we knew it we were sitting the last paper, a handful of us who had decided that there was still something beautiful in the newspapers. Kipketer was there. I was pretty darn sure that there were missing marks on his name but he showed dutifully. That takes guts, if you ask me.

One time, I met him at the gate. We talk briefly, but in that moment he told me that his friend, the one I had a chance of meeting, was dead. He had been knocked by a speeding car. What was remarkable about the tragic news was the way he said it. He didn’t seem emotional at all. He struck as a man who had made acquaintance with death, and the two would strike a perfectly normal conversation.

‘Aha! My friend,” death would say.

“What’s going on? I can see you are on an errand buddy,’ Kipketer would may be say.

‘Kama kawa. I should keep the world’s population manageable,’

‘Okay. When it’s my turn, do not be sentimental buddy.’ 

‘I have never employed such nonsense since I was born.’

‘By the way when is your birthday? Maybe I can invite you to celebrate your service to humanity. I hear you just took my cousin?”

‘The bastard crossed the road carelessly when I was rushing to take one of your politicians.’

I was really thankful for him. No emotions at all. I don’t know how I would have condoled with him. That’s just not my strength. I can’t stand human emotions, and suffering. Every time I see beggars with indescribable deformities and scars, I feel like shooting them to end their suffering once and for all.

I do not know where Kip is now. But I do hope everything is okay with him. I do hope that he never drowned in one of his drinking expeditions. I do hope that one day he sobers up and goes to fetch his degree, even though it is yet to bring tangible benefits to some us, a year down the line. We are stuck with hawking our credentials from one office to another, hoping that lady luck shall smile upon us one day. She never seems to be in a hurry though. Maybe she’s been bribed by politicians to smile at the first. Here, we hold on to hope.  

WHY WOULD YOU CARE?

And the rising sun brings forth uncertainties

A cold shiver runs through your spine

You loved a man that you barely knew

Now, you are almost sure he’s on his way

To lands yonder, having stolen your happiness

Nights find you sipping your favorite wine

Hurt and confused by all that’s happening

Scared too of thinking about the future

Drunk, you ask yourself, why would you care?

Yes, why would give a shit?

You are out of your mind, and you like it that way

You swear you’ll do whatever it takes

To get back even with him, whatever it takes

And when everything’s been done and dusted

He’ll live with regret for the rest of his life

But for now why would you care

When every has been broken and to trust

You must begin from scratch cautious like scientist

Yes, you are a scientist trying to experiment again

After a failed attempt, grave as leaving you broken hearted

But then you won’t care about anything anymore 

THE CIGAR SMOKER

He makes a point of ringing the bell, before he slots the key to open the door, as to warn whoever is in the house of his entry, and perhaps finish any mischief before he enters. He then straddles in, with a newspaper and a black plastic bad, places the newspaper on the table and removes a coca cola bottle from the bag and places it on the table as well. All this time he doesn’t say a word to anyone, not even a hello. It’s fine. After all everybody is fine, except street kids and no one bothers to ask them how they are doing anyway.

The rest of the contents, he goes to the kitchen counter and drops them like one would do to trash. With this done he heads to his bedroom, changes into a shuka, then back to the kitchen where he fetches his ash tray. He proceeds and sits on his usual place, a designated chair where no one dares to put their bum, not for the fear but for the reverence he seems to have bestowed on the chair. He reaches out for the remote and switches to Citizen TV that is if someone switched to other channels, a rare occurrence.

He lights his cigar and smokes casually, without a hurry in the world, oblivious of the warning on the packet, SMOKING KILLS. He reads the newspaper in the process as thin wands of smoke find their way into the air, choking fresh air into submission.

Once he stops and gives me a lecture on how it’s important to talk to people. He says its important to talk to people because we learn from interacting with others.

“Don’t stare at your computer all the time. You could be hiding valuable information people would use,” he says. “You see, with me, the computer knowledge I have is archaic.” I nod. Truth is, I don’t find anything worth sharing about the computer. I am not a wizard. Most times I am just typing away my thoughts or indulging Pablo Neruda’s poetry.

I thought he was trying to show care. He even rose and gave me bananas and a bun, which I didn’t need but I remember staring at them and wishing they’d to be eaten. He was suddenly being too nice, an unusual thing for him.

But when the doorbell rang and a fine lass entered the room, I understood the message he had been trying to send to me. She would be the second girl in a span of week, but less pretty than the first. He orders her to make tea, and she boldly says hi to me. From the dressing, black tights, a brown flowered dress that flattered her and a stocking on her head, I deduced that she wasn’t a sophisticated girl; she could pass either a basic whore or a mboch.

She made tea, drunk and they went to the bedroom. When the dawn broke, she was nowhere to be seen. She might have slithered into the darkness to wherever gave her the most discomfort.