He smelled of a cocktail of frustrations
and bad decisions,
He mulled for hours,
He wanted to give up once and for all
Yet he couldn't,
because breathing is an involuntary act
and he had all his guts drained out of him.
He rolls over in his bed,
and waits for another day,
to make bad decisions
she's an agile dancer,
gyrating on the edge of the world,
she has nothing to lose,
except leave many men with loose change,
and with broken dreams
she carries graves inside her belly
she's lived it all
she's seen it all,
and she's not reluctant to tell
because, of many things,
she lost her ability to care or show
remorse.
I have made peace with the fact that I will have completely nothing to show after a few months of being handed a million shillings. I make this declaration with a clear and sane mind, backed by the fact that laying my hands on a million shillings is realistically impossible. I am not gambling – I know there is always one winner, and it’s not me.
But then, as a self-respecting person, there is a shred of hope that someday I might land a million shillings without breaking too much sweat. People have become instant millionaires by simply being in close proximity of certain government parastatals. I could begin idling around these offices to increase my chances of being randomly selected to supply certain sensitive goods often referred to by the secret code ‘air.’
I would use a million shillings as much as the next man. I occasionally take time off my busy idling schedule (I guess the experience will come in handy when I begin idling around government offices) to fantasize about a million shillings. It is a step scientifically proven by scientists who have had more than six cups of keg.
What would I do with a million shillings? This is a question you should ask yourself. Then you make a list of priorities you would buy. Buy a car, a plot somewhere, and build a house. What will, remain, if any, you plan to travel to an exotic holiday destination, say Bermuda Triangle. If you closely look at the list, you will realise that you are completely stupid, not because that money is not enough, but because it does not involve an approved amounts of drinks and a party to let everyone know that you are the new millionaire in town.
If you are like me, I have had a little money that I have worked my ass off to lay my hands on. How did I spend it? Slowly, as I thought of something useful I would do. Didn’t the wise say that failing to plan is just a form ingenuity? Days down the line, I realise that the little money was not that little at all. At least compared to nothing, which is what I will have a week or two later.
It is then that I make a budget – no, a budget is something you make before you spend money. I make what I will call a reverse-budget. It is the process of outlining everything you bought and adding up. Often, there is a deficit that will gnaw your mind. Where did 20,000 shillings disappear to? This is the most illuminating question that reverse budgets always reveal to you.
Back to the million shillings, which, by the way, I do not have yet. I will reserve a fifth of it for an item I will term ‘where did 200,000 go’ just to be safe from the knowledge that I will recklessly spend on things I won’t need (I might code this as things that might probably kill me). That will leave me with just 800,000 shillings, assuming that the government doesn’t give me the reason of hating it more by robbing me a part it and disguising the blatant robbery with glowing terms such as taxes.
Then I will buy something that will remind me of a time when I had a million shillings. You need to do that, because everyone who has had a million shillings does it. Some pay for sex regardless of the scientifically proven fact that some girls like to have sex, for free, with millionaires. Do not do that. You have to pay for a high end hooker such as the first lady. It will give you immense bragging points that will last you a lifetime, assuming you do not end up dead in Ngong forest for your dare devil act.
I have not yet settled on something, but I am pretty sure that while I think of it, some of my close friends will lose their jobs. How, you may ask. It is simple, we will hobnob from one club to another, for one month straight. If you are my friend, you will not refuse the offer. Trust me, I am a millionaire. I could buy you another job, or idle with you by the government offices until you are randomly selected to supply ‘air.’
The truth of the matter is that I will go broke. I am under no illusions that a million bucks will serve me a lifetime, neither will I come up with ideas to multiply it. I’ll simply enlist a couple of guys (I might even tithe) to help me go broke. But then that’s not how it is, I will just be a millionaire, under the illusion that the status is permanent, treating my friends. Hell, I’ll even have a bunch of new fake-friends who will, when occasions dictate, sing me praises.
I’d like me just rich enough not to be arrogant. In the meantime, let me walk by the KEMSA offices, they might be in need of a new millionaire. I got to be ready all the time. You never know when it’s your turn.
Do not call me yet.
I have not good news
If there were, you’d have heard it
I am not yet a millionaire,
I stopped gambling, but I may start soon
Do not call me.
She, who was my fiance,
Broke up with me
As it stands, nobody will bother you
to contribute to money for those ceremonies,
where people will gather and cheer you
for finally settling down
Do not call me
the streets of Nairobi have had the best of me
nothing much has changed
only age,
probably dreams
and expectations - all had to be adjusted.
Inside you are the grandest dreams ever dreamt
Yet each day, you appear empty and unkempt
The dreams are within your grasp
But its distance stings like a wasp
There are plenty moments of solitude
When you pause and assess your mood
You ask yourself whether you are ready
Yes, the dreams even make you a little heady
Where do you get everyday?
So far, far away
Stagnant in a muddy puddle
The dreams seem too much to handle
Look at you,
all silent and listless,
as if you are are absent,
speak up, do not act like a dump stone
tell us your story,
do people eat each other where you come from?
Are you a fugitive
that you must live invisibly among us?
Tell us anything,
tell us about space, or nursery rhymes?
Do not tell us you do not have nursery rhymes
everyone has them,
Don't you even have opinions?
Or they are too strong for a fickle beliefs,
Talk to us or talk at us
we do not care, as long as you are talking
We need new gossip material
about that silent guy who sits alone by the corner
sipping his drink as if the rest of us do not exist
We desperately need to feel good about ourselves
we need to know we are better than you
Its approaching seven in the evening. You are taking a walk to clear your head. You could use some form of unfamiliarity. You take an unfamiliar street. Amid the hustle and bustle, it is difficult to mind your own business. Children shriek and hurl vulgar (adult-rated) insults at one another. You mutter watoto wa siukuizi under your breath, because you are now too old, and probably about to be inducted into the hall of wahengas (wisemen).
Then you spot an oddity, a peculiar sight. You know what that sight means – it means the grim reaper visited a family. How do you know it? The bereaved family takes out a speaker, plays some sombre gospel songs, and places the picture of the deceased close by. The family wants you to know that death has visited them, and that they may (or may not, that’s the way things are done) need some financial assistance.
As you walk by, you look at the deceased’s picture and the family that has gathered around. Your only concern is how the deceased met his death. Was it a long illness bravely born? Was it an accident? Was it thugs? Did he die suddenly? Then you begin thinking about your own mortality.
But one of the deceased family members confronts you. She forcefully wants you to be empathetic and respond in kind by parting with your hard-earned cash. It is nauseating, that level of entitlement. You ignore her and walk on. She is not done with you and shouts:
“Ata wewe utakufa!!! (You will die also!!)” where did that come from? Really? Was it even necessary? She says it as though she is never used to being rejected or ignored. Or she had signed a pact with God that whoever she talks to parts with something. The nerve!! Benevolence is not compulsory.
In anger at her statement, you respond in kind ‘pia wewe utakufa! (You will die too)’She adds more insults that put to question whether she was actually bereaved or not. You walk on, wondering where the confidence came from. You rarely respond to such kind of comments from strangers, not especially those who are bereaved.
You must have been slightly tipsy because when you are in that state, you fire back salvos regardless of who is spitting them.
