He wore a distant look on his
face, silky smooth baby face, like he made it up every morning. From it I
deduced that he was scared more by what he knew than what he didn’t. Had I not
troubles that bothered me, I would have
walked up to him and asked him what was bothering him, except I had more things
bothering me too. You must be troubled
by something if you crave solitude, right? There were only two of us in the back yard of the hostel, communing with
hanging lines and singing hymns that came with the wind, and the constant
traffic that flowed along Lang’ata road. He didn’t even notice me, I’d learn
later. He could have been high on something illegal. Later on we’d pass each
other along the corridors, not ever occurring to us that pleasantries were
meant for human beings. We didn’t notice each. His world was much busier than
mine though.
Later on, we’d meet again as
roommates. My name is Dan, he said. I told him mine. By bad luck a fresha had
occupied his bed, and he gave an eviction notice, effective that very moment.
The fresha tried to protest but he was resolute, and being a newbie he knew
unconsciously that they were rules-rules that weren’t written but dished out randomly,
like kanjos and policemen do. The only thing he was asked of was respect and
obedience. Those two virtues can take you far. And so Dan had his bed.
Dan. The Dans I have met before
have been unruly; people who operate by the own rules. I didn’t expect any
change since I am the type of person who concludes that all Dans are the same
or anybody by any other name who has particularly unsavoury habits and traits.
Call me the king of stereotypes, but trust I do not go about telling people all
girls are the same. No, only those with particular names that are the same.
Anybody by the name Lucy strikes
a cold chill down my spine. Not now but it used to. The first Lucy I met was
actually a bully who loved to beat the crap out of children, for no reason at
all. We were young then, and Lucy’s father owned a kiosk. If you were sent to
buy something from the kiosk, you began crying in advance, maybe mother would
pity you and send someone else. Sometimes she didn’t, almost all the time and
that’s when you prayed that you don’t find Lucy lingering around the kiosk. I think
she was mentally challenged. I’ll ask around one of these fine days.
Back to Dan, the baby faced man,
slim and slightly tall; a Whiz Khalifa look alike- same height, same body and
same mannerisms (hip hop junkie and weed smoker). He had a Creative hoofer that
he jealously guarded like a kid would to his or her dolls. You didn’t touch it,
you didn’t move it without his consent. Sometimes he would lend out to some of
his friends, upon return he would whine about how people don’t know how to
‘protect’ people’s things. ‘You lend them in good faith, then they break it,’
he would curse, after he had repaired or feigned to. No one knew.
And just like every other kid
brought in Nairobi by working parents, Dan had a penchant for night life. Every
Friday he would plan with a few of his friends on their nocturnal get away,
often a club in Westie. Once everything was settled, they’d contribute money,
buy liquor (Smirnoff vodka) and a stash of weed. They’d call a few babes and
agree their meeting point. They planned it meticulously, like soldiers planning
an amphibious dawn attack on its enemies’ grounds. It worked, sometimes it
didn’t. It turns out there was always one broke guy who depended on the rest
once the party got started. There was always that one guy who passed out and didn’t
have cab money. Thanks to God there’s Uber now. Dan and his crew don’t have to
pay a lot. Often Dan would come in the
morning having lost his phone. A few days later he would buy another one, even
more flashier, but then he would lose it a week later and the cycle continued
until he learnt his lessons.
One very ungainly trait of his
was laziness. Being in a hostel that had a 10 pm curfew in place meant that he
had to plan in advance so that he can leave earlier than that. Almost all the
times 10pm would find him still looking for clothes to wear. On one particular
day, he left it late and was denied exit. The caretaker was resolute, stuck to
rule like his job depended on it. So he hatched a plan, got a deep voiced guy
around the hostel who acted his father and claimed they had an urgent family
meeting in Karen. His ‘dad’ ordered his immediate release from the hostel
claiming he has sent a taxi to pick him up. And that’s how he left proudly. He
would later regale the story to me about how he had a date with a chick, had
even bought liquor and everything, the only thing remaining was him availing
his ass to the agreed destination.
He was one of the few people who
never got along with others. His schedule was different from the rest, sleep
during the day and stay up during the night, playing loud music the entire
night. How he loved Whiz Khalifa music! In addition to these he was also a weed
peddler, and had successfully managed to convert our room into a weed smoking joint.
Every one smoked in that room, he claimed boastfully and if he gets caught all
of us will go down. He had me buy cigarettes to even shit out, for when the axe
fell, I wouldn’t want to have an excuse.
His stint as the upcoming Pablo
Escobar didn’t last long. I don’t know what it is with drugs that once you in
it you inevitably develop enemies around. Is it that your clients cant fathom
your success or just have the feeling that they are being short changed? First, he never used to attend lectures and
his parents summoned him home one weekend for that matter. I think I heard him
complain about not having chosen the course he was taking. It should have been
one of his enemies who set him up.
One day, on a Friday, I got a
rude shock. As I made my way into the hostel in the evening, I noticed luggage
heaped near the reception. I remember wondering why someone would check so late
or either leave the hostel so late in the evening. I made my way to the room
and found it locked. It was normal with Dan, a smoker even though smoking and
drinking were against the rules of the place (I don’t want use the word illegal).
He loved locking himself in but on that evening frantic knocks yielded nothing.
A few minutes later he showed up
distraught. He told me that our room had been cleared, and all our belongings
taken to the reception. It turned out the luggage I had seen earlier belonged
to us. It turns out that he had talked rudely to the manager after he was
caught with a stash of weed. Apparently the manager knew exactly where he would
find it. A brief quarrel between him and the manager ensued, in which he told
him that his father is a lawyer and that he can defend him perfectly well. I am
still baffled as to how the manager got the idea that he must clear the room
and take the entire luggage to the reception. It’s not clear to me yet.
We grouped ourselves, having both
received a briefing from the drug peddler and trouped to the office to claim
our luggage, and he to defend himself. We were to claim we don’t know who the
weed belonged but it was an open case when we got there. Everyone knew it
belonged to him but we wanted to act like we didn’t to offer him the match
needed solace. We knocked and entered the office. An old motherly lady, with
creases around her face welcomed us uncharacteristically. We sat there meekly, the same way errant
children do, after breaking the family’s priced utensils. We had our rehearsed
answers scripted by the drug peddler himself, Don Dan. We didn’t want to let
him down, either by making the punishment less severe or making him avoid it
entirely, an impossible feat one might say. Truth of the matter is we didn’t actually
care. He had been a pain in the ass for far too long.
The old lady began interrogating
us, excluding the drug peddler.
“Why didn’t you come for your
luggage?” she asked.
“We didn’t know it belonged to
us,” the other roommate answered.
“You never even bothered to ask
where the room key is,” she asked trying to pin.
At this moment we knew it was a
closed case. The jury had already delivered the verdict. She just wanted to toy
with us, threaten us ‘because it was a serious case’ which could warrant the
presence of law enforcement officers. It’s illegal, she had said, and it can
attract a jail sentence of not less than ten years. We weren’t bothered by her
threat of law enforcement. Weed was smoked casually almost everywhere. For us
it was perfectly normal to find someone at the laundry puffing away the holy
weed. Once you’d meet them, after a bout of the holy puff, arguing who would
jump from the fourth floor without breaking a limb. And how philosophical they
become. Suddenly they’d suggest ways of beating the system (rich kid felt
screwed by the system) and how to make school fun.
Realisng that her threat failed
to hit the intended target, she resorted to our parents. I remember being visibly distressed. You know
those fathers who you can’t argue with. Being associated with something as
grave as bhang would have the same impact as being the owner. With him a small
mistake isn’t small at all. If you get suspended from school, the best way to
tell him was you’ve decided to unanimously abandon the pursuit of education. It
would attract the same wrath. If he intended to kill you he would, no matter
the misdemeanor.
And so I fidgeted uneasily on my
chair, wishing to gain the courage to tell the old lady to claim that the bhang
belonged to me. I think adults derive a certain devilish relish seeing a young
man conquered, pushed against the wall to the point of doing whatever they
willed. I could tell she loved it. She beamed like a young girl being
approached by that guy she’s always admired. She asked numerous times whether
she should call our parents. We both shook our heads. In turns out both of us
had been involved in small misdemeanors in the past and she had had the front
row seat in witnessing our parent’s unbridled wrath.
With us beaten, she finally
turned her attention to the man of the day. He didn’t have the bullish and
confident face he had before. He fidgeted anxiously as he claimed that someone
might have left the weed in his locker, since, apparently, he leaves the door
open.
She wasn’t interested in that
narrative. She asked him what he told the manager when he found him with the
weed. He resisted for a while and realized that she wasn’t going back on her quest.
Finally he caved in and said feebly.
“I told him that my father is a
lawyer and that he can defend me,” he said with his face staring at his shoes,
the same way a man would beckon God above.
The old lady called his brother
and instructed him to take him straight home. I never had a clue where their
home was. I didn’t care for finally we could get rid of the man-vermin and
finally live in peace. It turned out the manager had left with the key,
ensuring that no one entered the room. That night, I slept in a store, fought
with starved bedbugs and mosquitoes the entire night.
The next day the Dan was swiftly
evicted, there being no case to answer as he did put himself. So many people
were relieved by his swift exit, even those he owed money. At least he’s gone,
one guy had lamented.
A few months later we’d meet near
the damn hostel and he asked me if I still reside in the hostel. I affirmed, and he let out a long sarcastic
smile as he disappeared around the corner of the mall.
