STONE COLD HAVEN

When chatting to a good friend on new year’s day, I asked how her daughter was, and at first, it seemed that the question had dampened her spirits.

“Darius, she’s in secondary school now”, was the subdued answer and it was quickly followed by a resigned “Dude – it’s official, we’re old”.

But even after we both cracked out laughing, the thought lingered and you begin to take stock. I guess that the main change in my life over the last several years is that some things have become more important than others and you tend to prioritize better and focus on what’s important. What hasn’t changed though is the ability for nostalgia to hit you hard enough to make you home sick especially with the sub zero temperatures and snow storms that box you in the house and makes you ask that dreaded “what am I really doing here” question.

It made me think of the good old days growing up and enjoying some of the simplest and most cherishable moments life will ever present.

Don’t know about some readers up in here, but there were times when 5 bob could take you a long long way back in the day. My dad used to give us 5 bob a day and that would cover bus fare to and from school, a soda and a snack of some sort (usually quarter bread bandika) for lunch, and you’d still have left over change to buy roast maize with pili pili or patcos to carry you through the evening.

Long before the advent of satellite TV with over 20 exclusive movie channels, local entertainment back then was fronted by public service open air movie services like Tazama Mobile Cinema pitched up in an open field once a month to bring to you the blockbuster of the day. They had this strange habit though, of commentating the movie as it went on in a manner that was as equally funny as it was annoying.

Speaking of entertainment, there were classic shows that would definitely be in my DVD collection right now – From Vioja Mahakamani and the comical antics of the residents of Matopeni, to Vitimbi and the real celebrities like Othorong’ong’o and Masanduku (forget all these latter day celebs who think they’re celebs because…well, anything makes you a celeb these days). There were shows like Tushauriane that were banned outright because they showed a couple embracing and the chap started unblousing the girl. Or even the days when we didn’t have mobile phones and you had to walk a kilometre to the nearest phone box where there was a massive queue of all manner of people – and you’d be mad when your ‘girlfriend to be’ plays hard to get and pulls that stunt of asking you to call later because she’s watching No One But You or The Rich Also Cry. The ungrateful heifer – after all those hours you’ve waited in line to make that call….LOL!

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Folklore has it that only 2 professions in the world can withstand anything thrown at them – whether it’s the mother of all economic recessions, a world war, or a once in a lifetime occurrence of that infamous and elusive force majeur principle – an act of God. Yup! You’ve got it – prostitution and running funeral services.

They’re the only two professions that have withstood the test of time. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the tax authorities can easily be your new found best friend if you register your sole trading vocations as funeral services and sheltered adult entertainment services. It’s the combination that’s a killer – the revenue folks don’t flag up each of them in isolation.

I even remember a story a few years ago in the famous Kondele area of Kisumu City. There was a chap who religiously attended church every Sunday and vociferously prayed to God to bless his business and ensure that there’s always a ready stream of customers. You see, this chap was the most successful coffin maker in the area, and most definitely a believer in the school of thought that unconventional and diversified marketing, if carried out with discipline and without fear, can yield incredible results.

It’s not surprising then, that the oldest profession in the world has caught onto the most popular phenomenon of latter day citizen media – this here blogosphere of ours. I think it’s safe to say that residents of the local stiff house will never take advantage of the wi-fi provision in their guest house facility, though I’d hazard a guess that you’ll find a mortician or two blogging away to pass time while literally doing the graveyard shift. No, no – I’m talking here about prostitution getting the most high profile attention any blog in the world will want.

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Sometimes I wonder why we indulge in the mystical belief that there is life after death. Our transgressions here on earth supposedly decide whether we get to go to heaven or as it were, shake hands with the devil before assuming our position in the fire and brimstone of hell.

The truth is, we don’t need to look forward to spending our eternity in hell, we already live in it.

About 3 years ago, a UNICEF funded report that still haunts me today landed on my desk with a post it note suggesting what I can do to highlight what was in the report within my sphere of work. The general subject of the report was not alien by any means, I guess it was the scale of it and the impact that continues to disturb me. The report was about the scale of child abuse and child prostitution in Kenya in general, and around the coastal region in particular.

Fast forward to last night and I’m watching my favourite Channel 4 news and out of the blue, they feature a comprehensive investigative report about the prevalence of child prostitution and child abuse in Mombasa. What was different is that the children involved and highlighted in the report were given names and faces, and they actually came alive to tell their story. Not that they weren’t alive, but hearing the story from them is gut wrenching.

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Recently, a good friend asked me for some advice as he prepared for a rare trip back home. As I write this post, I wonder quietly whether he came through unscathed, but I guess I’ll have to wait for him to get on a plane and for us to eventually sit and chat with a cold beer in hand, before I can find out the true extent of the said expedition. For many folks who have settled abroad, a long overdue trip back to the motherland is something to get excited about, and it’s something you plan for a long time.

Granted, a holiday trip home, especially with ‘er indoors and the kids is a project in itself. However, the benefits say for folks at home who genuinely want to see you (as opposed to those who get pissed off that you’ve spent thousands of pounds on air fare for you and your kin – money which would have been better spent via a western union transfer to them), far outweigh the financial and emotional investment and stress involved. Well, with the exception of that dreaded trip to the outlaws.

“Come we stay” has been the de facto option for most immigrant couples from home who meet abroad, and I suspect that at the back of every man’s mind (at least those who are not just interested in the convenience of in-house booty as opposed to a serious relationship), there’s that daunting feeling that the time will come when you’ll have to make an honest woman of the lady you’ve been waking up next to for most part.

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I’ve always found it interesting to consider how people rationalize arguments to spin their own agenda – whether in politics, in civil society circles, in business or in relationships. The one common thread that runs through the spin cycle is the cryptic question about “who benefits?” – when negative, inaccurate and in most cases, misleading arguments carry the day.

Take Kibera for example. Rightfully or wrongly, this stretch of Nairobi real estate that spans over 2.5 sq km (give or take a football pitch either side) – has garnered a world-wide reputation for being the largest slum in Africa with at least 1 million residents.
A first assumption you’d make is that the government in Kenya or some form of reliable public body or statistics agency actually did a head count and figured out that the number of folks who live in Kibera topped 1 million.

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Equal opportunity and ‘elf and safety mafioso masqeurading as administrators complain a lot about being maligned for being anal about political correctness and about enforcing the straight and narrow.

Once in a while you get a classic example of the madness of political correctness unleashed on unsuspecting souls. Take Caroline Petrie for example, a devout Christian and community nurse going on about her business, with an added optional extra of an offer to pray for the patient Kind of like – would you like a biscuit with that tea, or can I take your coat for you, or do you want me to open the door for you type of optional extra….or maybe not…

Read Caroline’s story here. She is at risk of losing her job and even getting struck off the nursing register for offering to pray for a 79 year old patient. Maybe one of the mafioso saw a funny side to this if it turned out that Caroline was offering elder patients their last prayer before death came calling, whilst all the while fronting as a community nurse.

I personally think the mafioso administrators were just bored and running out of ideas to justify their salaries.

I guess when Carlene Anderson sang mama said, she knew what it meant to heed her mother’s warning to keep away from and not to talk to strangers. Clearly some dodgy cab drivers define the meaning of strangers.

This story of a London cab driver convicted for sexually assaulting 14 female passengers actually makes you think this stuff doesn’t just happen to other women , like the lotto, it could be you.

And the culprit is supposedly licenced and has had a criminal background check done on him before a cabbing licence was issued.. What’s scary is that it doesn’t take much for a rape to turn into a murder.

Going out for the night has indeed become a project or maybe its getting back home after a good night out.

Whenever I visit Kenya, its not that difficult to bump into someone who’s myopic stated ambition is to “fly out”…and of course, they want to pick your brain and talk to you about the important things like how “out” feels like and whether its true that you can work washing dishes in a restaurant for 3 weeks and buy a car, what its like to occasionally bump into Wil Smith and Beyonce like you do Kenyan celebs down town, whether having sex with a “mzungu” is different from Nyokabi or Wekesa down the road, …yada yada yada….

I paraphrase of course, but the content of such a conversation is not beyond the realms of reality. Its times like these when I ask myself – Why oh why oh why do we want to leave our beloved country in such a misguided state of destructive ignorance, so that we can subject ourselves to what is clearly a punishment from the gods….an entire season of several months of winter. You might be noticing a pattern here…LOL! – about my indifference and bitching to this madness that is the cold of sub zero temperatures, freezing everything and wet and windy conditions that make you want to pack your bags and get a one way ticket to somewhere that you don’t have to wear a ski jacket when taking the trash out.

Honestly, I sometimes think folks don’t realise how depressing it is to wake up and its still dark – leave for work at 8.00 am and its still dark, spend all day cramped up in a shady joint in the name of work, and leave work when its dark – yeah, its dark by 3.00 pm anyway. Many have tried to rationalize this madness by adopting a defeatist mentality that “we came here to work and so it shall be – Wira ni wira”. Frankly speaking, that’s a whole load of nonsensical bollocks that needs to be filed right between shit and syphilis. I’m one of those people who believes that ambition is an over-rated concept that’s abused as a poor excuse for those without the sense or guts to be lazy and once in a while – declare “fuck it!”.

The problem with us humans as a species is that we’re so conditioned to conforming to warped notions of societal norms nobody hardly stops to think and ask “Why on earth do I have to do things this way?”. We spend most of our lives planning and plotting and preparing for the “future”, we forget to simply live for the present and enjoy life with its simplicity (or not).

I was speaking to a friend recently and he told me he’s doing two jobs at the moment – one during weekdays, one during weekends, and he’s also studying during weeknights. I posed the question as to Why he was operating with one foot in the grave and busting a gut on a heavy work and study schedule that doesn’t even afford him the luxury or the time to sit quietly on the toilet with his favourite magazine while having a good ol’ dump without any need for urgency. His answer somewhat baffled me – “To pay for my masters and finish school by such and such a date”. My next question was unsurprisingly, “Why?”, and as regular as clockwork, the answer followed – “Because my parents want me to do a masters degree and the masters programme is until this particular date…”

I then ask again – “Why?”….and then the wall of silence and reflective thought. This guy didn’t even think about why he was doing this and was comfortable in accepting that mummy and daddy want me to do a masters degree, and moreover, everyone around them who seemed to be getting anywhere in life has done a masters degree in something. It was more or less a milestone or fashion statement that defined social status in the community, and a justification for competence in whatever field or trade. I think what was more disturbing is that this guy probably didn’t even like what he was studying and was just doing it to appease his parents….

Now if there’s one thing that really pisses me off, its parents who insist on living their failed dreams through their children….Everyone wants their kid to be a doctor, a lawyer, an investment banker, or some big shot that will buy their way out of poverty in their twilight years. It’s very rare you’ll come across kids who say – When I grow up, I want to be a taxi driver, or carpenter, or police officer, or a P.E teacher, or a mortuary attendant. God forbid you mention that you want to spend night shifts with the stiffs on Mbagathi Road…..I digress here….

My point is that we’re so conditioned to doing things in a certain way very few people, if any, ever stop to ask the question “Why?”. Why do you have to do things in a certain order if at all? Why do you have to worry and traumatize about what others think about you – they’re just nosy conceited bastards anyway who’ll probably just attend your funeral to make sure you’re dead, and feast along with other professional funeral attendees? Why do you have to be seen to be doing well and being successful – by supposedly clocking up mileage in school and missing out on life? And more importantly – Why do we have to freeze our nuts off in this godforsaken miserable madness that is the winter in the name of making a living…LOL! (that was the gist of the post in the first place)? Surely, there has to be an alternative that can make me opt out of this place for the lovely surroundings and warmth of my beloved country and still be able to make a living?

I remember years back (must have been in 95 or 96) sitting down with a friend at the steps of one of the blocks at Hammersmith and City College in West London. I forget why exactly we sat there, suffice to say that we were probably reflecting on the hard times then, and wondering what we’d got ourselves into by moving out here instead of sticking it out, rolling up our sleeves and getting in with the rough and tumble that is life in Kenya. I distinctly remember us joking about this madness of “flying out”. See, West London is on the flight path to Heathrow and you can see many planes approaching the runway or taking off, and we burst out laughing at the thought of whether the poor bastards on those planes knew what they were letting themselves into by landing and achieving that “flying out” dream….

Maybe I just miss home, and this industrial freezer of a country that we’re living in right now doesn’t make it any better – so I’ll start by asking myself Why???

And just to clarify some points earlier for those who continue in misguided wonderment about what it feels like to fly out and live out here:

1. No. You can’t buy a car after working for 3 weeks in a restaurant washing dishes. You’ll be lucky if you can pay for your transport, rent, food and buy deodorant.
2. No. You won’t meet will smith or Beyonce down town like you meet Kenyan celebs hadharani on the streets. You’ve probably got more chance of seeing photos of the so called Kenyan celebs naked on the internet.
3. I wouldn’t know if having sex with a mzungu is different from having sex with Nyokabi or Wekesa. I haven’t had sex with Nyokabi, or Wekesa himself for that matter to make a credible comparison.