Mr. Z

 

It took me a while to publish this story; I wrote it in September last year, and have finally found a way to finish it that is in keeping with my great respects for this gentleman. Mr. Z, you are part of the reason I write the way I do. Here’s to you!

I have regaled you with a tale from my primary school lore. We must move on today; perhaps we shall return, perhaps not. But the events of today’s discourse linger on the personage of one of our secondary school instructors.

Necessity and respect invite me to camouflage his identity behind the pseudonym Mr. Z, but there can be no doubt to those who know him that Mr. Z is, in fact, a most fitting moniker for this man. There’s a finality, a certain decisive ring to it. Mr. Z himself would be quite proud to hear himself called Mr. Z.

For Mr. Z’s was a conclusive sort of character. He gave no quarter, and brooked no levity during his lectures. From his decision there was no appeal. That things would end up the way he wanted them to end up was for the most part inevitable, at least as far as his students were concerned, and his decisions, once made, were irrevocable. The word by which we most remember him is “No”. And it became quite a different syllable when pronounced by Mr. Z, for it was said with total, jaw-clenching doubtlessness. How the poor vowel of the word ever escaped out from behind his gritted teeth is more than I can fathom. But we were never in doubt as to the implication, if not the elocution, of what he had said.

The paths of Mr. Z. and our class crossed in that hallowed period of secondary school, Form Two. Hallowed, I hear you ask? Undeniably! Those were the days when Form Two was just the year to be in school. Form One, and its insufferable bedfellow, bullying, were just past. The Form Four exam was just far enough out of sight as to be legitimately ignored (I add legitimately, for many students continued - indeed continue - to ignore the growing spectre of the Form Four exam, with disastrous results). Yes, Form Two availed the rapidly growing adolescent schoolboy with a pleasant limbo, a period of respite in which to cultivate (to the horror of his parents and anyone apprised of the contents of end-of-term report forms) the enjoyment of various distinctly non-academic pastimes such as sports, and that most tantalisingly exciting pursuit of the secondary schoolboy - secondary schoolgirls.

To bring home to you the force of personality that Mr. Z had, I must introduce our Form Two class; ours was a class to bring new meaning to the term “terrible twos”. Once, a poor trainee teacher was having such a bad time of it that the noise from our class attracted the puzzled attention of the passing head of secondary section. Opening the door and unexpectedly coming face to face with an instructor apparently involved in the difficult process of instructing, the head-teacher asked “Er, are you teaching?” On yet another occasion, the students were making noise in class (with the teacher in attendance) when the teacher stopped and said: “Please, you can make any noise in class, but not that noise.” (I believe it was the miaow of a cat that was prohibited.) It was the wrong thing to say, for bedlam followed. Cows lowed plaintively in their stalls. Barking dogs gave chase to sheep reluctant to be caught. Said sheep found time and breath in the course of their pursuit to give voice to their anxieties. Wolves howled insults at yodelling cats. Horses neighed in fear. Suffice it to say that long-stifled class noisemakers achieved nirvana during those few moments. It would not have been difficult to convince a passer-by that simultaneous auditions for an expanded cast of an “Animal Farm” scene were being carried out.

But under the firm steerage of Mr. Z, we rowdy Form Twos became as meek lambs. Perhaps it was his early style of dress that convinced us that this was no man to trifle with. For when Mr. Z. joined the institution, he had in his wardrobe a number of very short-sleeved shirts. The line between vests and Mr. Z’s early shirts was very fine indeed. As an aside I may add that his trousers were of the same variety, that is, rather short-sleeved. But that is not the point. Mr. Z’s shirts revealed large, supple biceps that went on into sinewy fore-arms. Mr. Z was wont to compound the problem by leaning on the table, hands facing left and right. Those forbidding arms would be shown off to best advantage. It did not seem advisable to make noise with those arms staring you in the face. After a while Mr. Z availed himself of a fine, double-breasted coat, and some long-sleeved shirts. By then, however, we were as the dogs of Pavlov. The sight of Mr. Z walking into class was enough to strike us dumb.

BUT, dear reader! - and it is a colossal but. It is a but to stop the world turning on its axis. For the day came when our eyes witnessed what our minds had assumed impossible. It was two years before we saw it happen, but happen it did. And as with a great many great events, there was no warning.

It was the lesson right before lunchtime or a lesson after lunch, one of the two. I must add by way of explanation that in those days, events were related as having happened either before or after lunch. A casual storyteller had only to begin “It was two lessons before lunch…” and there would be immediate nods of understanding among his audience. Lunchtime was the great reference-point in time. Nay, I must be honest, for old habits die hard; there are those of us for whom lunchtime is still the great reference-point in time.

Where was I? Ah, yes, it was an English lesson around lunchtime. The exact facts of the case escape me at present, but I seem to recall that the task that had been set before we lunch-crazed pupils (it did not matter whether lunch had been eaten yet or not: our thoughts were often on it) was to convert a passage written in past tense into present participle. Yes, I believe it was something along those lines.

Well the lesson was bowling happily along until we came to the sentence:

“Mary lay in hospital, bedridden.”

Now, the task of converting this sentence to present participle fell to the class clown, who shall at this point remain unnamed. Suffice it to say that I have met few men as naturally funny as this particular gent. His taunts tended to be unforgettable, and I am yet to see a finer imitator of his instructors as this chap. I have myself been the butt of a few of his jokes, and 9 years later the memories are yet fresh, and the wounds are yet raw. That is a story for another day. On this occasion, he quickly sized up the situation, judging whether it was prudent to play his ace, and then with the assured confidence of the practised card player who knows he has the winning card, he said:

“Mary is in hospital, bed-riding.”

There was a brief, thunderclap-like pause while the sheer idiocy of the statement sank in.

We were wondering whether we could laugh or not (this was Mr. Z’s class, remember) and so we chanced a glance at the implacable Mr. Z. And right then, dear reader, the first fissure in Jericho’s wall appeared, for the Integrated English Book Four (Teacher’s Edition) in Mr. Z’s hands began to twitch. Goodness gracious, could it be… was that a… no, no. But yes! We looked at each other in muted disbelief and wonder. A smile was playing about Mr. Z’s lips! And there was a dimple in the middle of his left cheek that we had never seen before! It was not long before the fissure became a crack, the crack became a cleft, and with a final great release, once again the mighty walls of Jericho caved in before a seemingly innocuous onslaught. Mr. Z let go and silently, but heartily, laughed and laughed, the textbook joining rhythmically in his mirth. I cannot be sure, for the mists of time now drift between me and the memorable scene, but I believe I see a tear behind those darkened lenses. From time to time he would pause and say in unbelieving, child-like wonder, to himself as much as to the class:

“Bed-riding?”

And then the textbook would be merrily on its way again, escorting the silent guffaws. We ourselves took the opportunity to have a right good belly-laugh, and I can assure you, part of it was the joy of seeing Mr. Z laughing, and not really the joke itself, if you understand what I mean.

Dear reader, let us not point fingers at Mr. Z. There is a bit of him in all of us. But – happier truth! - it is all a façade. Somewhere deep inside, the Mr. Zs of this world are just like you and me.

To Mum

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
St. John 15:13

 

It took me a while - too long - to realize this, but love is not so much said, as it is done. Love is action, not words. Greater love hath no man than this, not that he says that he will lay down his life for his friends, but that a man lay down his life for his friends. On the eve of my Mum’s 51st birthday, in trying to summarize her life, the best way (not the only way) that I can say it is that it has been a life laid down for her family.

Let me begin with her cooking. I remember that every Sunday Mum would make French toast for breakfast, and I used to have four slices of the stuff and a sweet mug of Milo, and my Sunday morning would be made. I have yet to taste a French toast like Mum’s. Then in the afternoon, after church, she’d make, yes make us a pizza, and bake a dessert of some glorious thing called “Apple Shortcake”. Now, I don’t know whether or not you know what Apple Shortcake is friend, but if you don’t you’d do well to find out. I can feel that sugary upper crust crumble in my mouth right now. Christmas was baked potatoes and chicken, and Kentucky Fried has nothing on Mummy’s oven-made chicken. For one, it had this glorious golden-brown skin… I’d gorge myself silly, almost. To this day, her chapatis are famous. I remember I’d hold one up by one side, and it’d tear apart, it was so soft. People struggle to finish one or two. The best compliment I ever gave them was the time I ate eight of them at a go. Sadly, these days I only average three. I hope I compliment her cooking in this manner for a long while to come.

There was a time when the family did not have as much as it has now, and things were really tight. Of course, this would not really filter down to us as kids, but now that I look back, it’s easier to understand. Mum was always finding new ways of bringing money into the home. She ran a garden around the house that was simply amazing. I can remember that she’d be watering her garden up to 2 o’clock at night (yes, that’s 2 am) to make sure that there was a little extra cash. Nor was that money for herself, no, no, no! There exists that kind of woman that will keep every penny she earns for dressing and manicures. Thank God, my Mum is not like that. It used to do things like pay my Dining Hall fees. Yes, me! Or it would go towards some other family expense.

I also remember the time when Dad was studying, and so Mum had to work. She’d spend a whole week at a time away from home, teaching, to give the family some income. One of my fondest childhood memories is of when Mum would come in at the door of a Friday evening and Dad would dry his hands from doing the dishes or some other kitchen-work, and give Mum a hug. Then she would greet us kids, too, and Mum would be home. There was a time she even used to drive I think either a total of 100 km per day or 100 km to work every day and 100 km back, every single week-day to earn a living.

My Mum was and is very concerned about our education. I remember when we were out of school for some time, because we’d been out of the country, and when we came back we had to find a way of joining school. As Mum and Dad looked for a school, Mum spent quality, quantity time at home with us, teaching us Maths and English. Certainly it paid off, for when we finally went to do interviews, I remember I did the Standard 5 interview for Maths and scored 90% in the school’s end of year exam for Standard 5 on the back of Mum’s tutelage. It was felt that another year in Standard 5 would be a waste of time for me. Nor was I an isolated case. My brother and sister too, were each pushed ahead a year. We’ve all been a year ahead, in our primary and secondary education as a result.

She’s a godly woman, Mum is. One of my earliest memories is of the time we went to hospital to visit an aging Christian lady who was lying in hospital on what was quite clearly her deathbed. I could have been 7 at the time, or 8 at the very outside. Anyway, there she lay, poor woman, the picture of frailty, thin, and with grey hair framing her face. Then Mum picked up a hymnbook and sang “Peace in the Valley” to a dying Christian. I tell you, the song has never been quite the same to me since. I shall never forget it. In that small hospital room, with the early evening sunshine streaming in through the window, and the words and the melody of that song floating softly on the quiet air, it was like we were - ever so briefly - shrouded inside a drop of golden Eternity. There’s a Heaven somewhere, friends. Some day the lion will lay down by the lamb. I have often tried to re-live that moment and apprehend, or trap some of the Atmosphere that was there in that room in my adult-life, but the moment has gone. It was like a brief parting of the clouds, and now the clouds have closed again. I’m sure I’ll meet It again, some day.

Mum also has an understanding of the Bible that is quite profound. There have been times she has said one statement about a Scripture that has hitherto seemed commonplace, and it will throw a whole new light on the matter. As I’d said about Dad, that might not mean much to you, but it means the world to me. I think this world could do with a lot more godly mothers like mine; too many mothers with the God-given responsibility to raise children right know more about Secreto di Amor than they do about God. It’s amazing how little time we devote to the things that really matter, friends.

And she’s a person of great faith, too - I admire how Mum prays. She used to start with “Lord Jesus” and when she said it, you got the impression that she was really talking to Someone, and that she knew Him from some previous encounter(s), and that they’d spoken before and were generally on speaking terms, and that she was entirely aware that she had His ear this time, too. That’s valuable, friends. My Mum is one of those people who when they pray, God moves. I remember one time she prayed to God to help her to stop driving too fast. By the way, my Mum was and probably still is the best driver I know, even though she was fast. Anyway, she wanted to be better. The very next day, as she was driving to work, the accelerator of our little Datsun stuck to the floor. So the little car accelerated to about 160 km/h and my poor Mum was driving grasping the steering wheel with her left hand, and looking at the road through the space between the wheel and the dashboard, because she was bending down trying to unstick the pedal from the floor with her right hand, to slow down, because a corner was approaching. Well, as I said, God moves when Mum prays. I have never seen her do a hair over 100 km/h since. Certainly, the opportunity has been there.

Aside: If you didn’t know that the smallest things that matter to you matter to God (like wanting to drive well) be informed that they do, especially if you’re a Christian.

I used to continually get ill with bronchial complications and chest problems and every doctor we went to would say that I have asthma. But there was one doctor who we’d gone to see early on in the issue and he said that I didn’t have asthma, but that I had complications that made it look like I had asthma. There are times in life that you have to choose who and what to believe. There’s a lot I could say here, but this is about Mum. She chose to believe the doctor who said I did not have asthma. I’d come home from seeing the doctor and I’d crawl into bed, miserable as could be and Mum would come in with a glass of hot lemon juice, or something and wake me up and say “Let’s pray.” And she’d lay her hand on me and ask God to heal me in perfect confidence that that was the end of the matter. I can still “feel” her hand on my head. Invariably I’d get better. I can’t remember exactly at what point those problems ceased, but certainly in my entire adult life I have never been to a doctor for any chest complications or “asthma”. Frankly, I hardly see a doctor these days, period.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: sometimes I think of the parenting I’ve received and think that I should be tons better than what I am. To take that thought in the other direction, I’d have been a real disaster, had not God seen it fit to give me the parents that he did.

So Mummy, I love you. Words are a mean vehicle with which to convey how I feel but they are all I have. Thanks, Mum. Truly. And Happy 51^st birthday. May you have many, many many more.

Love,

Your first-born son.

This Thing Called Tribe

 

Recently, I was copied in on a transcript of a mail-conversation whose participants included various Kenyans in a group mail setup. Some of them were members of the Diaspora, some of them were at home. Most were, and are doing well, working in Big-4 firms and other large corporations both here and outside the country.

And I was hugely disappointed.

For, without exception, it was possible to look at a fellow’s name, regardless of where or how much or how long he’d read, where he was working… and divine the line of argument he was taking from just that-his name. Fellows with names beginning with O had a proclivity for being anti-Establishment. Fellows with names indicative of a childhood spent playing on the slopes of Mount Kenya tended to be pro-Establishment. I’m sure you understand what I mean.

Is this a one-off example? Would that it were! In the run-up to last year’s referendum, colleagues in the office where I worked were polarised along the very same lines. The Bananas were largely from Mount Kenya. The Oranges were from everywhere else. These are educated people, among the crème-de-la-crème of Kenya’s education system. And yet…

Exactly WHAT is wrong with us Kenyans? What is wrong with a man, who has been in and out of classrooms, some of them Ivy League, for 80% of his life on this earth, and yet when it comes to issues of development and the direction of his country, he still thinks tribally? We have walked, and talked and lived in the groves of academe for decades, and we have managed to emerge unscathed. Education has not changed us. Exposure has not changed us. Religion has not changed us. We have received instruction, and remain unintelligent; schooled, we remain all the while unlearned, and though literate, we are as yet unlettered. We continue to be creatures of trait, rather than creatures of thought, long after the ink has dried on our most donnish qualifications. Our benighted arguments and thought patterns are still informed by the most primordial, and therefore the most savage and barbaric of our feelings. All we have learned how to do is to eloquently articulate these feelings in languages other than our mother-tongues. We have made the camp of the inerudite our permanent bivouac. We are still primal, still backward, still uncivilised, still uninformed; still undauntedly, steadfastly, unashamedly, and unapologetically human.

Nor is the problem generational. I used to think that my generation would see a change in things. Granted, there are more mixed marriages now, than before. This is a great step forward. The generation before us can largely be forgiven for their outlook on life, growing up as they did, and all. They have also seen the worst of a repressive Moi regime, in which tribalism was fostered, nay, nurtured, to the exclusion all tribes out of favour with the President. Their point of view is partly inborn, and partly a reaction to and the backlash of past, repressive regimes. But we have no excuse. We ought to be more intelligent than we seem to be on the strength of this anecdotal evidence.

These discoveries lead on to the thought that our politicians should not be blamed for being what we are. Someone once said that we deserve the leaders that we get. There is no use spewing impassioned diatribes at the political who-is-who, when we are just the same. JUST THE SAME! We are birds of a feather, peas in a pod! Politicians do not radically change upon their ascendancy to power. They are who we are, and we are who they are. Granted, they stoke the fires of tribalism so as to increase their own relevance in terms of the balance of power in the country. But this would not work, if the populace itself refused to be tribally motivated.

What can be sadder, more deplorable, more lamentable than this? What, more than this poor state of affairs, is downright reprehensible? What is the seed of the robbery perpetrated on Wanjiru (the choice of name is extremely inappropriate), by the people Wanjiru has put into power, in the form of inequitable and insensible distribution of resources? The genesis of this grand pilferage is when such narrow parochialism dictates the course of development in this country. What, I pray, is the point of tarmacked by-ways in Central Imenti, when the road to Nakuru, it would seem, is paved exclusively with good intentions? It’s enough to make a grown man weep, I tell you. That is a crime against humanity. And it has the double and not entirely undesired effect of making tribalism grow by feeding on tribalism, for it is the poisonous embryo in which such infamous sentiments as “It is now our turn to eat” fester.

I would like to be optimistic, but not to the point of naïveté. I have tried, and failed, to see hope for politics in this country. I would be the first to want to be proved wrong. I fear I shall not live to see it.

Have You Seen My Eyebrows?

It is not my aim here to ridicule the fans of any teams, the teams themselves, the players or their coaches. The ManU fan in the story is a nice chap, and we have enjoyed many a football chat together. However, isn't football to be enjoyed, and by as many people as possible? The dangers of trash-talking is just that, that is, one's talk can turn out to be trash. The poor fellow met his Waterloo in the West Ham-Liverpool FA final, when to his chagrin the predictions he made in an effort to put out Liverpool fans were not matched by what happened on the screen, despite earlier indications that they would. He made an ignominious exit shortly after Reina's third penalty save, slinking speedily and silently out of the TV Room. I feel it is the latest in a long line of ignominious exits, and if he continues with his brand of fanaticism, I fear it is not the last. The Arsenal fan is a good friend also; indeed, I could hardly bear to meet him after their Champion's League loss. We all enjoy watching football (I am a Liverpool fan). However…

 

It was after watching the UEFA Cup Final between a hapless Middlesbrough and a rampant Seville, that a watcher sighed: “It's just too bad that this year both UEFA trophies are going to Spain.” To put this statement into context, dear reader, please keep in mind that it was made a full week before the Arsenal-Barcelona final. Naturally, the mischievous originator of this statement was a ManU fan. An Arsenal fan chanced to hear the remark. We shall mildly say that it raised his hackles. His head whipped round and his eyes probed like gimlets until he found the source of such uninformed football commentary. “What do you mean?” he asked menacingly. “Anyone with half a football brain knows that Arsenal are going to win next week.” The ManU fan rose, er, manfully to the occasion. “I can already see the headlines and photos next week,” he sighed sadly. “Below the headline 'Goals Galore!' there will be a full-page photo of an inconsolable Thierry Henry.”

It was at this point that my eyebrows began to rise.

“We're going to win!” said the Arsenal fan. “Just you wait and see. We shall not be labouring under the pressure of having to win to get back into the Champion's League, seeing as we already have 4^th place under our belts…”

“Ha!” said the ManU fan, now clearly in his element. “You guys poisoned the entire Tottenham team to get 4^th place. Are there no depths to which you can sink? Kwanza I hear that Tottenham have appealed for a rematch.”

“Rematch kitu gani?! We're through fair and square! Who can prove that Tottenham were food-poisoned? Those kind of allegations should be subjected to the scrutiny of a court of law.”

There was a brief hairy sound as my eyebrows exited via the ceiling. Fine, perhaps there was a point here, but to subject the matter to the attentions of a worshipful judge was perhaps going a bit too far…?

“A court of law?” asked the ManU fan, enjoying himself.

“Yes!”

“A - court - of - law?” repeated the ManU fan, deliciously, rolling the phrase around in his mouth, and relishing the prospect of a regular verbal joust.

“Yes!” the room reverberated with the echoes of the syllable.

“Ha!” said the ManU fan. “Court of law, my foot! That scoreline should be erased and the game replayed with all the Tottenham players in full health!”

“But you can't just erase a football scoreline just like that,” said the Arsenal fan.

“Ahhh,” said the ManU fan slowly. The world hung on his next phrase. “That's just the problem. A rematch is entirely possible!”

“You can't! Once a score has been gazetted…”

By now my eyebrows were dodging low-flying aircraft. I am not a lawyer (indeed my knowledge of the laws of the United Kingdom is only at this moment growing in leaps and bounds courtesy of a fast-approaching examination), but the suggestion that football scores have pride of place in the London Gazette alongside statutes passed and notices of changes in companies' registered addresses was to me, news.

“Gazetted?” roared the ManU fan. “Even you which hole did you crawl out of, bana! Ati football scores are gazetted?”

“Yes!” said the Arsenal fan, with admirable sureness-of-self. “And stop interrupting me! I was in the middle of saying that once football scores have been gazetted they cannot be reversed…”

The ManU fan left shortly after, chuckling evilly, for his dubious task of sowing seeds of discord done. The Arsenal fan turned to me, breathing heavily. “Lakini that guy is just a fanatic of ManU.”

Now, it is the mark of the true fan that he/she views all actions carried out by fans of other teams as fanatical, but, colossally log-in-eye, any actions or statements originating from himself/herself are just the right point of view. This distinguishes the fan from the mere follower. It was my considered opinion that the Arsenal fan was just as fanatical about Arsenal as the ManU fan was about ManU, minus the evil intent. I endeavoured to put this to him as gently as possible. The response was immediate. “No, no, no,” he said raising his hands as if to ward off the unjust accusation. “Me I am not a fanatic! Me I only analyse…”

I am yet to hear from my eyebrows.

 

P.S. Happy World Cup, everyone!

To Daddy

I write this on the eve of an important date: my Dad turns 52 tomorrow. I realise that time is marching on. In a very short while, I’ll be as old as he was when I was born. Can I be even half the Daddy to my family that he’s been to me? Am I even a third of what Daddy was then, now? It scares me. It shakes me to the roots.

Strong? My Daddy was strong. I remember the time an Uncle came to visit and the view of Mummy’s garden was so good that he wanted to sit by the window while having lunch. The only trouble was, the armchairs in the living room had their backs to the view. They had reckoned without my Daddy – he grabbed one by the arms, hoisted it aloft and set it down gently by the window. Uncle breathed, “You must be very strong!” My heart burst with pride. I was probably 16 or 17 at the time. In fact, I remember surreptitiously trying to repeat the feat when everyone had gone. The armchair barely left the ground.

Discipline? We never got a beating we didn’t deserve. Dad would sometimes even take the time to explain exactly why we were being beaten. I remember the time my brother tried to escape a deserved caning by seeking refuge beneath his blankets and hanging on for dear life. Daddy was having none of it. He lifted the sheets and up they came, brother and all, with just one arm. The other arm proceeded to dispense the necessary justice.

But Daddy is soft-hearted too. I remember one time I spilt my breakfast all over the table when he was trying to get everyone ready for school. Off came the belt and to the bedroom we went.
Dad asked “How many times have I told you not to spill your food on the table?”
“A thousand million billion times!”I yelled plaintively.
This exuberant penitence was too much for Daddy. Like the sun from behind the clouds, the stern look was replaced by a smile that grew and grew, and then there escaped from his lips a small chuckle. That was the end of that.

Loving? Where do I start? It used to amaze me just how patient Daddy was. I lived in a world of impatient people. But Daddy was never like that. Time after time he’d just tolerate our noise and rambunctiousness. While he was studying for his Ph.D, we used to run around the house yelling and falling and laughing and playing like we had it to ourselves. Never a word from Daddy, who just sat patiently studying.

Sacrifice? Because of the family situation, Daddy cooked, bathed us, washed the dishes, and even washed our clothes for years and years because Mum had to work, while he was studying, and she was away from home a lot. For a man whose generation largely believed that a man shouldn’t know which door led to the kitchen, this was (and is) amazing. One of my lasting memories is when we’d showered, eaten and were ready for bed, we’d line up in the kitchen and Daddy would be washing dishes after supper and we’d hug him. We would go from youngest to oldest, so I was always last. Daddy would hug us with one arm (actually the best part of an elbow) because his hands would be soapy, and then we’d say:

“Goodnight!” “Goodnight,” Daddy would reply, perhaps tiredly.
“God bless you!” “God bless you!”
“See you tomorrow!” “See you tomorrow!”

We’d rush off to bed and leave Daddy finishing the washing up. Oh, God. When I think how many Daddies never wait to see their kids to bed! How many Daddies are off carousing and making merry when their kiddies crave a bedtime hug! How many Daddies might be off running another family on the side at the same time! How many Daddies just can’t be bothered!

Once we were at our rural home and Daddy showed us the primary school where his education began. He pointed to the school and said “That’s where we went to school. And it wasn’t even built up then like it is now.” Frankly, it still wasn’t built up, period. Then he said “We used to write with our fingers in the dust, to prove that we could write. When the teacher was satisfied we could write, we’d be given a slate.” He writes better than me to this day. This man whose education began by writing in the dust made it to get a scholarship to do a Ph.D in the West… my own achievements pale by comparison.

Daddy spared no energy or expense in making sure his kids got the best education. I remember how he taught me Swahili in the 6-week December holiday between Standards 6 and 7. Everything! We’d been out of the country and couldn’t speak a word of it. I remember in the Standard 6 end of year exam I took my Insha paper to the teacher and said “I don’t know Kiswahili.” “Just sit down and write something,” she said. But I had nothing to write. By the first term of Standard 7 my teachers were asking me, who taught you Kiswahili? I got everything from the basics up to and including ngeli and minyambuliko ya vitenzi in that 6-week time. It wasn’t til secondary school that I used some of the knowledge, but that’s how thoroughly Daddy does things.

And godly. This is the best part, to me. Now, I understand that this world is full of things and its that purport to be Christianity, and they’re not. Kenya is called 80% Christian. Kenya is also one of the most corrupt countries in Africa. That’s not what the kind of Christianity I’m talking about. I’m talking about the kind that Daddy has. It’s the real thing. A lady classmate of mine met him once and said “Your Dad has such godly eyes!” To this day, if anyone says something I don’t understand, or something, it’s home I’ll go to check. And that includes Pastors. I am sure I’ll go home and something will be bothering me and Dad will remember a verse from the book of Haggai (if you can find that book without referring to the table of contents in under 30 seconds…) that just fits the bill. Now that might not mean much to many of you. But it means a lot to me. Sometimes I think of the parenting I’ve received and think that I should be tons better than what I am. To take that thought in the other direction, I’d have been a real disaster, had not God seen it fit to give me the parents that he did.

So Daddy, I love you. Words are a mean vehicle with which to convey how I feel but they are all I have. Thanks, Dad. Truly. And Happy 52^nd birthday. May you have many, many, many more.

Love,
Your first-born son.

Seven is for heaven

Oh, no, not another football post… wait! Surely exceptions can be made for a 0-7 victory…

On a morning when Nairobi woke up to discover it had rained during the night, Liverpool fans may have been pleasantly surprised to find that it had been raining goals in Birmingham as well. Admittedly, last night’s 0-7 FA Cup quarterfinal scoreline was a reflection more of a woeful defensive performance from an undermanned Birmingham side playing without Heskey and Butt than of any surfeit of Liverpudlian skill. But the chances came Liverpool’s way, and this time, on this night, Liverpool’s strikers took them.

Perhaps it was a sign of just how bad things were that the first goal came from a defender. Sami Hyppia was gifted the chance of an open header right in front of goal and he made no mistake from close range. There were 54 seconds on the clock at the time. Worse was to follow, for within 3 minutes Birmingham were 2-0 down. This time, more fittingly, a striker turned scorer, with Crouch presented with an opening after Gerrard’s cross found him unmarked in front of goal. Birmingham’s defence was again AWOL and Crouch gratefully stooped to conquer, heading home comfortably.

Mercifully the goal rate decreased, and there followed a long stretch during which no scoring took place. There were intermittent chances for Birmingham, but these were few and far between. As halftime approached Luis Garcia received a pass in the middle third of the pitch. His deft first touch took him away from two lurking markers, and the little Spaniard did well to hold off their attentions until he laid on a perfect short ball for Crouch. It is a long way from Crouch’s head to his feet, but on this night the gangly striker showed that he could use both ends of his body to telling effect; he took quick two steps before lashing the ball past the hapless Maik Taylor.

If the third goal was well-crafted, the fourth was a work of art. Beauty is often simple, and once again Luis Garcia was in the thick of things. Crouch had been removed with Saturday’s Merseyside derby against Everton in mind; Morientes was his replacement. There appeared little danger when Garcia looked to receive a pass in the midfield with a Blues defender right in back of him. However the ex-Barcelona man allowed the ball to run between his own feet and apparently between those of his unsuspecting marker. The fact that he had his back to the bamboozled defender and to Gerrard at the time added to the beauty of the move, for the ball ran through to find Gerrard onside and wide on the right with not a defender in sight. Judging his cross to a nicety, the Liverpool midfield dynamo placed it beyond the despairing run of yet another Birmingham defender and at the feet of Morientes. Liverpool fans must have held their breath, for their strikers have been known to miss the most gilt-edged chances. But on this night, even Morientes could not miss (his celebrations showed his relief), and it was 4-0 on the hour.

The best goal of the night was followed by the second-best. Where teamwork had been the cornerstone of the fourth, an amazing individual effort led to a stupendous fifth. John Arne Riise received the ball outside the penalty area, and there followed a routine that Liverpool times have seen countless times during the Norwegian’s career, as the red-haired man looked up, looked down at the ball, took a step and cannonned an unstoppable left-foot shot into the top left corner with the Birmingham defence asleep once again and Maik Taylor well and truly beaten. Such was the class and power of the shot that a few Birmingham spectators rose to applaud the effort. Not that there were many of them; the stadium was to be half-empty by the time the match was over.

A Birmingham player finally got his name on the scoresheet, only that it was unfortunate that the scoring took place at the wrong end. Kewell’s low cross appeared to have lost itself in a sea of blue shirts, but while looking to scythe the ball clear, Olivier Tebily inexplicably sliced the ball beyond his own keeper and in the back of the net. Steve Bruce’s face at this point was heartbreaking to see.

Goal number seven was a somewhat fortunate strike. Steven Gerrard had been hauled off, with Benitez’ eye clearly on Saturday’s derby. Cisse, his replacement, came on sporting an uncharacteristically normal hairdo (fatherhood, it would seem, has the ability to mature all of us). The speedy Frenchman appeared to have run himself out of options as he headed for the byline, but instead of crossing the ball, the winger took a shot at goal; the ball took a slight deflection and wriggled underneath Maik Taylor’s diving body, so that all Liverpool’s playing strikers got their names on the scoresheet on the night.

Mercifully, the final whistle was not long in following.

Unsung hero of the night: Luis Garcia.
Good-to-see-you-back player of the night: Mohammed Sissoko.

Dunga, Tafadhali! (The Budding Gourmet’s Guide to Lunch in Nairobi)

Workers the world over look forward to that hallowed period of time called lunch-hour. During these sixty golden minutes, people fill their bellies, strike up lasting relationships, and have a bit of time to carry out extra-curricular activities without incurring the wrath of their employers for being out of the office during working hours.

Nowhere is this hour more cherished than in Nairobi (indeed, I am writing this post within that sacred time). Kenya is a country where employees are famed for their ability to arrive in the morning, hang their coats, strew some papers on their desks and vanish for the day. Some employees have perfected the art to the point that a day’s work consists merely of replacing yesterday’s coat with today’s, and placing the papers on the desk in a more modern state of disarray. This onerous task is performed at the crack of dawn to avoid awkward encounters with inquisitive colleagues. In such a country, the chance for some legitimate time off is jumped at.

Lunchtime in Nairobi, for many, is not whiled away at the New Stanley Hotel. Nor is it spent ensconced in the lounges of the Nairobi Serena. There is a huge demand for affordable lunch in Nairobi. To cater to this demand, anywhere an office/college/factory/workshop springs up in Nairobi, it is almost inevitable that there will be a long, low-slung mabati establishment providing sustenance to famished employees. Some of the best meals I’ve eaten have come from these roadside taverns.

If there is one word that can be used to describe these haunts, that word is “thrift”. Even the entrance is likely to be small; one generally has to stoop to get in. The interior is generally quite dark, and takes some getting used to, owing to a shortage of light. This all-pervading thrift ethic can even be observed in the use of floor space. As little floor space as possible is taken up with tables. This saved floor space is used instead for chairs. It is not uncommon to find a multitude of 5 or so people elbowing their way through their midday victuals at a table meant for a more romantic 2.

The nomenclature of these places can range from the puzzling to the creative. I have never been able to understand the reasoning behind the name of a small chips-and-soda at Campus that was called “The Hidden Agenda”. More recently (not by much!), a new establishment has sprung up along a road I frequent called “Snuggles”. There is an even more intriguing slogan next to this name: “Let’s snuggle”.

There are a couple more facts which the tourist to Nairobi would do well to be informed of. Generally, the cashier’s office lair is situated near the exits. Bad debts are rare in this business as one cannot abscond without paying. Also, prices are likely to be highly variable in nature. I am not talking about month-on-month inflation here. I have been in places where the first chapati will be 10 bob, and subsequent ones will cost a sudden 20. Forewarned, friends, is forearmed.

The rest of this article will devote itself to the explaining commonly-used terms in these restaurants.

1. Dunga

Chapatis can be served either just the way they are, or if the eater so prefers, they can be served rolled up and speared on the end of a fork. This is a personal favourite. Many is the time I have allowed myself the simple pleasure of having my teeth sink softly through multiple luscious layers of chapati arranged as just described upon a fork…

2. Kando-Kando

Some establishments provide lunchers with the choice of whether to have all their food on a tray, or to have the main course served separately from the stew (kando-kando). The choice may seem obvious, but these Scrooges of the restaurant business have found ways of serving precious little on very narrow trays. The solution is to ask for kando-kando so as to obtain credible portions of each.

3. Nyuma Mbili

This is a term I was told evolved from a place that served fish and ugali exclusively. The main course and the stew being cast in stone, the only thing the client can choose is which half of the fish he would prefer. If the eater prefers the front part of the fish - kichwa - or the rear – nyuma - he may order a full meal by simply stating the relevant fish-half. Nyuma mbili hence means two full ugali-and-fish-tail meals.

4. Supu Escort

All too often, while eating, the happy gastronome will be brought up short by the unhappy circumstance that his ugali has outlasted his soup. At no extra cost, the eater can remedy this unfortunate situation by applying for Supu Escort. This is just what it sounds like – a bit of soup to aid the remaining ugali smartly down the hatch.

5. Ugali Wembe

This is a solution for the reverse of the circumstances related above; should your soup outlast your ugali, then this sliver of ugali, at no extra cost, is for you.

Bon appetit, mes amis.

It’s Raining!

Some time back the Managing Director of AIG (the investment group) stated that were the drought situation in Kenya to persist, then Kenyans should expect a significantly lower growth rate than the 5% optimistically forecasted by experts. On the evidence of Friday evening’s cloudburst, I am quite confident that our growth rate will rival and perhaps surpass that of China.

In short, to say that “It rained last Friday” would be an understatement. I myself was dashing to a place of revelry (I don’t generally visit them, but the firm was hosting a farewell to one of our former employees) and it was just as I arrived at the bus-stop that the deluge began. In seconds I realised that to get to Westlands from town was going to be as possible as getting to West Pokot from the same starting point. (I later heard that matatus were charging KShs. 100 for the town-Westlands trip.) Thoughts of revelry and merry-making banished, I crossed the road and took hasty refuge under the hospitable eaves of a petrol-station (beggars cannot be choosers, and umbrellas were proving woefully inadequate in terms of providing a haven from the elements). I decided to wait until the downpour had abated.

It was to be a long wait, but it was far from boring. The chief source of entertainment was a large puddle of water that formed at the entrance to the petrol station. In fact, in calling it a puddle I embarrass it. It was a veritable pool that extended right out into the midst of the road itself.

It may be wondered how watching a pool can provide entertainment to even the most lively observer. Perhaps I have not been accurate in my description of the entertainment I was enjoying. It was in watching Nairobians cross this Bosphorus that cause for jollity was found. My fellow shelterers (chiefly two young ladies) and I spent many a merry moment enjoying the wile and guile that many Nairobians employed getting across the said pool. Most showed a marked preference and proficiency in the Long and Triple Jump techniques.

However there are two fellows who deserve special mention for their ability and genius. Pride of place goes to a certain thin fellow who, had I not been alert, I would never have caught his nimble movements. This man tended to flit, rather than move, across one’s field of vision. I once read that lightning flashes for a much briefer time than we perceive it; what happens is that the brain retains the image for long enough for us to “see” it or something of the sort. It was much the same with this bloke. To arrive at the pool and assess what needed to be done was with him the work of but a moment. In an even briefer moment, he skimmed over the surface of the water, raising barely visible splashes, in three quick steps and was gone. Water skating insects would have been proud to have been associated with this nymph of the night. Indeed, any self-respecting Commonwealth selector for the steeplechase would have been after him in a flash, rain notwithstanding.

The other interesting chap, an ingenuous bloke whose face bespoke a more than average dose of street-wisdom, had his shoes in paper bags. Perhaps some clarification is needed, if this does not seem surprising. You see, this Einstein of the elements was still wearing the shoes at the time! His right shoe was snugly encased in an Uchumi paper bag and his left was similarly ensconced in a blue one of indeterminate corporate origin. Congruence and symmetry did not seem to be high up on his list of priorities as he slogged determinedly through the torrents, oblivious to such minor hindrances as pools and puddles…

Let’s all thank God for the rain.

The Busting of Benson

Much has been said in other blogs about that bane of yesteryear’s Kenyan primary school student, the cane. It is my turn to weigh in with a couple of yarns from my own brief time in primary school about just what used to happen during a caning. The following tale is adapted from a real life occurrence that took place in 1993, with changes made to protect identities and to entertain the reader.

The scene is a primary school situated in what is called one of Nairobi’s leafy suburbs. Our story revolves around a young student we shall call Benson. Benson was a long, thin fellow with large eyes and a face that was capable of assuming a most lugubrious attitude in the face of Authority. He was, for the most part, a thoroughly agreeable fellow. But the chief characteristic of Benson’s character was its duality. Benson was riotous when Authority was absent and was transformed into a docile, timid schoolboy the minute a teacher walked in. His changeability was a source of great puzzlement for me when he joined the class in Standard Seven. But as I have since discovered, there is (or has been) a bit of the Benson in all of us. I digress.

One day the long arm of the law caught up with young Benson, as it inevitably does with almost all schoolboys (and a markedly smaller percentage of schoolgirls). A short teacher by the name of Mr. W walked in one morning and Benson was a shade too slow in effecting the marvelous Mr. Hyde-to-Dr. Jekyll variant of his transformations. Alas! The poor lad was taken in the very act of “talking in class”. Perhaps the size of the teacher was the unhappy circumstance that impeded Benson’s reflexes, and things would have gone differently had a more visible instructor chanced to walk in. How small are the things upon which the catastrophes of life may hinge!