Author: mirawu

27 minutes

She was the kind of girl he was sure he would never get, and not only because he was years older than her. They were from different worlds. Her father had large farms and his mother had twelve children. It was doomed from the first day they saw each other. Of the twelve, he was fifth, and third among the boys, which made him among the middle children. He could get nothing. Could ask for nothing, and unless he was coughing out blood and shitting himself simultaneously, no attention was given to him.

There is this perception that middle children are disregarded. Nobody pays them any mind. They can drag themselves through the mud with their asses bare and nobody would care. He would leave whenever he wanted, be gone for hours on end and when he was back, no one had missed him. No one had even noticed he was away. Once, when the thirteen of them were in the shamba, he detoured with his older brother to relieve themselves in nearby bushes and his mother threw a fit! she scratched and wailed for her first born son claiming somebody had napped the fruit of her loins and she could have none of it. This was the only time he ever felt missed.

When he finished high school, like many of his peers, he did menial jobs. It was during this time that he met the one person who was ever excited to see him. She looked at him, not through him. He felt seen. She missed him. She sneaked him things she thought he needed. He tasted his first strip of bacon with her, sneaked out through the folds of her tunic. He liked the smell of her. She said she used Fa soap, and gave him a bar. He took baths every day for her, then applied Fa soap on his skin because he liked her on his skin [okay, I made that up]. She talked him up to her father and he was promoted to groundskeeper. His mother was proud. A son with a steady job at a rich man’s was a good son. A son to take notice of. He was taken to driving school and given another task. He would pick up the rich man’s daughter from school every day and bring her straight home. “The ride took twelve minutes to the school, a three-minute wait for her to say goodbye to her friends and another twelve minutes back.” That a person needs a whole three minutes to say goodbye to people you see 5 days a week baffles me. He cherished these minutes. Sometimes he drove there in 10 and drove back slower so he could hear about her day. She could talk about anything; how many math problems she was able to solve, which trees were shedding, who pissed her off in class. She could have talked about the weather and he would have loved the weather.

“Theirs was a different kind of love”, says the person telling me this story. “They had nothing in common. Different generations. Different worlds and yet, they managed to sneak past their parents and be together. There is a thin line between love and madness.”

When she got pregnant, she was fifteen. He was twenty-five. He got a note in his quarters at her father’s compound. She wanted to see him and she had news. She never had news. He had resolved to thinking she made up the things they talked about off the top of her head. She was spontaneous. The note scared him a little. “It was his ‘we-need-to-talk’ note,” she says [Dang it! I had wanted to say that] She told him that she had been feeling weird. Her body felt like it had aliens experimenting on it. He knew, before she said it, that she had missed her period and his first thought was to get away. To talk to someone. “So he told her not to worry. That everything would be fine and they would be fine. Then he went home and cried.”

“He told you this? That he cried?” I ask.

“Well, no. He’s my father, he would never tell me that he cried. Do you know nothing about men?”

“Apparently not.”

His brother found him crying. The same one he went peeing with in the bushes. So her uncle was the one who told her about her father “cleaning his eyes”. Are we together now? Good. The brother prodded and poked and pushed until he stopped just long enough to tell him about the knocked up girl. That she wanted to leave school to be with him. She had said she would follow him wherever he went. She even gave the ‘can’t live without you’ speech. The brothers talked and fought and came to a conclusion. Tell their mother.

“My grandma is one tough cookie. She is the strictest woman I have ever met, and that is to me. I can only imagine what she was like with her own children.” My mind is racing. Strictest? Really? “Yeah, she was so strict.”

Did I say that out loud?

“I hear all these stories from my aunts and uncles…” “The Twelve,” I say, because that tag has been playing in my mind since she said her father had as many siblings. This must have been the kind of family that disagreements happen and it is split into two, sometimes even three, and a mother is asked to pick a group, and if she picks one, the other two will pack up and leave or if she picks the other, the rest get to throw a tantrum. Constructing this sentence alone is giving me a headache, I can’t imagine living it. She shows me a picture of The Twelve, with the oldest uncle on one end and the youngest aunt on the other. They look like a staircase. I hope I didn’t say that out loud. None is taller than the other nor fatter than the next. Also, their resemblance is uncanny. They look like the same person in different stages of height. “My father says the first time he tasted alcohol was the day he had to tell his mother that he had impregnated his boss’s 15 year-old. He claims he had never tasted alcohol before and that that is the only reason that justifies his drinking today. He says my mother turned his life upside down, and that even though he loved her, he was mocked by everyone he went past. They called him the destroyer of homes”

“I thought it was only women who were labelled that.” I learn new things every day.

“My father was. People said he had used traditional medicine on my mother because for such a girl to drop out of school for a man like him, juju had to be involved,” she laughs. It’s a sad laugh. A widow’s laugh. “They call him names, to date. My mother was disowned. Her father said she didn’t deserve her inheritance or his name. She was bent on my father, a man 10 years older than her who had no future other than what he would do the next day.” I ask what Grandma Strictest did. “My uncle talked to her on my father’s behalf. It was tough.” She chased him away that night. He went to the girl and married her, then brought her back home as his wife. They were chased away together. His brother sneaked them back into his simba. The newlyweds slept on a worn mat that night with her new brother-in-law snoring on the bed beside them. “She says she didn’t leave him because she loved him.”

“Why do you think she stayed?”

“Because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Because she was scared. Terrified even, of what her life had sunk to. She didn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. She would be homeless and pregnant with no one to turn to. You know her father hired a watchman?” she asks. I shake my head that I didn’t because I don’t even know her mother past a selfie she showed me, how would I know her grandfather had hired a watchman? “Yah! He hired some guy to sit by the gate and send her away any time she came back. He told her to go to her destroyer of homes and stay there. She had made her choice.” Some fathers can be mean.

There are love stories that begin with one look across a room. Others begin as tragedies. Some begin when some end and others even start in the middle of another. His love story began when his brother took him to one of those raunchy sheds that men go to blow off steam with cloudy frothing glasses. “My father loves the bottle now. The love he had for my mother changed into something else and stirred up another story that he finds every night at the bottom of the bottle. He drinks himself blind. And every evening, he comes home, soaked in his true love’s perfume and tells us the story, word for word, of how he discovered love in 27 minutes and how it changed him so much that he had to seek solace in alcohol. He says he looks for a feeling he had when he was twenty-five, but it’s been twenty years now. If he was to find something, he should have found it by now. He is broken, and in so many pieces that counting is impractical.” She says her mother cries every night the story is told. Whether she cries for him or herself no one can tell, but the girl’s heart breaks for both of them every day.

I ask her if her parents’ story makes her believe in love any less.

“Father says it exists. But that we should wait until we are sure. I mean, they fought for themselves and had my brother. They were strong enough to have three children. I’m sure they loved each other at some point. I just don’t think I have the strength to go through the pain they go through right now.”

As she leaves. She says something that stays with me for a while. She says that she doesn’t wait for her soulmate. That she will love, and love deeply, because she wants something to hold on to twenty years later when he is sad and she is crying and there is alcohol involved. She says that soulmates do not exist, she looks for compatibility, and that falling in love with someone you are compatible with is easy, the hard part is working through it and working for it.

Have a wonderful Valentine’s, my Lovelies.


For Lilly, life was as simple as life came. Eat, breathe, sleep. For her, life was routine. She was an average student. She attended church every Sunday because it was what her family did. She did what was required of her under her parents’ roof and there were no complaints. She had three meals a day and socks on her feet. Life was modest. Life equaled eat, breathe, sleep.

Lilly took her KCPE in 2008, scored a total of 361 marks and got admitted to Kipsigis Girls High School. She found herself in the strange land of mursik drinking girls whose parents pondered when they would leave school to get husbands. Girls who wore what they wished and talked how they pleased. Girls whose windows were hit by small pebbles from boys who wanted to sneak into their rooms when it was dark. She was stunned by the wave of culture shock and she loved it. She could do as she wished here. She was alone, without the stern hand of her father or the unyielding eye of her mother.

The lies came clean from her lips as if she had thought of them all her life. Her father became a lawyer and her mother a nurse. She killed off her younger siblings and remained with an elder sister who was taking her Masters in the United States. She became Lilly, not Lilian Kang’ethe Wanjiku and like the flower, she flourished. The lies filled her with adrenaline and she worshipped the rush. She acquired a steady boyfriend at home, Kevin, who proclaimed his love for her in lengthy flowered and perfumed paper that made girls green-eyed. Everyone wanted to be her. She was the girl with the flawless life and by the time she was in Form Two, she was the impeccable girl with the picture-perfect life.

Issues arose when her mother felt it wrong that she had never seen her daughter in school. Mothers are magical beings. They can smell a running nose in us when the cold is three days away. When she asked, Lilly was quick. Her brain had acquired a year’s experience in thinking on its feet. “I told her I would have loved it if she came, but they don’t let parents see students while in session. I told her that if she came, she would be held up in the staffroom and would only talk to teachers then be asked to leave.” Lilly knew her mother was not interested in her teachers. Her grades were excellent. Why would she want to see her teachers when her grades were off the charts? What her mother really wanted was to see her, in school uniform and in the school she was breaking her back to send her Lilian to. To meet her friends. Mothers always want to know who our friends are, as if we would dare introduce them to the kush reeking blood-eyed fellas [not that I have any, Mom].

2010 was a time way before Matiangi’s crazed up Education designs. We still had food brought to us in school in the guise of Visiting Day. We clung to crippling fear that nobody would come and we miserably hung around the school gates. The relief when you saw a familiar face was eerie. We hid food up ceiling boards when teachers searched us. We took Eno on these days because you had to taste whose chapattis were to die for and whose mother made better chicken.

During such days, Lilly would sit quietly at her desk with a book because she was sure nobody would come. Not that she wanted them to come anyway. Her father was out of the country on lawyer business and her mother was swamped in hospital. Her friends understood this. After all, when you have busy parents, you make your peace with it. Back home, her people knew their Lilian stayed at a friend’s for Half-term break. It was pointless to have her travel all the way home for the few days she could spend studying.

Lilly’s cousin joined the school in 2011. By then, Lilly was in Form Three and had become somewhat a celebrity. Her way was the way. Girls cut their skirts to her length and brushed their teeth when she did. She developed her very own posse. The cousin, then in form one, was told to take care of Lilian, because Lilian was almost a finalist and she needed time to study. “She took it literally. She would come to class when preps were almost over to take my shirt and socks away to wash and leave next day clothes on my bed,” says Lilly.

She felt married. I don’t know what this feeling is because clearly, I have not tasted the fruits of matrimony before. Does that happen overnight or is it one of those feelings that needs nurturing, like an injured puppy? “She did everything for me. She queued for my food then went back for her own plate. She got me hot water to take baths with. We didn’t even have hot water to begin with!” Once, she found toilet paper cut in 6 pieces each and folded in her locker. This girl estimated that her cousin would need 6 pieces of tissue to poop! If that’s marriage, then I don’t want it. I want freedom to be able to close my eyes and run toilet paper out of my hands until my ancestors tell me it is enough. “It was too much, I know, but I felt like a queen. Everyone adored me. I did nothing yet they worshipped my breath. It was all I could ask for.”

It did not seem eccentric to give her a copy of her keys. After all, a wife needs house keys, right? The cousin began organizing. Arranging, folding, pulling this out and putting that there. She did too much, according to Lilly. But nothing ever prepared her for what came during their mock exams.

Everyone has a mock exams story if you ask me. I might tell you mine someday. “You know why they are called “Mock”, right?” I say. “They make a joke of our lives. They mark you, those mocks. They seem easy, but it’s like a rollercoaster, of your emotions, your life, your grades, your life’s choices. It marks an era about to end. It confirms to you that you are almost where you dread and leaves no room for doubt about it.” She stares at me. Maybe I have said too much.

“Anyways…” she begins. You know you screwed up when someone starts a sentence with ‘Anyways’. It’s a slap in the face, that plural anyway. No one ever goes “Anyways.., you guy, you crack me up”. It’s always something that they will go on to tell people about. “That strange girl that writes talks of weird shit, you now?” Anyway, she continues. “My cousin fucked everything I had worked for in so long. She got this notebook I had been writing everything down on. Every lie I ever told, with the truth against it, and she came to me with it. I should have just owned up to it then maybe she would have let it go. But you know what I did? Queen of Kipsigis? I yelled at her. Called her poor and uncultured. I told that poor girl that she had no business in my business and that actually made my business everyone’s business.”

Girls bruise like peaches. We hurt with words and we hurt with sticks. We are contused by thoughts of people about us and by our own thoughts. And when a lioness is injured, she wreaks havoc. The cousin, in her hurt, told the one person who could not keep a secret about the book. Every school has one. In my high school, we were lucky to have the mohaha dealer in our class (mohaha being information that you would not necessarily get hot off the press). She didn’t have to do much, the cousin. She just gave the book to their mohaha dealer and asked her to spread the news like the Gospel. Far and wide.

“How long did it take for the teachers to know?” I ask. You know it is hot mohaha when it gets to the teachers.

“Not long. They knew by the next morning. The whole school knew by supper time.” Blazing.

The saga spread like bushfire. How Lilly is the daughter of a farmer and a stay at home mother who got pregnant at 15. How they lived in a scanty two-roomed house in the interior parts of Central and how she had 7 siblings, not one of them having gone to high school, let alone taking a Master’s Degree. Also, in a shocking turn of events, Kevin did not exist. Kevin was a lie she wrote to herself every two weeks to keep her posse envious.

“Did you honestly think you would get away with all these lies?”

“At the time I did. I thought it would be one little white lie of why my parents couldn’t come to school. But people started asking questions. Why couldn’t they come? What did they do? Where we lived? And I started fabricating all these stories that quickly got away from me.” People talked about her all through the last year of high school. She braved it all. “Girls can be lethal if they want to be. People who worshipped me became better than me. They saw themselves superior.”

“Weren’t they?”


Uh-oh. I angered the beast. “Weren’t they superior to you?” Shut up! Shut up! Shut UP! “In the sense that they owned up to their parents, whether they were selling mursik in the streets or picking tea in farms. They were true to themselves. To their lives. They never thought it necessary to tell even the one little white lie to make themselves better than the others.”

Let me tell you a little bit about Lilly. She is 25 years old. But she is one of those 25 year-old women who think they are grown simply because they can go into any night club that exists. She looks at 24 year-olds as children. She looked at me as a child. She has this air about her that tells you she is stronger, or maybe that is just her strong-smelling perfume. Scratch that. She wears cologne because it is manly. Because she is better than smelling like flowers and cotton fields. When Lilly talks to you, she lets you know that she is older than you. She wants you to believe it too. She begins conversations by asking, “And how old are you?” just so she can gauge how to belittle you into the ant that she seen you as. She is condescending and pompous. She says things like “You know I got a job a week after university” because she is Lilly, and she is better than everyone else. She wears this facade perfectly and if you don’t know any better, you will fall into the trap of her loftiness.

She stands to leave and I let her. She wears an expensive watch. But maybe it is these Moi Avenue mendacities as well. I read somewhere that when you lie, you first have to believe the lie. Then you have to have the energy to embrace the lie, to own it. And lastly you have to remember that lie, next week, next month, next year. And the thing with one lie is that it needs another lie to cover it and then another lie to cover that one. You end up in a prison of deception [Okay, you guessed it. I got that from Biko].

Moral of the story? Don’t write down your lies with the truth against it. Wahengas have spoken.

The Big Man’s Error

There are people who smell like money. People whose price of cologne alone could feed a small village for two days straight. These people have a spring to their step because they know for a fact that their families will never have to worry financially for generations that don’t even have names yet. People who breathe money. They sit and their bank accounts talk for them. They don’t have to do anything, say anything, because they are loaded beyond one’s own imagination. They can hire people to wipe their butts if they so wish. These are also people you never really see because they are usually behind the lenses. They pull the strings and the puppets dance. They say jump and rulers of nations ask how high. Such a man is Emma’s father.

You must understand that I do not know who he is exactly. When she sent the first email I ignored it for two days. Reason? The email read; -My father is wealthy-. No follow up, no yours sincerely, nothing. I didn’t know if it was a crazy person or a prospect for my hand in marriage. I assumed Kamiti people had upgraded to email services. Two days later I got another one; -Ref: My father. Body: He just left the country. Mother is happy-. I honestly think you have to possess a certain kind of lifestyle to say “Mother”. A Mother-the-swimming-pool-is-dirty rather than a Mother-there-is-no-salt kind of living.

I sent a message asking what the father does for a living and she answered -Things for governments-. Are these “Things” what he has travelled for? She says she can’t tell. I’m not sure whether it is because I am a stranger or she too is bamboozled by the title of the job itself.

Emma met Daniel at her father’s office. He was an intern. He was also her opportunity to get some attention at home. “I remember seeing him and thinking ‘He is so normal. Mom will be so mad’, and so I pursued him”. She started by saying hello. Boys get intrigued when you are nice to them. Maybe there are not enough nice girls out there and it shocks them when they meet one. They were texting into mornings by the end of the week. Danny was smart. No one had made her laugh like he did. No other person had talked to her like he did. He told her what was outside his windows. “Mother’s face when I brought him home for the first time was priceless. I planned it perfectly. She is rarely home so I waited for when she was around all day and asked him to come”. Danny was introduced as a really good friend, with as much innuendo that her mother knew what he really was.

At this point, I’m thinking what would happen if I brought a random guy to my mother’s house. “Hey mom, ssup *wink” this is Blue, my really good friend *wink wink*. He is here to spite you for not giving me attention.” No, wait. I lie. I wouldn’t even get as far as wink number 2 before I lose consciousness.

There are people whose parents have nothing. People who go to bed with their stomachs empty and their hearts full. People who when they laugh, their bodies shake. Who have everything to wish for but want for nothing. There are also people whose parents have everything but are empty. People whose houses are full but they themselves are lacking in all aspects.

Last year, around August, Daniel spent the day then went home. Mother sat her down and asked her not to see him again. She said he was not right for her. “It was like she flicked a switch in me. Danny became irresistible from then on”. She couldn’t stop herself from wanting to see him. They dated for a while, in secret of course. Who knows what Mother could have done if she found out, right? But she did. And there was hell to pay. When Mother found out, she called her father. It was the first time her parents had talked in months, so Emma knew it was bad. It was also the 31st of December. Father came home early that day. It was a night of many firsts.

Her father was sitting at the head of the dining table when Emma walked in. She took the farthest seat from him. Mother sat opposite. You knew it was real bad when father had a glass of brandy outside his study. That day, he came with the classic cut crystal decanter to the dining table. Father refilled his glass till the decanter was empty. A night of many firsts.

Together, Emma’s parents told her about a night in 1996, when they had just come from their honeymoon and found a woman waiting with Emma’s grandparents at that same table. The woman, her father said, had been his secretary and there had been relations, the result to which was a young intern boy at his office. Emma held on to her seat. Her father said more words that she does not remember hearing. The clock struck midnight with the three of them seated there; Father at the head of the table, Emma at the far end and Mother opposite her.

“It’s not your fault darling”, they had said. “The error is on us for not telling you sooner.” Emma feels the error is bigger than her not being told sooner. “The error began when a mother was forced to raise her son in captivity because my father is a ‘Big Man’”. The words roll out of her tongue like she hates them. Like she despises the fact that her father is a man that could leave a child out in the cold because of his reputation. She left home. That night, in the wee hours of New Year’s Day, Emma told her parents that she would rather live with stray dogs than be in the house that 23 years ago, paid a pregnant woman to be quiet for the ‘Big Man’. “The error was that he became a Big Man and lost his soul to his name”.
Some things force you to assume they only happen in movies. Some things are so twisted they sound like someone’s imagination flew too high and got burnt by the sun.

“Have you met his mother?” I ask. That would be an awkward meet. She says she hasn’t. At least not yet. “But I have plans to. I just don’t know if I’m going to go as Danny’s girlfriend or the daughter to the man who paid her off to have his baby away from him because he was too important for her”. She carries a lot of hurt with her. She is lost in a maze that she didn’t agree to get into in the first place and it is sad. “I know what I’m supposed to say. That Danny is my father’s son. That he and I are…you know…kinda related”. The word ‘kinda’ is a lie. It is the 3 kgs we tell ourselves our clothes weigh when we stand on a weighing scale. It is a taste of food at 1.00am when it is dead silent and you can truly see yourself and judge as if there are eyes on you in the dark. It is forbidden love between a princess and the stable boy who happens to also be a prince in a shocking but foreseen twist. It is the Big Man’s lie.
“I’ll tell you what’s funny. Danny’s birthday is 31st of December”. She smiles.

[Also, it is my birthday today. Coincidence? I think not. Have an amazing end of January my lovelies]

The Gates

At 7, you were probably still riding your bike with the training wheels on. At 7 you hold a grudge for 4 minutes and forget about it. You have a favorite princess dress that you will wear any chance people are going out and at 7, a football was your best friend. At age 7, Julian Wagumba was returned to the gates of Nairobi’s New Life Children Center.

He doesn’t remember much about this specific time other than the cologne of his then ex-foster father, a smell that follows him till today. He remembers a call from a social worker he calls Nancy. He was 8. She had found a family that wanted a boy and she had convinced them to take him. They wanted a younger boy but Nancy had talked him up to them. All she wanted from him was that he behaved this time. No more trouble. Was he trouble? I ask. He says he does not remember. I think he was. He says he was happy. He had a family once again. No more bunk beds or mass cooked food.

Julian recalls the gates. Every time he remembers the gates. How they opened to let him in or closed to keep him out. The Kilonzos had a yellow gate with little white arrows at the top. When it opened, he marveled at the lush green lawn. He vowed to be on his best behavior. He was there for five months then he was back at New Lifes gates. “Nobody wants to adopt an eight year-old. All they want are the young ones. You know?” I nod as if I do. “They say the older kids are trouble. They know too much. They will start asking questions soon and they know who aren’t their parents.” By the time he was 10 years old, Julian had to come to terms with the fact that he would never have a family. He convinced himself that no one would ever love him. That he was not the kind of kid that could call a brother for M-pesa or beat up a boy who messed with his sister. He accepted this. Accepted himself. Then he met Uncle Z.

Julian has eyes that hide more than his words reveal. His eyes never dart away when you look at him. He gazes back and you find yourself in a staring conquest that you know from the word go you could never triumph. He looks at the world like he knows secrets hidden from the government. Like he is in cahoots with some alien species that is soon taking over and he can only tell you with his eyes and not his words.

“Where are they?”

“Who?” he asks

“The aliens.”


Tough guy.


When he talks about Uncle Z, he first makes you feel like he is talking about an old best friend who drifted apart but still hits him up for some nyama choma in Kitengela. He says that the first time he saw Uncle Z was at right after he came from the Kilonzos. That was not the first time Uncle Z saw him.

What was it like? Going back there when he were sure he wouldnt?

“I’ll admit it wasnt pretty. I hated everyone and everything around me. I spent most days feeling shitty and making sure everyone who talked to me felt the same way. It was not easy, you know. Being the only big kid there, especially when all your friends have families that love them and end up forgetting to come see you like they promised they would.”

He remembers Freddy in particular. When Nancy came for Freddy, they made a pact to be brothers for life. Freddy promised to come every Sunday to see him. His brother. He came once then never again. He forgot about him, just like everyone did. Everyone but Uncle Z. He talks about Freddy with venom on his tongue. I asked him how old Freddy was at the time.

“Does it matter?”


“He was 5…or 3.”

Julian met Uncle Z formerly on his way from school when he was 10. He remembers because it was around the time when the sisters at New Life wanted to take him to boarding school. He hated the idea of boarding school, but he loathed the home even more. He remembers a man calling to him. A man who looked familiar and only introduced himself as Uncle Z and who said he was a friend of his parents. Did he know his parents? Yes, a long time ago. Where? When? Uncle Z could not answer. He said that if the home had any idea of the whereabouts of his parents, they would have to give him back. Julian wanted to be given back. Maybe his parents would give him the love that the Kilonzos couldnt.

Uncle Z always had a smell about him that Julian could not place with the naivety of a 10 year-old. It became daily routine that Uncle Z would wait for him at his schools gate and they would walk to New Life together. He longed for those 10 minutes. He lived for them. Soon, he was running errands for Uncle Z and their 10 minute-walk became fifteen, then twenty then an hour. The detours began. Lets take the long way, Uncle Z would say. Pass by a friends. Pick that up, take this there.

Whenever Julian asked about his parents, Uncle Z would brush him off and send him for a pack of cigarettes or a bottle wrapped in newspaper. Most days it was the bottle. Then he asked if Julian was getting any pocket money but the sisters only gave him money enough for his lunch. There was never any need for additional pocket money since he went straight from the home to school and back. The next day Uncle Z was not waiting. Julian stood at the school gates until everyone was out and till it was dark. He cried all the way home. Day after that he saved his lunch money till evening. He got out of class with the bell and waited at the gate. The watchman asked him what the problem was, and, that if he wanted to wait for his father on the bench, instead of standing at the gate, he could. “He’s not my father.” The watchman stared at him in silence.

“Uncle Z is not my father,” he tells me as if I had refuted the claim.

The man said they looked alike. That they had a resemblance only fathers and their sons possess. They even walked the same. Julian says that the walk was because he copied Uncle Zs walk. They did not have the same walk. As he was sitting there, watching his classmates, he spotted Uncle Z and ran to him. Life was good after all.

He told Uncle Z about money as they walked to their after school rendezvous. That he had saved and would keep saving incase Uncle Z was ever in need of money. Uncle Z smiled at him for the very first time. He seemed proud and that made little Julian happy. When the bottle was bought that day, Julian got to sip. Uncle Z said you never buy and not drink. It was an unwritten rule. Julian says he felt his throat melt. He choked on the bottle and almost spilled the contents. He thought he had died. Uncle Z was smiling at him. Who would smile when someone was on their last breath? Youll get better at it. No other word was spoken that evening.

Julian was sure Uncle Z would like it if he could have the bottle and not choke so he began going on solo rehearsal sessions the very next day. He rushed from school during lunch hour and got a wrapped bottle for himself. He felt queasy after a few sips and lay down to rest for a little while. The first thing Julian remembers of waking up after his first real drink is being butt naked. The breeze had made his buttocks numb. It was dark, save for a security light in the distance and he felt he was beginning a new chapter of his life. Your own Garden of Eden, dripping with water of life, I say. I don’t think he gets it.

He ran to the home and told the sisters he had been robbed. He even cried. Those sisters were suckers for tears he says. A little waterworks and they let you go to your room to pray and be on your own. They let him have a lot of alone time and that is what fueled his first few months of drinking. He would come straight from school to the liquor store and to his room. The sisters found empty liquor bottles under his bed when they were cleaning a few months later. He was outside, 11 years old and drunk as a skunk. They prayed for him and he promised to stop. But that is not a promise you make when you are intoxicated. The next time he was busted, he ran away. He went to the Kilonzos but they refused to take him in. They told him that his father was alive and had sent them threats when they had him. “Find your father Julian,” Mr. Kilonzo had said with his hand on his shoulder, like a father would talk to a broken son. The yellow gates closed.

He refuses to talk about who his father is, but I have a feeling I already know.

The streets accepted him at age 16, with the clothes on his back and a jacket that was two sizes too big. He sleeps in pavements and begs from passersby when the sun is out.

“What do you do with the money you get?
He smiles and shows me a bottle wrapped in newspaper.

Also check these

Alcoholics Anonymous

Alcoholism is a disease. It is characterized by drinking uncontrollably and being preoccupied with alcohol. Everyone I ask about it quickly becomes a child caught stealing sugar from the sugar tin. Talking of they can control their intake, as if their throats come with an alcohol meter and an alarm that goes off “Out of control, Sir. The intake is out of our control”. People who accept the fact that they have the disease seek the help of Alcoholics Anonymous, or, as was the case of Jackson Biko’s Drunk, are forced to go to rehab after dire and life-changing circumstances. The idea of AA is to have its members stay sober and help other alcoholics achieve sobriety.

This is not the fellowship kind of AA.

Drinking is like a rite of passage for some of us. We leave home for campus knowing only water can nourish our souls. Some of us can’t tell when this notion is Jesus’d to become drunken nights and indecent partying. Some started way before leaving the parents’ houses. Some sipped for the first time after a bitter breakup and for some, life happened.

And so I am starting a series called “Alcoholics Anonymous; Teens and Twenties”. I have seen my fair share of drunks the last four years, coupled with kith and kin who enjoy the frequent couple of glasses a night. I have friends who have lived with and dated drunks, have taken care of and bathed them and even shared meals with them. What I have not done is talk to them about their drunkenness. So lets.
I want to know who gave you that first sip. I hear some fathers prefer to give their sons’ the first glass. A father-son moment that they will hold dear. I want to know who gives the girls their first sip. Do moms slip a glass into unsuspecting hands in the kitchens and whisper not to tell your fathers? I want to know if you walked into a bar yourself, or if someone pushed you in. If you were dragged in screaming your lungs out to leave as soon as they let you free, and if you really did leave or decided it wasn’t as appalling as you thought.

Did life happen? Who broke you? What broke you? If something happened to you that forced you to your first sip, tell me about it. I want to know if it was something sad or joyous that gave you the opportunity, or neither. Was a glass just lying unattended on a table at home or did you ask a cousin to get you a ka-quarter during the memorial service of a great grandfather you didn’t even remember?
I want girls who prefer scotch to whiskey and I want to know why. How do you pour scorching scotch down your throat and comment on its sweetness? Girls who say “I only drink this because that’s what I like” and have a better reason than ‘That’s what you like’. How do you speak immediately after that whiskey burns your oesophagus?

Guys who have tried to sleep with girls using alcohol, I want your thoughts as well. If you have tried this, and it has worked. Was it before or after midnight? Was her heart broken or was she playing you for that shot glass? Do you know? I want to know what makes you believe that talking to her will not make her want to get to know you so you need to have her intoxicated first so she may like you. I also want to know of times when it did not really work out as well as you had hoped. What do you think you did wrong that if you had the same girl, on the same table with the same glass, you would do differently and it would all work out for you?

Girls, have you tried to sleep with a guy using alcohol?

I want to talk to people who recognize they suffer from alcoholism and are doing something about it. People who have attended AA meetings and felt better. What parts of yourself did you share in those meetings? Did you talk about an uncle who modelled you in the ways of one for the road or did you just look at how you would turn out and decided to leave the bottle at the bar? I would also like to talk to people who have not and have no plans to seek help, though they know they have a problem with alcohol. People who depend on the daily drink like mass but will do nothing about it because they are comfortable living with their palms soaked in drink.

I’d love to talk to a girl with a drunkard for a father and a boy with a maternal drunk. Were there nights that you thought of running away and leaving them to their misery? Were there nights you actually ran away? I would like to talk to people with siblings that drink. Younger siblings who you can tell nothing to because they are spoilt rotten and older siblings who you cannot tell anything because you are young. I would like to speak to sober men who crave the drink often and sober men who have never thought of drinking. To men with drunkard wives who come home at 3.00am and want hot bathing water and a meal. What’s that like?

I also want to talk to people who are very happy in their drink. Women who only drink expensive wine after work because they can afford it. Women who only date men that drink expensively because that means those men will “take care of them properly”. I want to talk to people who party every night and get to work or school by 8.00 am, and people who can only go clubbing on Friday, rest on Saturday, go to church on Sunday and work on Monday.

AA is an international fellowship that uses a 12-step program of spiritual and character development. This will be a different kind of AA. First, this is no house so there will be no steps. We are not a fellowship, we have not gone international and I am no pastor meaning I know nothing about spiritual development. I know of spirits though, so if you drink them as well, hit me up. This will be a kind of AA where you speak your story to the masses and your say is the final say. We will not interrupt you and say “Aii buana Mango, I was there and that’s not how it happened”. Where we sign no register. Where we charge zero joining fee total and where your name will not be published if anonymity is how you roll. We respect your decisions here. You can share the story you want and keep the ones you are not quite comfortable with. You will be called anything you wish; a color, a city or your favorite thing. Your identity will be in the dark, concealed better that the emperor’s nakedness.

Email me at [ or WhatsApp at +254729288583. Let’s talk drink.

Cheers to a lovely 2019.

Who are you when I’m not looking?

I need to know one thing

Before you lay to rest tonight

I need to know who you are

Who are you when I’m not looking?

Do you close your eyes on a messy bed

Are you turned on by the color red
Are you also a man on the wire

Or do your principles keep you from the shire

Have you felt a divine kind of emotion

Do you fall on a couch with caution

Who are you when I’m not as around?

Is your coffee white or as dark as my heart

Do you own a dog or prefer a cat

Do you look in the mirror or just stare at it blankly

I pray that you may answer me frankly

Who are you when I’m not looking?



I had something in my bed.

Disclaimer: There is no concealed meaning to this. Something means something and “in my bed” literally means just that. Heck, this may end up being a ramble and you may not like it as much…

Before we begin, no, it was not a boy (ha-ha, who would want this mess?). But I really did have this thing in my bed a few weeks ago. And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I write about it on the morning it happened? Because I don’t tell you guys everything about me Nosey Shirley. And I wanted to heal from the trauma it caused me first, so I could see if there was any humor in it. Also, no, I don’t dream about these things, they do happen. In reality or conjured up in my head, they are as real as the thing in my bed (sounds like the beginning of a horror movie).

At first, I thought it was a mosquito because I woke up with a lump on my forehead. That should have been the first clue that it wasn’t a mosquito right? Mosquito bites aren’t as big as this lump was. But leave it to my brain to come up with solutions. I was not reasoning, I mean, come on, I had a lump on my forehead! All my power to reason was sucked away and the little that remained was constrained in the lump. Are lumps a collection of un-sucked blood? And if so, why don’t vampire bites cause lumping?Anyway, I googled the lump till I was sure I had a combination of kwashiorkor, HIV, a severe case of the measle (get it? because it’s just the one) and was patient zero to an epidemic they would have to make movies for, then I waited for my mom, aka my personal all-round disaster manager, to come home.
So she walks in and I let her get settled in before revealing that she should enjoy the last few days we had left until her house was quarantined and the CDC came to take me away for “tests”. At least that’s what they were going to say till I find myself in a lab at a desert in the middle of nowhere.
“Is this a mosquito?” I ask her, pointing to my still lumpy forehead. I am batshit scared at this point. I just want her to tell me that she hit me in my sleep and that that is what caused it and all I had to do was wait a few days for the lump leave for the Land of Lumps and leave us alone. She comes closer. Lifts my face to the light.

She presses the lump.

“Is there pain?”

I hadn’t thought about the pain part all day. There was no pain. At least not the searing kind. Just some tiny baby pain. On a scale, it would have ranked at around the magnitudes of 0.5 out of 10. Which, depending on how you see it, is either really good, or completely underperforming.
Mom is full on Doctor Mode now. Her fingers are on my chin, facing my face this way and that, forehead creased into her signature 3-line frown, proof that she is really worried. This is it. I think. I’m a goner. Tell my brother I love him and I did not mean to raise my voice at him when he took the remote. Tell Dad I…

“Doesn’t look serious.” She lets go of my chin. “What did you do today?” she asks.

Woman! Don’t you see me dying? Call people! Organize a harambee for my hospital bill. We are not going to manage!

The frown is gone. This is the part in the movie when doctors tell you everything is okay only so they can go to the break room and draw straws on who will deliver the bad news. That’s what was happening. I was sure of it. I had the epidemic of The Measle she wanted wait until I was calm to give me the news. I sit down.
Calm down. Dying is one day, better get over with it. at least you’ll be famous for it. You’ll be the Van Gogh of The Measle. Dying is one day. You will get it over it. You’ve seen worse.

But you haven’t seen enough! You haven’t gone to Paris and stood touching the Eiffel Tower like those people who touch KICC. You haven’t lived off the ledge. You are still afraid of bugs and..

“Maybe it’s a spider bite,” she says.

I jump.
“Spider?” Where? Kill it! Slap it with a slipper. Spill its guts everywhere! Massacre! Death to all arachnids!
In my head, I have torches and machetes on this spider.

“Ruffle out your beddings tomorrow then we’ll see.”


I rush to the mirror for The Measle inspection. Nothing on the face. Phew, dodged a bullet there. Run the tap to wash my face. Freeze.

We stand there, me staring at him and him at me. Another Western stalemate. I can’t look away. My heart races and skips simultaneously. I feel faint. I blink first because I am weak. The disease is getting to me. There, right at the foot of my thumb, is another one. Forehead measle brought a friend, or his kids. Two smaller lumps, side by side. I want to call out to mom, but she already left for work. The new thumb guys look like a pair of eyes staring at me, so I cut three sheets of tissue paper and wrap my hand.

I find my phone and dial.

“Yes baby?” because she almost always answers like that. I fear the original lump knew this so it brought its babies. A show of him not being the only guy in town.

“There’s another one.”


“Another lump, Mom. There’s another one on my thumb. I sent a picture on WhatsApp. What should I do?” Will I die? In my laptop, my browser hist…

“Remove your beddings.”

She’s chasing me away? Without even saying it to my face. She wants me out. Wants me as far away from her people as I can be.


“Toa beddings and ruffle them.”

Oh. The Measle syndrome must come with short-term memory loss. Long story short, I take my blankets outside, nothing. Ruffle them like my life depends on it. Nothing. I hang them on the line and get back. I stare at the sheets. the look lonely there, rumpled with no blankets to keep them warm. If this thing is causing as much trouble as it is, why isn’t it as big as I assumed?

Maybe, it crawls up walls and waits for me to get in bed… or it is the boogieman taking small bites of me and hiding under my bed. There’s nothing under the bed.

Open the wardrobe and check. I do and nothing.

I’m spent, scared and almost traumatized. I sit on the bed, then stand suddenly. Wouldn’t want my ass bitten off.

I should change the sheets. Lonely sheets are cold and may be lumpy. I lift a side and pull. There, with its 8 legs and ashy exoskeleton, sits a Wolf Spider. Of course I knew this after giving Google a detailed description and taking a photo of said thing in my bed. I don’t know if this was a prank or just fate to make me realize that moms are always right, but I’m never doubting my mom ever again.

Stew bowl.

For the love of food, I think Hashalla just cracked “mashakura”. Definitely trying this

The Dark Side of the Moon

I have never been on a boat. Never floated on an ocean. I never even learnt how to swim. Until I was in high school, the only swimmable water I ever got in to, and I use “swimmable” loosely, is the River Awach in the hills of Seme. This might be the cause of the shortness of my breath and my sweaty palms when I first stared into the deep end of a swimming pool.

I don’t understand floating. Maybe because I can’t do it for more than 4 seconds before imagining clawed hands reaching up for me. Water was made for drinking and washing. For cleansing. With this reasoning, floating could be the result of one’s own cleansed sins keeping them afloat, hence the reason to why I can’t really float. Maybe my sins are not as grave and lack the strength to lift me in the water. Maybe I commit weaker sin. Sin that has no reason to float to the brim and have others see it because it is ashamed of the ways in which it is lacking. Maybe I cannot swim because I don’t have suitable sin.

Or, and I am just grasping at straws here, maybe the gravity of my sin is too dense to cleanse. My sins could have its own in-built anchor, and it could be that they are heavier and sink deep and stay down, without the resolve to come up for air. I tried having a swimming instructor teach me the secret to having my body suspended in the water. A teacher of the ways that floating men follow. I should have found a John the Baptist instead.

This teacher came in checked swimming trunks that were so worn I could swear he found them in a Salvation Army bucket. “Make yourself float!” he would shout. When I asked him why he was shouting, he said that he needed me to hear him better. As if I had taken out my hearing aid like some white 60-year old woman because African grandmas don’t even want to perceive the idea of hearing aids.

Dani, I know you have been having problems with your ears…”



“Oh no child,” because she doesn’t understand the grand part of relativity. “You have problems with your talking”

You both laugh.

“No, Dani.” Sigh. “Look…” you take out pictures of the hearing aid. “This is a device that will be able to help you.”

“Speak up child”


“These misungu things cannot help me. I was the one who would hear your grandfather’s call from that hill,” she points, “when he came from war. He would call my name immediately he got up that hill so that I could slaughter a hen for his arrival. You young people are influenced by misungus. That snake around my ears will not help me.”

“But Dani…”



“When I was young, I would walk to Kisumo with my own two feet. Nonstop. I am strong my child. My ears are strong. The ears of a woman who has raised men that work in Narobi.”

“those are not things that relate to you not hearing.”

“What did you say?”


He would walk around the pool like an entitled spoilt child watching the servants clean his mansion. He walks in strides. Slow paces that give him a false sense of authority over those who can and cannot swim. He barked commands at any and all men, without looking at who he was talking to. He had me in a mesh of confusion, splashing and following commands that may or may not have been for me specifically.

“Use your arms!”

His were behind his back, hands clasped. Manicured hands that have known no other kind of work other than shouting at half-naked men and women who were there to relax in the piss of strangers. Hands that get calloused by carrying a bucket of water. His were clean nails, left to grow a little longer than was acceptable for a man. Nails that some girls would scratch each other’s eyes out to get.

He came around to my side of the pool. There seemed to be a glint in his eye. The last time he was in a true relationship might have been in high school. And that was only because he didn’t see her as much. He only copied great works onto perfumed paper and sealed the deal with his saliva. That was how she fell for him. Through Shakespeare and Maya Angelou. He called her his muse, without understanding what being his muse really meant. He won her with words. Empty like the ones only men like him can make up. He told her he gave her all of him and was gone immediately he gave her the part of him he was interested to give.

“Just float. It’s so easy, a grandmamma could do it!”

He should meet my Dani before making such comments.
He probably never calls his mom. She calls him weekly, like all mothers do. The last time he called her was when he heard from his brother that their father had died. He called and said sorry, heard her crying and hung up. He hates the sound of a woman crying. Calls them weak. Says they feel too much. But if they didn’t feel as much, where would the world dump all its problems? A baby cries in the distance. His grin flattens for a moment then curls right back. He probably cries when he is drunk. People are usually more honest with a little liquor in them.
Climate change is a farce and he believes Hitler was a victim of circumstance. He cannot remember the last time he went to church. He lives on the dark side of the moon. He drinks all week and shows up to work any time he wants because his uncle owns the chain of hotels. He doesn’t know his mother called the uncle one cold July night begging for a job for her son. That she had asked for anything. Something he could do so as not to waste away in the puddle of broken dreams and drunken nights.

The crying baby and its mother pass by him. He looks at the little bundle with disdain. He tells himself that he never wants kids. They will destroy his life. Ruin his fun. He tells this to all his friends and they agree with him. They always do until they find the right woman and start a family and forget all about the drunk swimming instructor who never cries.

“Collo is just a disgrace to the superior gender, that he is.” hiccup “Says he fell in love. What kind of bullshit is that? Love. He is bewitched, that’s what he is. That Kamba girl did something. I just can’t say what.”

He talks like this. Saying something then justifying to his audience that he did not say it. He hides behind innuendo and fallacy. He winks or grins or plainly says it, but he makes sure you know what he said without him saying it.

“See that girl. I don’t like girls like that. She needs to get a bigger swimming costume, or rather, come out with a really long T-shirt. Nobody wants to see those things!”

For a guy that doesn’t like crying, he sure knows who to make cry and has mastered the art of doing it. He thinks himself clever. Sees himself as superior to all beings. Nobody can hold nothing to him. He has an amazing job where he is practically self-employed. He chips in a comment about his uncle owning the chain of hotels in every conversation.

Another stroll around the pool.

His head is balding. The area around his stomach is bulging, probably from the beer in his breath. He looks like he was in a gym at a point in his life. His shoulders are broad, arms muscle-y. The depreciating version of a man who once had his life together. A man who held a steady job that he woke up every morning for. A man whose being is now clouded by a false sense of self-appreciation. A man who once had love to give, even had hope for the kids he says ruin lives. A man who cries himself to sleep.

His eyes are mischievous every time he spots a girl. Particularly girls old enough to be his daughters. He looks them over like dead cows hung on a butchery hook. He calls after them, taunting. He has no shame. The women stare in disgust, the men hide their faces on his behalf. Once in a while,when a colleague walks up to him and asks him to put down the glass of frothy brown liquid in his glass, he threatens to have them fired.

“Do you know who my uncle is?” he shouts.

He doesn’t talk, he bellows. All the time. You would think his vocal chords would tire or he would take a break and pop some Strepsils in. You’d be wrong. He has a gift, this man. In another life, he would be a pastor, one of those in matatus or on the streets who holler at passersby. I picture him with a worn out bible in a City Hoppa and he fits right in. He was made for something that has him speaking all the time, without any sense of success. You have to see him to understand him. To picture his balding head sweating along Tom Mboya preaching a gospel that seems to have eluded him.

“Do you know who my Father is?”

“Use your Bible!”

The waiters apologize every time they serve. You ask for fries and it comes with an apology. They are sorry for the trouble he is causing. He did not mean what he said to you. He is just drunk. He is not usually like this. He doesn’t even come every day.
They apologize with a feigned look of remorse in their eyes. They also laugh behind his back. He is the boss’s nephew who they can do nothing about but laugh at for being who he is. They laugh when he calls people names then rush behind him when the customers make to leave because an offended customer is a non-paying customer. The boss will not understand an unpaid bill, even if it is his nephew’s fault.

In the evening, after downing a couple more bottles at his uncle’s expense, my swimming teacher will leave saying he is going home. Nobody knows where he lays his head. They do not invite themselves the way people interested in your life would. They do not ask to be invited for supper or a nightcap. They only pray he does not show himself tomorrow, because tomorrow is a Saturday and there will be more customers. They do not want to apologize to more people that they had to today. He goes out shouting his goodbyes to “his good people” and yelling that he is now going to finish in the mansion. Nobody asks if he is going to finish a bottle or himself. No one cares. Not even him.

My Mama Mboga and I

Writing is not easy.

You have to be creative and funny and coherent and weird and unique, all at the same time. There is a whole unwritten list of things to do and have and be before you even sit behind a computer to write. Then you have to think of where to begin the story from. Starting a story from its conception to its termination is also not allowed. I mean, you can do it…but people get tired of reading the same goddamn thing all the time. You also get tired of always starting from when someone was born and ending at their death bed. It gets boring. You cannot use the same style of writing for every story you tell. People won’t click on your link if you do. They’ll see you send them anything and think, “Basic story from a basic blog”. I don’t want that. Nobody wants that.

Sometimes I tell myself that I write for you. For people who wake up Thursday mornings expecting a link in their email or WhatsApp or wherever you come here from in this crazy world. I tell myself, in those little pep talks before I start keying down a story that has been playing at my brain for hours, sometimes even days, that I do it for you. But a girl lies.

Mostly, it is for me. It is for the times I have a meltdown and can only get healing by scrolling down this place. For the moments I have stare down melees with the titles, reminiscing of the processes that led me to such a heading and not having the stomach to read the post. I can never read these things once I post them. Too much anxiety. It’s like submitting an exam then looking over the teacher’s shoulder while he marks. Seeing every wrong answer marked wrong and every joke making you laugh. Noticing the mistakes that I let pass and switching this word for that because it seemed correct at the time but now… it might not work as well as the first time. Its torture.

Most times, I think I have writer’s block. I think this all the time. I never give myself a break. I start getting anxious immediately a new week starts. I go to school on Monday and rack my brain for a Thursday deluxe to put together. I sit before my laptop on Tuesday and just stare, willing for anything to cross my mind. Anything! By Wednesday, I think of writing a Tom and Jerry episode. Oh, did I mention I have an amazing pair of Harry Potter socks? This is not relevant information or anything… but I feel like this post is not as relevant to anything at this point so… what the heck right? I do have them. They are like the puppy I never had.

I haven’t really had stories to tell you guys the last two weeks, but I promised myself consistency, so as I listen to greatest hits of Abba, I write. I apologize if you do not know what Abba is. You must be one of these 90’s kids who listen to rainbow headed musicians and mumbling that one can’t really make out. Me? I listen to music. Words sang to a tune that comes from the heart, or just about another person who was sitting with a pen in the back of a pickup truck in the 80’s with nothing better to do.

I am in campus; you must know this by know of course. The first thing someone asks you when you tell them you are in campus is whether or not you live in the school hostels or in the nearest town. I saw a meme that told people to say where they actually come from and to stop rounding it off to the nearest town. Damn! Isn’t this post a mess? I’m getting to the point. I promise.
Okay, so, the first thing you are asked… or not, since they have to ask about the course you do and what year you are in first… so maybe the fourth thing, yeah? School. Course. Year. Where you sleep. Yeah, got it. The fourth thing is usually the hostels.

“Unalala ndani ama nje?” (please read this without the subtext… I beg of you) Translation: /Do you sleep in or outside school?/

“Nje” /Outside/

Depending on who it is, they will either do the nitakuja supper thing or be smart enough to simply ask where and leave the mystery as is.

Side note: Boys, have some self-respect and stop asking to come eat at our places. We hate it. We will willingly invite you when you have slayed 7 lions, ridden 2 dragons and crossed the sea of fire. Not before. Otherwise, eat at your hostel rooms please.

Abba’s Super Trooper just started.

Now, I left the hostels in my second year of university, and since I tasted freedom I cannot imagine myself ever going back. I am from a family of very few people. The ones we were taught are known as nuclear families. I only see the extended part during Christmas holidays when we have nyama choma grilled outside under this tree with yellow flowers that always fall on the meat.


I’m not used to sharing space with four different personalities at once. I tried and failed. Please don’t think I am a snob. I’m really nice but don’t think I’m just banging an empty drum here. You should hold a conversation with me and find out yourself. Bring food.

My only issue with living outside school is you have to deal with these mama mbogas who are too good for us campus students. I don’t know about how they treat other mamas out there, but I have only had discussions about mama mbogas with my total of 2 friends, which gives me the right to generalize. Westlands people, my apologies. Mama mboga is a lady with a wooden kibanda (well-aerated shop) selling veggies and tomatoes and pilipili and avocados on occasion –groceries shop of the hood.
On the ka-njia to get to my place are two notorious mama mbogas. I don’t know if it is for the fact that my skin is not as dark as my Luo relations but this one mama talks to her mama mboga friend about me when I go to get veggies from her. I stopped immediately, even told her I didn’t want her sukuma-wiki anymore. God knows how that week went. This other one waits till you give her your money and serves her friends who come after you, while you put La Casa on pause and Professor had just arrived with the detective at the mansion they trained at. What makes matters a little fascinating is that this Luo mama mboga has her stand extend from The Shop in the neighborhood. You know that shop that has Jik and gum and kiwi and a needle and thread? The Shop that satisfies all your household needs and if what you seek is not available, there is always an alternative. That’s the shop that the Luo mama mboga extends her kiosk from. I marvel at the strength of The Shop every day I pass by it, even as it supports her and her humongous sense of self. Kenyans would say that it is indeed a shop and a half.

And you know a girl has to go to The Shop, because there are things that you can’t walk the 5 minutes to a Supermarket for, especially at night, being someone with fear of the dark among many.

I do go to The Shop, weekly, like mass. Sometimes I pass other shops who try to emulate the sparkle of The Shop, not because they have sub-standard goods, but because I love seeing her give me a look she gives me when I pass her with my Sukuma-wiki that I got from another mama mboga and buy Ting Ting at The Shop. We have this special thing we do, my Luo mama mboga and me. She glowers and I smirk. At first, I never noticed the frown she ruins her face further with until one time when I passed her with a friend and the friend asked if I had given the woman an undeserved kiss.

Then I started noticing how she would be all happy and smiling with someone at her stall until I pass by her from school or to my sweet friendly mama mboga. I saw how she would cringe when she noticed me crack a joke with the person behind The Shop’s counter. Counter people at The Shop change shifts. Do you know how successful aa shop needs to be to have keepers who change shifts? Neither do I, but I will ask one day. I assume it is very successful. I need that kind of success in my chaotic life. As soon as I noticed her displeasure, I began the walk past her extension of a kibanda with this grin that lights my soul on fire.

A few months ago, she went out of stock, or had mismanaged her funds or something happened. Look, all I know is she did not open for a few weeks. I would say I was happy about it, but no. I can’t lie to you. I missed the lines across her forehead and her pursed lips. But most of all, I missed those eyes. Eyes that would follow me from my favorite mama mboga’s till I went past the corner. Sometimes, I hope she cranes her neck to look at my back after I go past the corner. We have these special moments with her, me and my Luo mama mboga. She and I.

(PS. You have a story that you think I can spruce up and tell here, please find me. I’m getting desperate here.)