My Nairobi

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Every time I board a bus to town I get very excited. More even interesting is that I take a lot of time in front of the mirror, though at times it improves nothing to my body. I am used to the same haircut, same face, same dress code, same walking style, different sprays (always getting me terrible coughs, but can’t let ‘em go anyway? Who loves the smell of unscented smell? Not even a fly), and the same path to the bus stage. Therefore it makes a little difference spending a second or minutes in front of a mirror.

It is amazing when people say they live in Nairobi yet use more than 100 bob to their hoods. That’s no Nairobi town man, better say where you live, maybe Kajiado or Mwingi. But let me say Nairobi is quite big, having millions of inhabitants living in its various outskirts.

So when I hit a bus, wish I could say my car, heading to town, I bubble with gaiety. It is the law of any Nairobi youth, you feel proud, or feel like you achieved something if you spent some part of your day strolling in the swollen streets doing some nasty window shopping, better still spending the who day there doing numerous rounds while carrying a bottle of water, or better still a bottle of cold ice cream from some cool joint, only to realize that the bus fair to your home is 80 bob and you only got 70 bob, so you have to do more rounds, the crowds to get low and the bus fare become affordable.

Who doesn’t do that anyway? Walk around shoulder high with a couple of ice cream bars or bottles while sipping it slowly and sexy from the straw, like some golden drink drunk only by the Brokers of Wall street. By the way have you watched documentaries concerning these motherfuckers who own homes and lawns the size of Nairobi city?

You will move from one street to another, rolling in a new walking style you only preserve for town moments, make every damsel walking by jealous, feign a foreign accent, and talk loudly to brag how you know much, been to places, and attract people’s attention. The fair part is that nature brings us all to one bunch of Nairobians.

In the evening you will humble yourself, join the long snaky queue like everyone, wear a boring face and sit tight for your own turn, sit in the same bus with those who were in offices, in latrines doing their dirty job, hawkers and the merchandisers that you scolded at when they tried to sell you a watch. You all humble down, listen to the same radio station in that bus, laugh at the same jokes, and even worse get back to your depilated hood, back to depression state once more. Isn’t that the kind of life that Nairobi portends for us?

Nairobi is just a city, so central and open to everyone. It is the heart of every Kenyan. It shines, throbs and thumps in our hearts like a pot laced banana. We revere it, we adore it, and we can’t do anything without it. It is beautiful and sexy, looking hot and ripe. And we all head there to satisfy our needs, gratify our eyes’ needs, sleep on our backs in Uhuru Park with one eye open trying to peep at the sun (if you haven’t tried this you are so not Nairobian), spend your time there watching fortunate kids swinging by, while others doing the rollercoaster, and you eke your brain, wondering what if you had such kind of life as a kid. Would you be seated there? Will you be having numbing thoughts about other people whose lives seemed to be so seamless and coherent?

Suddenly strong bitter tears will approach your eyes. You then fight them, though some dry ones will still find their way out, and you will sigh trying to console yourself. For another moment you will ask yourself, why am I crying? You look around to ascertain if there was a lousy neighbor who also noticed your distress. You hope that no one saw that moment of sadness on your face, otherwise you might get more emotional.

Luckily you don’t notice anyone. What you don’t know is that some guy or lady somewhere has been keenly on your toes, wondering what might be going on with your life. They will thank Uhuru Park, hii uhuru park imesaidia watu sana. People come here to release their life sorrows to the open air. Others will pray, watoe viatu, wainue mikono juu, and walk around with words abreast, murmuring slowly. Others will just sleep and try to forget the atrocities that life has incessantly befriended them with. Others will sit down, blankly stare at nothing, and cry till their hearts become lighter.

You then decide to take a snooze. Deep inside you want to forget the incident that just happened, and you badly want to wash it down the toilet completely. (What a nice mode, sleep, the very thing that sometimes anaesthetizes our puzzling circumstances, free for all). After a few hours of sleep you wake up lazier and more worried. Everyone else is trailing to the bus stage before dusk catches up on them. You join them, with a bent head and rugged shape, thoughtful and exhausted, lining with all those foreign characters to head home.

Once I hit the city, my usual stage is Ambassador (in case you want to get my head on your plate like these guys from Flamingo Microfinance, you can find me here on a weekly basis. Just look for the tall guy in dark glasses doing nothing but looking at the masses swaying by.)

By the way those motherfuckers from Flamingo keep sending me threats, after I aired a story about their conning activities. So on Monday this week I receive a message from 0726483920. This is what it read.

I AM COMING FOR YOUR HEAD. ULIDHANI HATUTAKUPATA, I SWEAR TO GOD, TUNAKUJIA KICHWA YAKO. End of message.

I wondered how someone can swear in the name of God before wishing to do a misdeed. It doesn’t add up. I am used to these little brats who think they can scare the hell out of me for throwing them under the bus due to their inhumane activities.

Being one of those motherfuckers who die hard, do you know what I replied? Hehe.

TISHA NYANYAKO. N AL COME FOR YOUR DICK, BITCH.

So who won here? Mine felt offensive and the nigger never got back to me, but I am sure he got so much pissed that he wished he could commit suicide. One thing I believe is that you will die the day destined for you. The Giver and Taker of life is the only one who has that kind of potency to scare us. So why get scared? If you were to die, you will die.

Wherever you are motherfuckers, I don’t give a fuck. You spoilt my story, and you will pay for that. You know of this saying that goes, when the hunter learnt to shoot without missing, the (any bird you wish) learnt to fly without perching? Well, another principle kindly admonishes that never underestimate your enemy. I officially decide to be the enemy.

Oh, I heard that you are hiring new marketers by the way. That you are employing everyone who walks in with a CV in his hand. I think you have met your match and desperately clinging to the loose ends of a downfall. You wanna hire me to reverse the same?  Will continue the story on another day. Your balls taste like a femme with a tattered asshole.

Do I even go on with the story? That was a little digression there.

So I will land at Ambassador. From here I will start searching for a compass. Sometimes walking in this city alone makes you an ensemble of old souls. It is hard to move around with a happy face while alone. You can’t just sit down or stand a little bit to have a conversation with yourself, people will think you are demented. It is the same reasons why a girl will tag along her girlfriends when going to town. Trust me, you hardy find a lonely girl roaming the city. With them has to be a bunch of girlfriends each with a bottle of cold ice or hell knows what. They will be shouting across the streets, walking like marchers in a wedding, having no hurry with life, and for a moment you will think they have it all in life. Mostly, they have nothing, maybe a few bucks from their boys’ pockets.

This is where being a man becomes a tough relationship to stay in. Money is what defines you. You work extra hard, your girl keeps depleting those pockets by having great time in town hanging out with her girlfriends. So tough and ugly, right?

To avoid getting myself in shitty circumstances, I just carry my skeleton along the avenues searching for a particular thing. I hardly go to town for no reason, leave alone thousands who stream in with no reason. They just come to familiarize themselves with the new joints in town, no specific agenda. Or just sit on the famous stone, the jobless corner stone and enjoy the wonderful view of loads of beauties strolling by, to and fro.

Nairobi is so fine. I love it because of its diversity. From the hawkers in the open streets (blocking the pathways and keep dodging the Kanjo guys. These days these Kanjos wear casually so you hardly know when they are tracking your ass down), the stalls almost all dealing with electronics, hotels, cafes, chips places, to the Horias with covered faces. How do you even know who your daughter is? Same buibuis, from head to toe. They will peep out like squirrels eyeing for a maize cob.

Nairobi is a way of life. But there are streets you should never visit if you are a truly devoted Christian. Luthuli Avenue is one of the busiest street of the city. Here pussy is advertised live. Sluts here bask their nude pussies in the sun.  They wear miniskirts with no undergarments, so they will sit with their legs wide open. It is a house of whores desperately looking for a fucker.

There is nothing as toxic to a man than when he sees what he cannot stand. From this point his brain migrates to his balls. Sometimes we are the weakest when it comes to some temptations. The balls as always will only think of how to get in. No retreat. The balls will betray your innocence and once in a while you cease to the superman to your woman. For that short while you become loyal to a slut. You give yourself to her and enjoy the pleasure of her well. You don’t even ask how many dicks have been in there before, if they were smaller or bigger than yours, or what they felt, or if they were infected. You only become guilty afterwards.

Pussy is like bladder, no matter how big your dick may be, it will stretch to accommodate it. In the end it is the dick that gets tired. A pussy can handle several dicks a night, but no dick can do that to several pussies. You can see who is fooling who in this scenario.

Walk with your husband along Luthuli Avenue, he will get snatched. It is the other end of the world, where women don’t give a damn about who eats their pussy. You will be amazed to learn that most of them are married woman.

Anyway who is not a slut? If you have done sex with more than ONE person, there aint no purity there, you can as well stop condemning others. Isn’t that so? You are a slut too, only that you aint in the pussy or dick selling business. Bitches and dogs is what all of us are. We never feel guilty, but we feel sorry for others. We are all fuckers in the darkness. In the daylight we are all righteous.

Deep inside if we were to let the devils out, majority of us will say how much they love sex, how big the number is with those they have shared a dick or pussy with, and worse still those they have infected and inflicted in one way or another.

The clothes that we buy from the hawkers, shops and stalls bring uniformity to us. They conceal the true identity of us all. They cover us all with innocence and ordain dignity upon us so that we look very humble. The cut below is deep. Our immoral nudity gets sheathed. In those clothes trust is earned. In those dresses hides the biggest secrets. And the magic lies in between our hearts and souls, dancing to the old nasty tunes of the devil. Aint that what we do as humans?

Beyond the very visible ordeals lie what we cannot be able to judge. On the very surface we all look and find all the disgusting words to describe, thinking high of ourselves, our bodies, our dresses, our pretty faces, our mascaras and other facials, our suits, our Jordan shoes and designer stuff imported from U.K. We forget that inside us bigger scars that cannot be healed still stare at us with no remorse.

And we thump our chests strongly by how much achievement we have by ourselves. The plots, buildings, the kitambi, the fat bank accounts and swanky autos. It is never enough. When we get back home we return to nurse our gross things that keep eating our insides; diseases, divorces, infertility, rude dumb kids, fighter spouses, large pills, ARVS, ghosts, jinis, depression, stress, poverty and others troubles that we fight when we are alone, or with our families.

Everyone has something that troubles them. Something that only they know. Something they never say in broad daylight. Something that they treasure as a secret. Usually it is a weakness that makes you feel human like any other.

We all struggle with a devil. Is it not so? The city loves us all. It doesn’t care who you are or where you come from. It has a place for each one of us. Don’t you think it is so generous? It never questions your innocence, never cares to see your bank statement, or the kind of vocation you are in, or whether you are blind or full of sight, or whether you are on bare foot or walking in shoes from House of Leather. You all walk in the same streets.

Nairobi is fair, it gives a room to each of us, and covers all our immoral nudity.

That is my Nairobi. What is Nairobi to you?

I will do part two of My Nairobi soon. I got swayed by an emotional spirit. The hardcore part is coming soon.

-photo credit: buzzkenya

 

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