Naamka asubuhi napiga dua for vigeti, sala more natumia mama kwa kibeti.
Big fish kwa sahani ndio maana nashusha neti, ligi soh natafuta hizo zangu senti.
Pay per clue ama stage haijalipiwa, donda wa flow change yangu ni kitu pure.
Sticks and stones nikitusiwa, nabreak bones kama gwiji wa rap akiwapa kitu sure.
Colour kwa face, akala mpaka base, nakala ya case, nitashinda usitie shaka.
Maisha naichase, boots zangu nazilace, 7 am nishaset goals natoka kuzisaka.
Naruka mvi nastep on a Gen Z, usishangae water cannons zimejaa kwa nchi iko dry spell.
Wanasting kama Hessy, nabii ana appetite ya promises but hafurahi tukiskia dinner bell.
Tutazidi kufinya kama nyash kinky, 1-2 sio mic test bali ni kupunch more than lines.
Makanga amelewa na whisky, dereva amesema halali but you can see the signs.
Nina akili na nywele, locked kwa target wakirusha my comrades kwa boot.
Nauli ya hapo mbele, watch them split hairs trying to tap your root.
I’ll keep spitting truth through pain like my dentist was a priest.
Armed to the tooth because they freed a beast they thought didn’t exist.
My creations destroy and burn, no wonder I keep grilling them on my cage,
Walidhani I wouldn’t return, they should have braced themselves for my rage.
Usiku kabla nilale napiga goti bila kupaniki, Maulana alinibariki hakunilaani.
Tajiri ama maskini ana siku ya kufariki, leo jina kubwa kesho yake FULANI.
Open poem to the PORK
Mr President, I’m not a revolutionary, I’m a poet.
I shall try my best to not have my words sound like bars that could be perceived as enemy lines.
I’m afraid that I’ll raise a storm that could brew a kickstart to knowledge at lightning speeds.
Mr President, I’m certain I would not skim any parts of the historical scams or telltale signs.
I would delve deeper till I rooted out what was fertilizing corrupted seeds.
But remember Mr President, I am just a poet.
I titled my poem open because my verses will be holding such a conversation.
My fears though they ring true will be nullified by the dreams of a generation.
Mr President, for clarification purposes, I don’t write poems, they write me.
I feel a nation’s migraine building up and threatening to explode if I don’t document the aura of this age.
Slowly, my anxiety builds up as my restless thoughts clamour for the right to be.
My pen gets smarter than the sword and the blood of the slain inks this damp page.
Mr President, I’m sad and mad, that means my tears keep mixing anger and grief and I’m starting to accept this recipe for depression.
I’m sobbing for a nation Mr President, because I’m hoping my tears at this altar can bargain their way to a red carpet where acceptable justice prevails.
Mr President, open hands welcomed full streets during campaigns, peaceful demonstrations were served closed fists, bullets and batons of oppression.
We the people, we came in peace, came to voice our minds but ended up picking brains and taking young dreamers to early graves.
I’m not a revolutionary, I’m a poet, Mr President.
Just a son of the Kenyan soil, a law abiding resident.
Mr President I’m not a criminal, I’m a poet.
I used to write verses about love before I couldn’t afford one on loans.
I used to write about baddies Mr President not bad deals and bad bills.
I grew up to watch the game played by civil masters, the careful selection of pawns.
The number of moves countered, when those laying down can’t stand up to confirm the kills.
Mr President, a placard is worth a papercut not a trip to the emergency room, a voice is worth a meeting of minds not a bullet to the head.
I’m not a criminal Mr President, just a poet trying to articulate the life of the dead.
As a poet Mr President, I deal in reason in my rhymes, smuggle smarts into select conversation, and forge new styles to the way I steal status quo that’s past its time from closed minds.
I whisper my emotions into my letters, wrap my words with my true feelings and throw my meaning to my audience as the scene rewinds.
I hear the cries of the unnamed, tear this curtain for them so they can have a peaceful sleep.
They died for the shamed, those with futures uncertain, they are soaring through an eventful trip.
I’m just a Millenial poet Mr President, one who is unable to unsee the horror yet not hear the apology for the betrayal in our cities.
I’m just trying to get some shut eye, and as a way to pass away my time through my recent insomnia, I find myself counting scorned deities.
I’m writing this in long pauses Mr President, thinking back on how many years parents keep burying their children in this nation.
Each single time and regime, when the people raise a questioning hand, the corporals end up punishing their offspring.
A digital movement, something that could have been debated without confrontation.
Before the next bell tolls, maybe you could make a point of picking up on the first ring.
Mr President I’m not alive, I’m a dead poet.
I’m not sure how I got here really.
Maybe it was that poem I wrote when red-eyed, or that Ex with a passionate grudge or maybe my DIY noose finally worked and that’s why I am floating.
Any of them could be perceived as deadly by the right audience on the wrong side of history
Or I could have starved to death, I think artistes and Kenyans, especially Kenyans do that.
I don’t know where I am Mr President, it’s a new place for a poet.
It’s dark and peaceful. Everything I probably always wanted.
You know? When you took away my purpose.
When everything I created in destructive conditions was taxed till the government was content.
When I moved back home so you could have several homes.
When my social media post not meant for views got me in trouble for reporting the current news.
When that tick-tock ended up being my clock winding down on me without my consent.
When I marched to the end of the line and they cut mine.
I don’t know where I am Mr President. I didn’t want to end up here.
I thought you’d listen. I created the most informative poster. You’d probably not have been proud, but I was.
Now I can’t hear my comrades.
I’m calling out to them, they said the water would just itch. Is that why I can’t scratch away this lonely feeling?
I carried that flag and water bottle for the teargas like the poster said right? It must have worked, I’m not coughing.
But… but I am alone Mr President. Mr President? Mr President? Mr President? I guess this is the end of our conversation Mr President. If you can still hear me.
I only need to know: Where am I? What happened?Did I make a change Mr President?
I was not just a poet Mr President.
I was a Kenyan.
GENERATION ZII
Broke, jobless, taxed, homeless, no wonder the streets keep calling.
Smoke, fearless, facts, timeless, we’ll march again and keep coming.
In the spirit of Wangarĩ, Mboya, Ouko, Njindo and others, we claim our birth right.
We are not here to be the 4th liberation, we have got the final one in sight.
You thought we got our heads stuck on our screens didn’t you?
You missed us gaining knowledge to kick you out of our view.
We got to watch the previous generations get the same treatment.
Peaceful demonstrations against injustice turned to hostile internment.
Ignoring our demands and rights is definitely a foolish use of freewill.
I shall still be at your gates tomorrow, yesterday was just a fire drill.
Water cannons hazitushtui wakati hakuna maji kwa taps nyumbani.
Mkono wenu mrefu lakini sisi twapungia serikali yenu ule wa buriani.
Nikiupload video, mnataka kodi, nikipata likes mnauliza tuje lini?
Tutatiktok tutatiktok na nini, hatuezi afford tax tutatiktok kwa nini?
Tunacreate jobs from scratch, nyi kazi ni kudestroy our digital hopes.
Mnacreate mobs na promise ya lunch, kazi yetu ni kudestroy hizi ropes.
Mnadhani mboka ndio tutapiga lakini kuwapiga nyinyi ndio tutachoka?
Tuko focused, threats za lock up twaziweka behind bars za kufoka.
Tumekuwa at the bottom na bado mnatulet down, tumekuwa njaa koo yasema tuko na kiu pia.
Tutaexpress our ways kwa hizi barabara, sisi si generation ya sahani, tuko taxin’ juu twataka sinia.
#GENERATIONZII #REJECTFINANCEBILL2024 #RIPREX
A FIGURATIVE COUNTDOWN
14 verses, spinning numbered musical tales at the tail end.
14 classes, making pals with pens yet timed digits forgot to hit send.
14th day, double the Sabbath adding my soul to the earthly tide.
14, first time having dreams of the silicon green on the Swiss side.
13, pompously aged puberty arriving with a cut of weighted gospels.
13th Friday, finding winning darts at the bar of unlucky spells.
13 baptisms later, spirits calm down in drunken volumes.
That teen, shedding cocoons from adulterated vacuums.
12th night, peering over the fence trying to fix withdrawal shakes.
12 disciples, fishing for bread at the cost of having to eat cakes.
12 hours, sleeping through sunshine as others have the day.
12 labours, giving birth to a godforsaken part to play.
11 players, still finding hearts in pitch to career injuries.
11th hour, arriving in mere seconds yet stoned into centuries.
11 betrayals, hanging happiness to win at being penny-wise.
11 atoms, explosive emotions prompting salty vocals to rise.
10 years, sweating through the tears in the universal fabric.
10 decks, crumbling as cards fall when winds blow the trick.
10 commands, squeezing a game out of a broken system.
10 neon lights, green-lighting an avenue ending in the red mayhem.
9 stitches, laughing up skins clamouring to save a life in pretense.
9 snitches, sharpen knives to shorten lives by elongating a sentence.
9 muses, creating a multiverse of poetic pains and growth gains.
9 months, destroying a cosmos of all the reigns and strains.
8 breaths, oxygenating painful awareness into existential lungs.
8 pieces, sailing shredded hearts towards the cannon bangs.
8 corners, stoppage time but life keeps throwing hits.
8 bites, building up a meal of passion or blowing us to bits.
7 knocks, breaking down doors after divine window shopping.
7 seas, raising a tsunami just to save the world from drowning.
7th son, finding luck in less familiar good-byes after so long.
7 sins, trumpeting deadly notes creating a triple gun salute song.
6th month, births gemini twins of anxiety and depression.
6 cubes, rolling to live or die without having left an impression.
6th sense, predicting a struggle with society’s extremes.
6 feet, troubled minds finding a resting place for dreams.
5 tastes, yet worldly turns leave earthly tongues bitter.
5 petals, flowers falling through cracks dims the glitter.
5 elements, throwing periodic tantrums for a seat at the table.
5 scales, a musical staircase where croaking is the final label.
4 chambers, revolving living iron while calling the bloody shots.
4th quarter, a full moon leads to the body if you follow the dots.
For starters, run away from home and break the 4th wall.
For status, time your farewell signature by leaping at last call.
3, the trinity meant to keep lithium away from our poles.
3 dimensions, we still cannot find space for our souls.
3 geniuses, starring in an unexpected trip of astronomical holy wars.
3 temptations, triggering denials that lead to deadly scores.
2 halves, marital ambitions for thoughts in opposing hemispheres.
2nd chances, parole system working on life sentence gears.
Two-faced, demons with sweet voices leaving dents as a joke.
2, the duality of meanings since the poet’s words spoke.
1, unit of a unified self becoming one once one unites the previous ones.
1 father, jealous and suffering from the success of devious sons.
1st person, me, myself and I can’t stress the tense in my past.
1st position, strongly leading in a competition to be last.
AUGUST ALL SINNERS
Puffed paths pass through a rich man’s gut.
Starved stars strut in poetic poverty and sass.
Ni ngori kwa head man anayefanya kazi kupata head rest.
But the chief point remains the existence of a cozy nest.
May we borrow in unity but pay individual taxes.
Piecing together redials of liberty from missed texts.
Figurative language becoming reality to fit in boxes.
Ticks for the win as they suck through our losses.
Perfect pal pats the back that soon receives the kicks.
As past proverbs find the man at the mic through teary sums.
Bas bas bas… mwanaume tulia hakuna haja ya kutense.
Rebuilt bridges burn taking down those on the fence.
Liars are firm as they fill tills for they believe the words they say.
The victims perpetually disillusioned when they finally have their day.
A bite of the national dessert where everyone wants to pick a bone.
Few want to work for the home yet everyone wants the throne.
Puff puff pass the responsibility requires a dose of bluntness.
That’s why we intercede but never have the time to confess.
Wasi wasi ukipata utaambiwa uinue macho kwa clouds.
Building speed tracks in the air in search of a higher ground.
The snaking smoke gifts vivid dreams from night terrors.
Cursing the waking hours with the weight of a turn of errors
Entangled in a web of our choices that sometimes makes us sensitive.
Memory evaporating when reminded our voices are truly representative.
In the end we smash the mirror to avoid our reflections; forgetting we are all sinners under the tree of our selections.
THE ANTHEM, AND THEM.
Oh God of all creation, poor or rich, from the wet sands of the Coast to the dry sands of the North.
Bless this our land and nation with rains for our fruits and sun for our growth.
Justice be our shield and defender, even when judges won’t defend us.
May we dwell in unity of all tribes as one, recognizing the origin of the fuss.
Peace and liberty be truly felt than just words on paper.
Plenty be found within our borders, more than enough meat, for our newspaper.
Let one and all arise awakening the mind from its colonial slumber.
With hearts both strong and true finally punch our number.
Service be our earnest endeavour to our neighbours and strangers.
And our homeland of Kenya be protected from all dangers.
Heritage of splendour from our farms to our seas.
Firm may we stand to defend from the mountains, never again on our knees.
Let all with one accord to leave our country better than we find it.
In common bond united from the chosen to the misfit.
Build this our nation together without qualms or complaints.
And the glory of Kenya fly free of any restraints.
The fruit of our labour improve our standard of living.
And if we ever forget, fill every heart with thanksgiving.
Original parts of the Kenya National Anthem included written by: Graham Hyslop, G. W. Senoga-Zake, Thomas Kalume, Peter Kibukosya, Washington Omondi, 1963
5 YEAR SALUTE
I furrow my brow a lot. Mostly as an involuntary reaction to filter out the glare of human “stupidity”, incompetence, ignorance and prejudice. And also, the sun. 😅
I’m light sensitive you see. I have every type of “chromatic” in my glasses. Even my stunnaz/shadez/goggles (80s, 90s kids 🤭) are prescription. You can also be sure for reason number one. I have used it in the mirror too. I am quite self critical.
I didn’t really ever notice it that much till my dad passed away. 5 years today. The photo chosen to be used for his obituary was one where he was doing exactly that. Sure, the sun was in his eyes. However, he could also have been doing it because someone had forced him to wear a tie that day. Probably one of my sisters or all of them. It was hard to get this man to agree to something. I wonder who else I know with the same need to see logic before agreeing to something. Cue mirror again.
The moment I saw that photo on the family group as it was being chosen for the newspaper, it finally hit me why it looked so familiar. I had seen it in my own photos before. Photos as old as when I was just a toddler. You see, my dad didn’t really take many photos of himself. With his old camera and then newer shinier black Kodak camera, he took most of our photos when a studio was not available. Getting him to pose for one was another story altogether. And the few photos I had from before had never captured this moment. Since that day I started a quest to find as many photos from the family albums where he is doing that. They are not many but I found some more.
In fact by watching all my siblings. I realized they all do it. Even the ones who don’t wear spectacles. With time I even see it in his grandkids. Especially in the boy named after him. He usually does it when he is hell-bent on not doing what the mum is saying. Coincidence? Methinks not. Sure enough most humans probably do it. But it is the uniqueness of the lines that form on their faces that makes my heart skip a beat. The lines that remind me of you.
Today I celebrate you. As you celebrated all of us and our achievements. You probably wrote our CVs out to people you met as you spoke proudly of your children. I have met people years later who only knew me all the way to the personality core, just from your words.
It is why today’s words will not be sad as that poem from years back. It’s why I can manage a fair amount of jokes as I write you this tribute. I remember the number of times you had me guffawing at the jokes about politicians, wrestlers and most frowned upon by dear mother, religion. And so, today amid the tears that we can’t dry or deny, I get to smile. I get to know that one emotion can be expressed as two. I also get to see that furrowing our brow is more than just a reaction or a way to judge. It is a way to take a stance. A way to strive forward through hardships. A way to turn up even when we might not feel like it.
A few quick updates.
Your 2 elder sons have since decided to wear caps as much you did because your warnings on baldness fell on deaf ears. 🏃🏿♂️🏃🏿♂️😂
The other one (mirror moment) won’t shave his hair because he is caught in your spirit of the 60s. He also didn’t heed your warning on early grey hair.
There’s 2 more grandkids. You would have loved to meet them.
Your family has grown so much we take the family photo in panorama.
It sure would have been a lovely excuse for you to avoid more photos. 😁😁❤️❤️
We still miss you in our midst.
We miss your toughness. We miss your kindness.
We miss your glares. We miss your cares.
I miss the furrows in your brow that said: “This is how I got you this far.”
Koma thayû baba.
TO MAKE A DECADE
Today is a special day for me. It has been 10 years since I started working at Nielsen, to the date. December 1st 2010 was my reporting day. On the 2nd day I was off for graduation rehearsals and on the 3rd which was my first Friday I was off for my graduation at the UoN. However, because the stories and lessons from 10 years might be too much to write on, let me first take a step back to where and how this journey started.
My last month on campus was July 14th 2010. It was exactly one month after my birthday and meant having to study and clear my final exams at a time I would have chosen to be partying. But I was used to it. The Kenyan 8-4-4 system having exams or at least midterms in June was something I was used to.
After a few months of lounging, series watching and overall lazing around. Ok, I lie, I still had evening classes for my IT degree but for the first time in 4 years I had freedom during the day. This freedom proved too much for me to cope with and by October 2010 I was working as an online researcher at DAPROIM (Data Processing Information Management) Africa, the name may have changed since. I was a wage earner payable based on the number of validated questions answered. And this is where our story begins.
On October 21st 2010 at 3:29 PM (I still have the email to date), my elder brother forwarded me an email titled “Circulate Urgently”. The email originated from his best friend and roommate from his campus days. The reason I make sure to mention the time the email came in is because that vacancy was expiring the next day by 4 pm.
Now, these were not the days of smartphones, laptops at home or easily accessible internet. Even getting somewhere to type up a CV could prove a challenge then. Yes, I know I make it sound like 10 years ago was the dark ages, but maybe it was. More than half of these photos were taken on cameras not camera phones. However, because I had started my online research career where the personal email was used daily to share back the data, I did not miss this email. That night after I was done with work, I applied for the position. So quickly that I barely got the full info on the document correctly. I had never come across market research before then. The vacancy was a 6 month per rotation for 3 rotations young leaders program for a total of 18 months, basically a job. My understanding as I clicked send on the email was that it was a 6 month internship and we all know how much we are on the lookout for those after school. Before we have any proper experience in the job market. I just hoped they gave fare or lunch or something.
At the start of November I received an email from a company I did not know. Because how many in Kenya knew the name Nielsen then or still do? I had no recollection of my application due to the speed with which I had sent it in, to make the deadline. This was the first time I read up on the company properly. This time I included the full scope of market research and more as I prepared for the interview which by the way was just the next day from the invite email. There was therefore the small matter of attending the interview while still working elsewhere. My naivety or boldness led me to not my supervisor’s but the company owner’s office. Now deceased, his words remain the best push I could ever have needed at such a time. I was feeling terribly guilty to leave so soon. He said that my work for him was always meant to be temporary, it was a stepping stone to greater things especially for those recently out of school. He then proceeded to give me the next whole day off to prepare for the interview.
One face to face interview and two virtual interviews later, which included some parts in French because the role would require interaction with our Francophone countries, I was hired. With the requirement to get a passport as soon as possible. This is where the 10 year journey truly starts.
I could write pages upon pages of the lessons, the mistakes, the joys, the lows of the last 10 years but this post is just a celebration of time past. It celebrates the seconds, hours, weeks, months and years we have lived through, sometimes survived through as a working adult.
Most importantly, most people I know still make fun of not knowing exactly what I do. I have done loads and that might be the reason. Or I have done such specific work it is sometimes unknown to others. I will make sure to tag them on this post.
So for the last 10 years, here is a brief layman-termed breakdown of what I do or have done in the last 10 years.
- Data Acquisition Specialist (DA Young Leader Program) – I managed projects including budgets, field personnel for fieldwork. I was learning the market research trade at the same time and hence the various trips for learning workshops. I completed my first BPI (Business Process Improvement) project by the end of the 3 rotations.
- mRES Tech. Support Reach and Read E.A & C.A – Company transitions from Pen and Paper to Mobile Research. I become in charge of vendor training, technical know-how and online data quality analysis for East and Central Africa
- Technical and Help Desk Manager, SSA (Sub Saharan Africa) – Same role expands further as more countries move to mobile research. I travelled to train new helpdesks to support the country. The French we might have forgotten comes in handy. Next thing I know, I am a manager by 25.
- mRES, SOS & RRES Technical Leader; Back Office HHT support – More countries, more softwares, more data analysis, more people management.
- Quality Management System (QMS) Lead – Emerging Markets – Provided insights for 64 emerging markets based on quality, cost, timeliness, productivity etc
- Operational Insights Lead, Global Markets – All markets, any possible insight for operational cost effectiveness. Includes insights that could lead to enhancements to existing apps or new app development. Includes presentations on analytics and data studio dashboards.
- Module and Process Owner/Lead, Navigator App – Liaison between software developers (Tech team) and user needs. Includes loads of documentation and follow ups to clear the product backlog. I get to learn and use JIRA as part of Agile product development.
- Platform Support Specialist (QMS, GSR, GDA TM) – Analysis of root causes that make platforms and different modules unstable to the user. Document root cause analysis all the way to resolution while updating troubleshooting guides on a website that will guide the users in days to come.
All this while learning about work-life balance. Managing to keep my life of writing as intact as possible though the onstage performances may have suffered a bit. So as you enjoy my CV or decide to skip it, we come to the major question that reared its head even when I wrote my 5 year anniversary piece. “Why are you still in this one place?” The list is long and it includes many things from stability, excitement, innovations, use for this brain that won’t quit but my most important one is, managers.
There is a cliché that goes: “People don’t leave bad jobs, they leave poor managers.” As much as there is speculative truth in that for most people. It rings extremely true for me as I turn the page on this decade. 10 years, 8 titles and 11 managers later I am still here, having met only 2 of those managers face to face. It is great proof that a company is its culture. And there is no culture without people accepting and propagating it. Culture crosses borders, accents and screens. Culture makes employees feel needed and useful in their teams. Culture got me to a decade.
So this post is not only a celebration for me but an appreciation to those who laid the steps and kept me going for this last decade. My appreciation for that email forward from Pablo to Kevoh to me. My appreciation for the late Steve Muthee for the honesty and positive vibes he left behind and with me as I looked to start this career. My appreciation for all others who have made this 10 year journey not only manageable but enjoyable. And lastly to my Creator, who has seen it fit for me to see this day. Excelsior!!
MY GENGE NOTES
Nilianza kuandika nikiwa form 2.
Enzi za ESir but nikakosa visa ya kustudy past the studio hii story ni true.
Nikarusha dice, nikaangukia ofisi kama kamari.
Lakini usanii hatutawahi sare.
Nitacontinue kushoot shots kama Alehandro lakini nitabakia mkarimu kama Benzema.
Nilitunga mistari kabla nipate ID lakini jina nikajipa sikuwa nameless.
Live up to the banditry najipox kila time ndio niwapee presha.
Shash ikareplace gomba kwa lyrics, maneno yanapaa juu sio moshi wicked.
Nimeflex kwa jua kali najenga future, it’s not all for the ladies.
Narusha macho kwa manzi wa Nairobi nasema rest in peace Lady S.
Pilipili hainiwashi bali yanipa morale ya kuknow nini ndio next step.
Tones ziko na genge mpya limemuok sio warazi tu wanarep.
Msanii ni kioo cha jamii, sauti ya umati lakini fikra za wengi.
Ndio maana artistes hukaa manarcissist juu lazima waiinsist.
Kubadili perception inayoharibu reception na kutoana rangi.
Ningekua reckless na message ya wakiritho lakini wako ritho.
Wanaeza ita SWAT na sio time yangu ya kulambana na the law.
So nitazidi kusema mi ni divine, “I’m a miracle, baby.”
Nimechungulia family nikaona hatutabaki kukohoa kwa Corolla.
Kama Femi tutawezana na wale wana vitambi Major?
Nani atatoa gang kwa boondocks and sail us kwa hao iko in a better state?
Juu maKartelo wamekuwa millionaire na pandemik, sealing our fate.
Nimenyongwa na ethics ndio nasimama kuchachisha.
Nitainama tena, haja ya haya maneno thao ikiisha.
#KenyanMusic #Genge #Gengetone #GengeNotes
(d)ivine musings #5
Just 48+ hours since International Men’s day. It would be a disservice not to write about the mental health aspect of it. The little I can with hands that burn up with pain every 15 minutes. Again, I reiterate repetitive strain injuries from typing are a thing. Keep a look out for numb fingers or hands. That said, you can be sure this post will take a while to write. Therefore, let’s get to the points quickly.
Instances that I consider having almost lost my life:
Passed out for hours at M. Patel hospital (real name should be Limuru Nursing Home I think) circa 1995 because I was dehydrated and in pain. My body for hours as it had done before kept trying to throw up food that was non existent in my stomach. Yes, I grew up such a sickly child I missed most of my lower primary (nursery to class 3) schooling. Primary school friends had learnt to help me stand and walk home when I was too weak from vomiting anything I ate. But this particular day was different. Feeling the heaving tension almost break my ribs and spine. I remember letting go. I knew when to give up. I hadn’t before. Also a child shouldn’t remember. But I do. Because this particular brain is designed to hold onto information. Too much information sometimes. You learn how to handle it or live with it as you grow older. Teachers call it genius, some call it creativity, others call it madness. I call it the pursuit of happiness.
Saba Saba riots circa 1997. My eldest sister and I are in Limuru again. I am sick again but this time sickness is not the issue. It is just tonsillitis. The political meeting happening near Limuru market is. As was common during the Moi regime, the meeting was broken up by the GSU as tear gas and beatings soon rent the smoky air. Remember by then Rev. Njoya had already been badly beaten 7 years prior. The late Queen Wangari Maathai had also been hospitalised some 5 years before fighting the oppressive regime. No one was safe when the GSU arrived. Possibly resonates to date doesn’t it? I digress. There was no escape for us as more cops with batons chased people from the market towards the shopping centre where we were. Shop owners hurriedly closed their doors and we soon had nowhere or no one to turn to. But my sister did not give up. She stood in front of one door and kept banging and pleading. I on the other hand barely had a voice with my painful tonsils now on fire from breathing in teargas. Seconds seemed like actual hours as in the artificially dreary afternoon I prepared my back for the landing of kicks, sticks, blows and stones. I was ready to scream for the broken young bones. In the last second (so last second we could hear boots and screams outside the shop) the shopkeeper finally heard our pleas and let us in. A tiny tailor shop where we had to squeeze in with the Singer sewing machine and the clothes hanging from the walls. The space was so cramped our bodies had to touch the 2 sheet thin closed metal doors. Internally we prayed (or I did) for no stray bullets as they ran rife then. Again, a child shouldn’t remember that much detail.
Circa 2016, carjacking, pistol on my head. Jerky nervous hands. Shot goes off. Lagertha my beautiful white queen (ok, car..Men 🙄) courageously receives the bullet that passes by my right ear. This story is told online in a few words because our security is so internal it is upon you to keep the right shields (grill doors) up.
Circa 2019, 14 Riverside attack. I put off going to get my lunch at Secret Garden for 1 hour. I was going to be seated or walking from the restaurant when the suicide bomber blew himself up right outside it. As many in our building remember. We all trooped outside thinking it was a gas explosion heading for the fire point. Our building being the first from the entrance. We almost rounded the corner when our IT guy, a few paces ahead of me, seeing the men in all black and ski masks walking in through the gate, made the best split second decision he probably ever has made. Or at least to all he saved with his words. He said and I paraphrase, “These guys are not cops. Go back in. Forget your fire training. This looks like an attack.” The men barely got a chance to see us. No one came into our building. We were some of the first people out. Those who had to crawl out as explosions and gunshots still tore up the calmness of the river-side greens. Those people later made into memes because they seemed like men afraid for their lives. Yes those men. A year after in 2020, almost to the date they almost died, they were locked up in homes, lost jobs and loved ones to Corona. An adult should remember this.
The objective of this writ (as some that I do are usually for more my benefit than yours) is to give this clear message:
We are similar but are not the same. We are unique but still familiar. We find courage in spite of weakness. We find bravery in spite of fear. We smile when there’s so much to cry for. We live and we learn. But most importantly, we strive, for our dreams…and yours. We are men. #MensDay #MentalHealth
The Divine Bandit™ 