Keep the Fire Burning!
The last time my friend went to his rural home was the December holiday of his first sophomore semester. Home to him, is a simple grass-thatched hut that has been harboring dreams of being domiciled under an iron sheet roof for years. His senile grandmother and malnourished niece occupy the hut. My friend has a similar hut a few paces away, facing the foreboding valley below. From the adjacent knoll across the valley, the tiny hut leans precariously at the edge of the bluff. Behind the hut are two withered crosses perched on mounds of soil, a meter apart from each other. The two grotesque crosses are the opposite reflections of the man and woman they stand as epitaphs to. They who owned the hut now occupied by their son were a brilliant couple whose unconditional love for each other had spelt their doom. Story for another day.
He grew up in the village and schooled in the same village. In his life, till adult hood, he had not known the polluted atmosphere of the city. He had grown up herding his father’s cattle in the afternoons and dancing himself lame at disco Matanga in the night. His heels were sculptured into hard pads by the continuous altercation with the ground during frantic run offs from disco Matanga, after being hoaxed that the village chief had arrived, whip in hand. Such contrivances were doctored by boys from other villages just to have all the girls for themselves. My friend, had heard tales about the big city. The beautiful light-skinned girls that prowled the streets of Nairobi, the countless opportunities and the propensity to live a sedentary life. That’s why when he received his placement to a University in some Western Kenya town, he declined vehemently and declared a vendetta with KUCCPS. University would be his only shot at experiencing urban life and no one could take that opportunity away from him.
After writing several letters, citing non-existent health complications , and facing dubious panels, his request was granted. And he found himself in the great University of Nairobi. When he arrived in Nairobi, it was him, his backpack and two hundred shillings against the world. The first hurdle in this dream University was the hiked fees. Before being assigned student residence, he lived with a distant relative in Donholm. Under strict instructions from the said relative, he committed to memory the path from the city center to school. Stage-archives-straight-past-Jevanjee, to flyover then to school. There was no need to muster the street names. This became a refrain that he recited during his long treks from town to Chiromo. When one day he attempted to make a detour and explore, he found himself in museum hill. He tried to trace back his steps and was in Pangani. Lost, disoriented and dejected, he approached a police patrol Landcruiser to ask for direction. His decision was inspired by an advice from a newly-made campus friend that the only reliable people to ask for direction were security guards. Boda Boda guys would circumnavigate the city with you to extort your money. Random people on the streets could turn out to be conmen who would beguile you into believing their false directions only to waylay you in some dark alley and rob you blind. At Pangani, there were no guards in sight. The closest thing to security guards within the vicinity were the police officers. Luckily, they were headed towards the CBD. Crammed in the back with some inebriated dudes and fine damsels with a dressing style that would make his grandmother stone-blind, he had obliviously made an unceremonious debut as a passenger in this ‘free’ public transport vehicle.
Now, in his third year, he has been a guest at the cockroach-infested, dismal accommodations of the Central Police Station countless times. His pupils have developed resistance to teargas. The sweet, yet diabolical lady at the front desk of Central police station has become accustomed to him. Whenever he makes one of his visits, she salutes him sarcastically then proceeds to ask “Leo tuko na one-bed na two-bed, zote self-contained, nikupee gani mkuu?”. They were indeed self-contained. A bunker bed, a bucket toilet at the corner, and rats to nibble at the dead cells on your feet when you are asleep. A rendition of the fish pedicure offered in high-end Kilimani Spas. Only this time offered unwillingly at Central, by rats the size of his grandmother’s cat, Osama.
Most of the times my friend has found himself at Central, he had assembled a ragtag band of comrades and led them on the match towards anniversary towers to demand for disbursement of HELB. Other times, it is to advocate for the safety of comrades risking their lives crossing Uhuru Highway daily, or the those lacking water in their hostels for days. He is inherently an activist. You wouldn’t miss him in any picketing footslog. According to him, comrades are sacrosanct beings; beyond vilification. Just like him, he recognizes that there are thousands of comrades who depend on external aid and government funding for their education. That, for people like him, education is the only way out of poverty.
After losing his parents at a young age, he understands the pain of losing a loved one. The grief that creeps into your life, takes the main seat and folds its legs, making a forced acquaintance with you. The sorrow that shrouds the life of a parent who has to bury their dead child along with their unfulfilled dreams. He understands that such pain doesn’t go away. It lives with you, occasionally rearing its ugly head in form of tearful whimpers and mewls. But the brilliance in his eyes betrays none of these deep-seated feelings. He is a genial fellow. A book worm whose portal is flooded with straight As. Apart from the inability to distinguish between a light-skinned lady and a beautiful lady, he is downright quintessential. This shortcoming plagues the best of us from the lake side. Especially village-bred fellas who had never seen any complexion lighter than coffee brown before coming to Nairobi. My guy is a casualty. But in him, there is fiery determination. The ambition he harbors fuels this intrinsic fire. Sometimes it is dimmed by psychic drizzles but is never quenched. Other times, strong gales ravage it but it never dwindles. It keeps burning!
Compared to earlier years, my friend has a clearer vision of his future. The city has offered hot coals to tread on and ice cubes to cool his heels in equal measure. The stethoscope straddled on the nape of the white lab coat in his wardrobe reminds him daily not to give up. In his left hand is a goat-skin bracelet handed to him by his grandmother. It is a reminder of how much that woman has contributed to his life. Whenever he caresses the bracelet, he also recalls her warning to only look for daughters from the lake, who speak the same language. A warning that stems out of a mixture of pure selfishness and deep concern. Selfishness because grandma wants someone she could gossip with in the kitchen and concern because she has in the tips of her lips tales about women from certain tribes who murder their husbands. She always reinforces this warning with Deuteronomy 7:4. But grandma also insists on finding a good woman. As his thoughts drift back into the room, he shifts his gaze towards the figure on his small bunk bed. A light-skinned daughter of Mumbi purrs softly in her sleep. His heavy, dark hands find her bright tawny thighs. She is beautiful, and good. Surely, grandmother will have to understand.
Author: Ariel Major
Fitness, food, lifestyle, travel.... welcome to my journal.
