I’m at a party. Decent crowd. It’s one of those parties where security at the main gate of the apartments peers at you
suspiciously you and growls “unaenda wapi?” He is adopting this tone because he is used to dealing with people with posh cars and not the Vitz I’ve showed up in. Thing is I borrowed, no, I begged, the missus for her car because I sold mine and I’m currently a beggar. Driving a Vitz, I can tell you for free, is a daunting endeavor for a man. I’m in the process of crafting a story about the Vitz, the only car that has managed to distinctly define sexuality. I can already feel the avalanche of wrathful emails from women even before I write my intro.
Anyway the party is sort of snobbish, sort of highbrow. A uniformed hostess steers through the seats with a tray full of pieces of pizza and fish fingers. The outdoor bar is full of drinks. Business cards get swopped. I’m sharing a bottle of Famous Grouse with this guy with a beard that I suspect hides a variety of wild animals. He constantly strokes this beard, and I’m on the look out to see a squirrel jump out of it at any point. Or a Chimpanzee, you can never believe what a bushy beard can hide. He tells me he works as an Engineer, an IT support something something with some Multinational company I’ve never heard of. He drives an Audi (his car keys are on the table). He’s like 38yrs old – not counting that beard’s age. He is not married, but seeing someone (“I hate hanging out with her because when I’m with her I have to act like someone I’m not.” He told me) He probably makes something like 250k a month so he’s doing well, better than me and that guy cross the table mixing his Vodka with orange juice.
Here is the rub. At some point this guy here realizes that I have been asking all the questions about his life and so he asks me what I do. I tell him I’m a writer. He looks skeptical and asks what else I do. I tell him that’s all I do -at least during the day. Hehehe, OK, I didn’t add that last part. He asks me if it’s easy, I tell him some months are rough, others are great. Like some annoying friend of mine called Kagame he asks me why I can’t get a real job and I tell him I don’t want just any real job because it will kill my soul. It’s happened before.
I tell him the story I tell people grappling with career identity, how I trained as a medical laboratory science technologist for four years and worked for a year in a hospital lab and how bloody miserable and unfulfilled I was. How at night I stayed up late writing grim poetry in a dog-eared exercise book so that I could have the heart to take shit from patients the next day. And I mean shit literally, you know, to test for amoeba and cysts and all that jazz. And how I shocked my parents and boss (that heartless eejit) by calling it in, how I quit and went back to Uni do what my heart always wanted; journalism. And how I have never been happier. I gave him that whole spiel and when I’m in my element (helped by booze mostly) I can really go off. I get a bit dramatic and I tell a story like it’s the only good story you will ever hear in your life. He sat there like he had just rubbed a lamp and a genie came out. I had touched him, I could tell. The Zulu touch, it’s like being touched with the tip of a spear…OK, I will stop.
Thing is I was his Eureka moment. Turned out he was miserable, turned out his life was dull, turned out he has always wanted to work as an illustrator because he says he can really draw, portraits, landscape, storyboards, cartoons. I guess that explained the beard. It’s amazing how people look together until you scratch the surface and you meet all these insecurities and happiness. I told him to do something about it. I told him that if he ever wanted to start over this was the time. And I added that the beard was a good start. He laughed. We exchanged numbers and I moved onto the table with this girl who looked familiar. Thankfully she didn’t have a beard.
There are many guys out there who go through life doing things they don’t enjoy. Guys in jobs they don’t love. They wake up and their days look like a long barren land full of angst and emptiness. An oxymoron. Guys caught in a rut. It’s disheartening. Then there are guys who do what they do not because it pays the world, but because it’s what they love to do. Today I tip my heart to some of these people some of whom I know personally.
Pinklakeman Lodge
You might know Macharia. He used to run the campers site off Mara road in Upper Hill, then later the small quaint bar on top of the supermarket at Valley Arcade. I’ve known Macha for many years now. I’ve written about his lodge when it only had three cottages. I’ve write about Pinklakeman Lodge in any publication of note in this country. I have written about the lodge because it one of the places I truly believe the gods of silence lives. It’s small, it’s charming, its cottages made from old wood, it’s little patios from where you can admire Lake Elementaita 100meters away, it’s Edward the chef who will whip you a sound meal and the breakfast which you will enjoy from safari chairs at the edge of the lake. A place framed by the famous sleeping Moran hill and the hot springs from where lovers can dip at night, get drunk and make love under the African sky. It’s the silence that befriends your heart.
I’ve always written about this lodge because Macharia – apart from being all so gracious – is a guy who really believes in what he does. A guy who loves what he does and this is a guy who needs all the help he can get because he is a reflection of me and you, you hustlers who want to get ahead doing what they love doing. I’m not receiving a dime for this endorsement but visit Pinklakeman Lodge and if you get disappointed I will write a 300 word apology here. www.pinklakeman.com
Charles, Caribana Bar
All cool guys sit at the bar counter. I have ambitions of being a cool guy so normally I sit at the bar counter wherever I go. And Caribana – along Lenana road – has a sexy bar. Bars in this city are a dime a dozen, but there aren’t many decent barmen worth talking about. I like Caribana because of three reasons, one; although it’s not cheap it’s a decent mature and laid back place. Two, because one night one of the owners – ignorant as to what I did for a living – looked for a seat for me. As in he went out of his way to find me a seat, we talking about the owner here. I never forget such acts of service. And lastly, and most importantly Charles, the barman.
A good barman tries to remember your name, but if he can’t at least he should remember your drink. A good barman smiles and acts interested in what you have to say, even if it’s bullshit. A good barman never flirts with your woman. And Charles is a fine damn barman, and why not he’s been at it for 30yrs. Charles is quick on his feet, is easy to humor and always wears a broad smile. Plus he never lets you ask for a refill. Never. I hail from Nyanza, and he hails from Gatanga. You know the politics of the day. And yet you should hear Charles delicately skirt around politics afraid of saying something politically offensive to me, not knowing that I don’t care a rat’s fanny about politics. And he does his job like there I nothing else he would rather do. I like Charles, so much that I knighted him. I call him Sir Charles. He loves that name. For two years I reviewed bars and I met many many barmen but believe me when I say my good man Sir Charles is one of the finest barmen in Nairobi and you can take that to the bank.
Lolani Kalu
Traditionally in my culture it was improper for men to go back home in the evening before the chicken got in the hut. Only women and children were allowed that act. A real man walked in later. I think my ancestors foresaw the usefulness of this little rule in modern time in order for us not to watch the 7pm news because really it’s hard to watch Swahili news with all that jargon and gobbledygook.
But thankfully there is Lolani Kalu. This guy is not only saving the 7pm news, he’s saving reporting. Put a television camera before anyone then ask them questions and you will see them literally talk to the camera. You will see them play to the gallery. Now watch a Lolani Kalu interview, he makes cameras nonsexist because people talk to him. He makes interviewees comfortable. I once watched him interview some guy from Luhya land while they sprawled on this huge rock, like they were just grazing cattle and catching up. Like he was never coming back to Nairobi. He makes people at ease and you can tell he enjoys doing his stories, you can see it comes from a place in him that happiness lives. And he’s absolutely funny, his reporting sounds like a storytelling.
The last time I saw him on TV he was closing this story, and he had taken this real ugly dog and placed it on this wall fence he was standing next to. Now at some point he turned to this dog, playfully ruffled its mangy head and told it something in that drawled tone and you could tell that the dog was never going to forget those 15minutes of fame. You can tell the dog was never going to comb its hair again. You could tell that the ugly dog had become an instant celebrity and would never ever have problems getting a bitch in that village.
But seriously, if ever I’m going to watch Swahili news at 7pm I’d rather watch this guy. He’s different.
Eric Omondi
It’s hard to tell a joke. It’s even harder to tell a good joke. And to tell a good joke in a borrowed platform – a platform that belongs to a bigger comedian – is an impressive feat. To stand before people – before a nation – waiting to laugh is undoubtedly the epitome of pressure. And I’m going to say something contentious here; there is a relation with body fat and humor. The skinniest comedians are the funniest. There, I said it. Look around.
There are comedians who herd you towards a punch line, then there are those who let you find it on your own through their narrative. Eric is in the latter group. And Eric is one of the funniest comedians to watch, mark my words, this guy will be huge if he continues with what he’s doing…to his hair. Hahaha, (What good is writing a piece about comedy if I can’t take a stab at humor myself?)
Eric’s jokes are thought out. They aren’t cheesy. They resonate. When he comes on stage you don’t feel like he’s going to tell a joke, it feels like he’s going to give you some vibe, like y’all just shooting the breeze. Then you laugh, hard, and you realize the genius of this guy. I read his story in the newspaper on Saturday, his struggles to finish campus, his struggles with his art, and it made me more convinced of his impending greatness.
But perhaps the most important thing about comedy is that a good comedian is one you are willing to forgive for jokes that hit a brick wall. Take last week’s Churchill, which I watched from a bar to patrons who sat up in their seats when Eric came on stage complete with his new retro look.
But on this show he committed a mortal sin. He repeated an internet joke. That joke of the Kikuyu, Luo and Luhya. I’ve read that joke before and when he started I sort of sunk lower in my seat. But I realized that the true test of comedy is not even how funny the joke is but how they tell that joke. And Eric told that joke well. I laughed and I forgave him for being lazy.
With Eric you laugh at his dialogue, you laugh at his jokes, you laugh by him just standing there. That in itself prepares you for a laugh. And most importantly you laugh at his super thin legs. I mean what good is comedy if we can’t laugh at a comedian’s super thin legs?
John Kaveke
Clothes maketh the man. I truly believe that. So should you. A man should own a pair or two of pants that hang right, pants that fit right. Pants that hold the crotch right. Why? Because a good pair of pant says something about you as a man. And no, it doesn’t necessarily say you respect your crotch. Hehehe. Ahem. Few years ago I was invited to attend this glitzy award ceremony out of the country and I needed a swanky fitting suit. So I went to Kaveke bearing copy of Esquire magazine US (the finest mag in the world) and I pointed at a picture of Lebron James in a dapper black suit and said “I want to look like this guy.” Of course I’m sure he was tempted to retort, “Not with your nose, you won’t.” But he didn’t. But he made me a damned good suit. I have since gone back twice.
He had a shop in Westlands then but he moved. Now he is at the deserted compound of the former Hillcrest college along State House road. Go there if you need an outfit done. It’s a large room with one grey sofa. It’s a room with large windows and no curtains. It’s a room with a huge heavy iron box that must be about 50yrs old, and thimble and pieces of material and magazines scattered about. His hired helped gingerly steps on a sewing machine at a corner telling a story about hems and seams with his foot. This in itself is a story about vanity. Rhumba trickles from a silver radio plugged to a wall socket, Milele FM. There Kaveke will run his tape measure down your body. There he will ask you questions and jot details on his small notebook. There he will make you look like anyone you want to look like.
But what good is a good suit if you don’t get it when you need it? Kaveke will tell you that that’s a suit that’s no good. Neither is the tailor.
So go and get a good suit. A suit that fits well because a good suit makes you feel like a winner. A good suit makes you feel hopeful and positive. It makes you feel like the world – and its children – owes you an apology, and rightfully so, damn it!
And nobody understands a good suit better than Kaveke.