They stagger out of the International Arrivals like extras in the TV series The Walking Dead. They’re knackered, bleary-eyed, haggard and dejected. They nonchalantly drag their suitcases behind them like cavemen dragging home their dead dinner. Some have swollen feet but most have swollen eyes. The smarter ones walk out of the plane smashed. Very few sport smiles and when they do they’re stretched like latex.
However, when they are disgorged through the Arrivals they fall into the warm embrace of the waiting loved ones, the warmest and most genuine thing they’ve had for ages because really the West is cold, colder than the tuna sandwiches they serve in Economy.
But not all find embraces waiting for them. Some find cab guys waiting. Or some cargo-panted chap in a corny safari hat (like the one Mufasa chewed in Borana) waiting with a name scrawled on a miserable cardboard. “Jambo, Karibu Kenya,” they will quip gaily to which the guest will chime the only Swahili they know: “Hakuna matara!”
I was recently at Arrivals at 2am, sipping hot milk from a Styrofoam cup, watching and waiting for the guy I was to pick to walk out. A tide of passengers waltzed through the Arrivals. Most were unmemorable, a part of a humanity that wore almost the same clothing (warm) and dragged the same suitcases (bulky). But some stood out.
There was the odiero with a brown beard who walked out in his brand new Timberlands hiking boots because – perhaps – he heard Africa is a jungle and figured his fancy shoes would protect him from the bite of a black mamba. There was the Chinese guy who I could have sworn was sleep walking but who, on closer inspection, was perhaps only asking God to help him not knock up a Waithera along Thika Road. There was the old odiero couple: the man –stooping with age – dragged a huge suitcase the size of a Nissan March with one hand and held his woman’s hand with the other. They cast a tender picture; a candle that has burnt the whole night but still refuses to die out. Old love, always tickles your heart.
There was the yahoo-looking Caucasian, the kind of chap you will most likely find checking in 680 Hotel with a woman with too much lipstick and not too much clothing. And the hotshot businessman who looked sort of fresh because perhaps his blue chip employer put him in Business where they serve sardines and give you a neck massage before they turn your seat into a bed.
There was the poor middle-aged man who started crying as soon as he saw his family members – a sombre band of 12 or so people. They all embraced and he cried uncontrollably in the arms of an ageing lady. Death in the family I suspected. I looked away. There was the trendy girl in leather boots and fitting jeans and earphones dangling around her neck. The gung-ho guy who received her lifted her off the ground in a bear hug and she wrapped her slender legs around his waist and then proceeding to eat his lips. Everyone stared…especially the Chinese guy. But the ones who broke my heart were the ones who were received by a handshake. There is something very glum with coming back home and all you get is a handshake
The guy I was picking up- a Ugandan – walked out. It was his first time in Kenya, in Nairobi, and he was going to stay around for a few days before he uses the bus to cross over to Kampala. In the car he asked me, “What is so special about Nairobi?”
“Certainly not much at 2am.” I said, “But it also depends on what you looking for.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m looking to see the heart of the city.”
Nairobi doesn’t have a heart; the heart long got buried in the garbage, the politics and the class system. The place that the heart once lived now is a black hole filled with something that resembles optimism. But the true heart of the city belongs to those who live in it. We are unique because we have a unique gift of being aware of our positions in the food chain. The few who forget their place in the food chain end up chasing their tails until they are swallowed whole by hopelessness
If you are looking for the kind of fun you have left in New Jersey, I told him, you could let the sun go down and then head to Junction where black adopted kids are like Louis Vuiton bags. Avoid Gigiri too, if you looking for authenticity. If you want to feel the pulse of the city you have to avoid the places that have been over-diluted by foreign culture. Just before Nyayo Stadium he sticks a cigarette in his lips and I tell him, “No smoking in my car,” and he laughs and says, “oh crap, this is no way to welcome a foreigner!” to which I say, “You aren’t a foreigner, you are Ugandan.
Foreigners. Hmm. Here is a general rule I tell any foreigner who say they want to experience Nairobi; avoid places with people who wear their image on their sleeves. Get onto a matatu because nothing says Nairobi better than a matatu. It’s the cultural barometer of the city.
By all means, visit Kimathi Street at night, never mind that half of it has been taken by bars that have been taken over by gays and the other half by folk who just want the shilling to count for the night. Catch a movie at 20th century if you can stand the general rot of the place. If you can stand the bad Dolby surround. But if you can’t, do what we all do; get the latest movie for 50bob from those hacks who make their bacon selling DVDs. It’s the Nairobi way.
Go to River Road during the day, it’s safe as long as your face is isn’t white. There, you will hear the cogs of the economy move. There, you will feel the backs of a people break from hard work and from ingenuity. There small time hoods and puritans break bread. Further down is Kirinyaga Road, where strangers are easily picked out, sold out by their shined shoes. And you will find a few strangers there, looking for wheel caps or car emblems for their German cars at half price. The bottom line there is the shilling and it’s the only voice. Pass by Ngara – with your windows rolled up – and head into Parklands, teeming with Asians who drive Vitz that have been pimped up to look like spaceships. Grab a shawarma at Diamond Plaza.
Then there is Westlands. Westlands is like a decent woman who when dusk falls changes into her shiny garb, loses her knickers and quickly transforms into a hooker. Apart from the fact that it’s been taken over by a band of kids experimenting with drugs and oral sex in their fathers’ cars, Westlands by night resembles a fish market in Guangzhou. But by all means nip into one of the handful bars where it’s trendy to stand on the pavement with your drink. Those bars might incite nostalgia in you.
Turn the head of the vehicle and head to Hurlighum. There is Tamasha and Guava, the landmarks of the area. The music is great but you won’t enjoy it if you leave your drink unattended while you use the little boy’s room. You will wake up in a trench. Across is Sailors that has turned into a den of riff raffs, avoid it. But if you have to go, go for the music. Avoid Karen as well. Too mzungu. Go to Carnivore, for the ostrich balls delicacy. I don’t know whether folk still go to Rafikiz or Pysys, but if you have to leave Langata Road early, the roads get mad in the small hours of the morning. In fact, leave anywhere early enough, before the roads are taken over by drunks. Avoid Mombasa Road at night; it’s the valley of death. By all means, pay homage at Njuguna’s bar along Waiyaki Way, it’s classless and ageless.
I told my Ugandan friend that whatever he does, he should nip into a Kenchic. Very few things speak to the soul of the city like Kenchic. Nothing is undeniably Nairobian like walking into a Kenchic at 1am; a bit wobbly in the knees and light in the head and ordering half chicken and some greasy fries and eating it straight from the wrapping paper. And the thing is that at that time, the people you meet at Kenchic at that time are usually wasted. Here is how Kenchic brings people together. I once stopped by the Kenchic in Westlands on my way home as sometimes I do because chicken and chips seems to taste better when you have had a few.
I opened the wrapper and soaked my fries with vinegar and as I walked out this drunk and slightly tattily dressed lady who was walking in with her man (or her man for that night) sort of held my arm and said in slurred speech. “Sasa, we met at F3 last month.” I’d never seen her in my life and the last time I was in F3 was five years ago. But I was sort of tipsy and I was in the mood to lie and banter so I said, “Oh yeah, of course I remember you! How are you doing, you have lost weight!” (I don’t know why I said that because she looked sort of overweight). She perked up and cried, “Really?!” I nodded but then felt guilty I had said that. It was a dishonest and perhaps mean thing to say and it depressed me for about three seconds before her drunken man said something like, “I told you! You need to add some weight. What’s with the bones!” before lovingly wrapping his arms around her waist – or what was left of it.
Then he asked me, “Boss, utakula kuku?” and I said I already bought mine. But he insisted, and I said next time. These are total strangers, mark you. But the woman insisted and he told that Kuku guy who normally dips those helpless chickens in hot oil: “mfungie kuku moja,” and he dragged his giggly woman away to fatten her for his very selfish needs. That night I went home with one and half chicken, the most chicken I have ever carried at 1am.
That can only be a Kenyan story. Is a banter between three inebriated folk at 1am at Kenchic typically Nairobian? It is to me. What’s says Nairobi to you? My Ugandan friend needs to find the heart of Nairobi. Help him, Gang.