Jaguar

Ian Callum. Heard of him? He is Jaguar’s Design Director. He’s the chap who draws those cars. Callum describes the Jaguar as – wait for this – the “optimum expression of metal.” Turn that over in your mouth. Savour it. Taste the wit, marinate on it. “The optimum expression of metal.” Don’t you just love that? In essence what Callum is saying, is that metal has done many an amazing thing over time, but nothing as extraordinary as what it has done with the Jaguar. Beautiful words to describe a beautiful car. Ralph Lauren sale UK Ralph Lauren Outlet sale But hold up. To describe a Jaguar with as mainstream a word

as “beautiful” is to undermine your own grasp of vocabulary. Jaguars aren’t beautiful. Sunsets are beautiful. Kittens are beautiful. Jaguars are much, much more. Jaguars are demanding of a better adjective. For the past few days I have been rolling around in the Jaguar XF like a kingpin. Like a Liberian warlord. Like a Niger Delta oil tycoon. You might have seen me on the road, acting like I’m the shit. Acting like I have the whole world at my pedal. Navigating that beast, through Nairobi’s pasta-traffic. Acting Ralph Lauren sale all accomplished. Looking “removed” from the mediocrity of the road. Distancing myself from the riffraff of the road; the hobos who want to cut you off, the yobs who want to race you out. That’s what a Jaguar does to you. It injects elegance into you. It forces you into character. A better character. The Jaguar XF is truly a breathless car. Ralph Lauren uk sale Ralph Lauren There are many unique features of the Jaguar XF which make this car, the alpha car of luxury cars in its range. Because a Jaguar stands for more than just machinery, to start it you won’t need a key. Keys are for vehicles that transport cattle. There is a start/stop button for that. It pulses in red, as if it’s connected directly to the very heart of this car. When you push the button, the beast stirs awake, the 3.0-litre engine purring confidently beneath you. There is no gear stick. Gear sticks are so 1987, this is 2014 baby. What they have is called a drive selector, like a rotary thingybob, which you twist to the desired gear. If you wave your hand over the glove box, which of course is a touch screen, the overhead lights are dimmed. There is a Sat Nav system, but if you try punching in Karumaindo it will definitely show an error. If you try again, the engine might die. For the ladies who struggle with reverse parking, there are rear parking sensors and blind-spot indicators. You’d have to be reversing in your sleep to prang into something. You know how at the roundabouts you meet those morons who learnt how to drive on football pitches at Sagana, the ones who will eat into your lane? When that happens the Jaguar will warn you on the screen, giving you enough time to direct the car away. If it’s cold you can heat the seats up; it gives the expression “fire under your ass” a whole new meaning. Even your steering wheel gets warm. There is of course Bluetooth enabling, audio connectivity and an iPod interface. Naturally, it has cruise control and big-ass breaks if you need to stop when a cow suddenly crosses the road before you at Mavoko. The interior is classy and uncluttered. And because it’s a 3.0litre nobody will catch you on the road. I mean nobody. But if by some miracle someone does, they won’t overtake you, they will just stare agape. In fact, of all the amazing features of this car that blew me away, none surprised me as much as the reaction the Jaguar elicited. They stared. Everybody stared. I will say this definite statement; not everybody will love the Jaguar but everybody will notice the Jaguar. You can’t say you didn’t notice a Jaguar, even if you didn’t know it was a Jaguar. There is a certain sophisticated presence that the Jaguar carries around. If you seek anonymity, don’t buy a Jaguar. Everywhere you go people will look. Passengers turned around in their seats to stare. Children pointed. Grown men in much bigger cars ogled. Watchmen saluted. Parking lots materialised from nowhere. The young and the old were united in this optical festival. Cars full of girls giggled salaciously. A few motorists hooted. Matatu drivers gawped. And the looks were all different. There were looks of awe. Of bewilderment. Of envy. Of jealousy. Of love. Of admiration. But I stared ahead. When you are in the Jaguar you don’t stare at other motorists staring at you. You remain (act?) oblivious. Curiously I have always likened cars to women, but with the Jaguar I didn’t feel like it was a woman. It felt masculine. Strong. Decisive. Fast. Fearless. Accomplished. But more importantly, cultured. There is a certain finesse about the Jaguar. The Jaguar is that guy with a bowtie, sitting in a jazz bar, sipping expensive brandy. And it elevates you, the Jaguar. It dictates your conduct. You can’t be a ratchet in a Jaguar. You can’t carry a ratchet in a Jaguar. With the Jaguar you just have to upgrade your character; you have to acquire some culture. You can’t show a finger to other motorists when you are in a Jaguar. You have to get off the middle of the road. Which means you can’t be that guy who winks at women, or ogles at them, or asks for their number in traffic. When you are in a Jaguar you have to intentionally make it a point not to acknowledge women in traffic. But if your eyes meet with another man’s in traffic, you can offer a small officious nod. Don’t worry; everybody nods back at the Jag driver. When you are in a Jaguar, you are a gentleman, in conduct and in thought. You are an esquire. The car demands more from you as a man but even more as a human being. Now I will talk about girls and this car. Or rather how girls respond to this car. I’ve always wondered why niggas with posh cars get their foot in the door with hot mamis faster than guys with kawaida cars like us. It’s not because they are smoother, or more chivalrous, or have better-looking foreheads, it’s because their cars do half the work for them. I mean, if I fork out over 5million bob for a car, the least I would expect it to do is toast me a veggie sandwich for crying out loud. Brown bread please, thank you, Jaguar. The few days I have driven this car, men have stared. Yes. But the men stared at the car mostly, and when they stared at me, it was only to confirm what kind of guy drives this kind of car. But the women stared differently. Tons of them. All age groups. Didn’t even pretend to steal glances, I saw them from the corner of my eye, staring hard. Sometimes I’d turn and I’d meet that look. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t a come-on. It was intrigue. They had that look of – who are you? Let me tell you a true story – no garnish. One morning as I drove out of my estate, sorry, residence, I saw this girl walking to the stage. Good looking girl. Red heels. Black stockings. A laptop bag. She looked like one of those chicks at Mercury ABC who might accept your drink but will never give you their number. Come on, you know them. So I put the Jaguar to the test because I had nothing to lose. I crawled the Jaguar next to her, rolled down the window, and said verbatim, “Hey, I’m headed to Westlands, going my way?” I was a hundred percent certain she was going to say, “No, thanks,” instead she gave the car a quick lazy – but appreciative – look, turned her head to me and said, still while walking, “How do I know you won’t abduct me and steal my organs?” “You don’t.” I said. She jumped in the car. Another experiment. I did the same thing to this guy of about 25, same road in the estate. “Boss, jump in, let me give you a ride,” I said, without it sounding like I was hitting on him. He didn’t wonder if I would abduct him and harvest his organs, he jumped in and after soundlessly looking at the interior asked me what I did for a living. “I’m a journalist,” I said and he turned sharply to see if I was joking. The missus, normally unmoved by most things, accepted that this car was something. In traffic over the weekend, she saw first hand a bunch of mamis in the car adjacent to us giggling and literally staring at me. She rolled her eyes and murmured, “Why do some chicks behave like that?” And I said, “Where? What chicks?” Hehe. Even Tamms was completely awed. She wanted a ride, so on Saturday morning I opened the passenger door for her, because she is my princess, but also because the car door is heavy. Hehe. And just as she was about to step in, I said “First you have to remove your shoes Tamms,” and she turned and looked at me with confusion. “It’s a joke,” I smiled. She didn’t smile back. I went to KWS headquarters for a meeting, and a bus full of school kids from a school in Kale-land (the bus had a name like Kiptuny Primary School. Si that’s Kale?) all crowded to one side of the bus to stare down at the Jag, squealing and wowing. I can picture those kids back in class being asked by the teacher: “Which animals did you guys see at the orphanage? Yes, Kipchoge?” “A giraffe.” “Yes, Sungut?” “A buffalo?” “Good. Yes, Chelimo?” “A Chakua” “There are no Chakuas in Africa, Chelimo.” “But teacher I saw, a white Chakua.” “Tont argue with me Chelimo!” The Jaguar doesn’t leave you the same. I realised that when I (reluctantly) returned it back to RMA Group. It reminded me of those mothers who drop off their child in nursery school for the first time, hand the tots over fast and then turn away quickly, because they are afraid to break down in tears. Sanjiv, the top honcho of RMA Group, asked me what I thought of the car and I told him, “That car hasn’t left me the same. It has shifted something in me. I don’t know what, but there is a shift.” I have a pal who owns the Mercedes E350. Once in a while I will borrow it. Awesome machine. Big fan of Mercs. I have driven the Range Rover Sport once, from Kericho to Nairobi, very memorable. I have driven the Range Evoque in Zambia and The Discovery 2014 in Botswana’s Okavango Delta. All phenomenal cars. But none left me feeling abandoned, segregated and as castaway as the Jaguar. The Jaguar made me feel that I was missing out on something. That I have been missing out on something. The Jaguar embodies something spiritual. I promise you this, you drive a Jaguar and you are just never the same again. It’s like being kissed by a mermaid. “Jaguars should be perceived as cool cars and cool cars attract interesting edgy people.” Ian Callum.

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