I like Joe Black. I really do. He’s something of a prodigy. I sometimes email him and ask, “Joe, how’s it going?” And he will go to a cyber, somewhere deep in the slums of Majengo in Kitui and reply my mail with some very long prose, updating me on what’s been going on with him. Joe’s emails are sacred. I often read them more than twice. He has a brilliant mind and a fantastic turn of phrase. And he’s genuinely an interesting kid.
Then I thought to myself, how about I make Joe Black a constant writer here? If I enjoy his emails that much, won’t the Gang? I bounced that idea off his navy blue face and he said sure, that sounds like fun. Only problem is that he has no laptop and to write he has to go and haunch over a 1976 monitor in some hot cyber, with half of Majengo reading his emails over his shoulder.
So I called Ms. Lilian Nganda over at Microsoft and asked her if they have some brand new laptop that nobody is using over at the shop that we can give this boy and Ms Nganda said, “Acha I look around and see what I can do.” When Ms. Nganda says “Let me see what I can do,” I always consider it done.
And do she did. They will be shipping a brand new laptop to Kitui for Joe Black to post remotely from Majengo. I think he will kill it.
Thanks Lilian and thank you Microsoft.
Gang, remember Joe Black?
Joe, karibu tena.
***
You are at Majengo, right? Let’s say it’s your first time and you are just a missionary looking to spread the gospel. Or maybe you are a salesman- the ones with bad teeth and heavy accents, not the slick ones- seeking to find market for your male enhancing drugs.
Chances are, you’ll trudge down the main road disinterestedly and when you see a fancy resort on your left, Reflections Resort, you’ll immediately feel thirsty and want to pop in for a cold one. Well, don’t. Not just yet. The journey will have tired you and your throat will be feeling parched, crackled like a sun dried tobacco leaf but walk on a little bit further; past the kibandas and gossipy mama mbogas, past the clustered stone houses around and the kids playing under their canopies, past the heat and the dust and the lust till you see a dilapidated water selling kiosk. There will be a cranky, old mzee called Kimwele selling the water and accusing every customer of having stolen from him or harbouring an intent to do so. You might hear some foul language but don’t let it deter you. Not even when he tells the downtrodden residents to go ” fetch the water that flows down their mothers’ cracks.” and acts as if he is finally tired of their pilfering and is never going to sell them water again “even if they came with the government on their backs.” Or till Kingdom come. They are just empty threats. The general agreement is that he won’t be around to see it.
They won’t be moved. And neither should you. They will hang by with their jerry cans and wait for Kimwele’s tantrums to run its course, fetch their water and get back to their hovels with forty litres on their backs. Do you know how far you could walk with forty litres on your back? It is safe to assume you wouldn’t make it past mid-life crisis. Kimwele will keep ranting. Nobody minds him anymore. It is common knowledge that he used to be a renown peddler in his heyday- a true Pablo Escobar of his time- and it is just all the blunts he deadened in his youth haunting him, messing up with his faculties.
Climb on the hilly path past Kimwele’s kiosk and sandwiched between it and his residence, look at the dusty expanse that is Majengo. Really look at it. Take it all in. Like the first sip of aged whiskey, let it permeate your jaws and gums, feel the fiery liquid sting your teeth and resist the temptation to swallow quick. Savour it.
As far as estate names go, Majengo is the commonest one I daresay. There is a Majengo in Kitui, Nyeri, Mombasa, Nairobi. Hell, there could be a Majengo in Paraguay for all I know. I don’t know why these places are called Majengo? Does anyone? It’s not that they have that many buildings, no? But there is an image associated with all the Majengos. A stereotype. For instance, when you hear about the Majengo in Nyeri, don’t you immediately picture a roughed up residential area with more drinking dens than houses? Its pubs full of drunken men with colourfully checked shirts and hats boasting to each other how they aren’t bossed around by their wives, how they slap her around if she dares question them. Don’t you see the same men sauntering and slouching by the alleys in the evening, struggling to beat the curfew because if they don’t, the curfew(read wife) is going to beat them up proper?
But I am sure the Majengo in Nyeri is a fine place full of sober men of the soil who shun devil’s piss and have progressive support groups where they talk about, and occasionally, swap hats. Their wives are sweet things who keep to their businesses and mind their warus. They just don’t like a man who prefers the bottle to them. Such a man is made to understand that family comes first and when he does not conform, the farm tools, the pangas used to trim the warus, come into play and when it does, the men hastily see the point (see that?).
But before you travel to Majengo, let me tell you how I got here because the last time I checked in- if you’ll recall- I was down at the Coast, shooting breeze and soaking up the sun, with weather-beaten fishermen and waves for company. I was brooding over my results and feeling robbed by KNEC.
Well, I’ll let you know that I didn’t sit my ass in the sand all day. I got a call from my boy, Kajembe, who listened to my sob story, bore my expletives patiently and later bought me a drink (not mnazi). He went on to explain to me, in detail, what a sick system we had and how the rot was slowly permeating into all aspects of jamii. He went into this frenzy, that caught me in its fervour and all worked up and fueled by the devil’s piss, we went daggers at KNEC, TSC, KPLC and every other corporation we could think of so that by the time we were on SRC, Kajembe had broken down and was crying bitterly. Seeing as I wasn’t that inebriated, the onus (hehe) of sobering him up fell upon me. A feat that took a lot of cajoling, threatening, cursing and finally resorting to assuring him of my eternal support in fighting against the system.
“Yeah, man. We’ll go to courts, we’ll occupy Tom Mboya. No, we won’t be chanting ‘ my system, my choice’. Of course, we’ll recruit the gang,” I would intone.
A hangover and a couple of pills later, I pondered on the results, called up my consigliere and we decided to go to the mattresses (If you are a chic and you get this, you are the real MVP). We went heads on with KNEC and demanded a remarking. Of course, I let it be known that it was not personal, just business. But the blighters beat me at my own game, taking their sweet time with the remarking so that by the time they released the results in mid-September, I had long shed my ire and KNEC’s spot in my bad books had been replaced by the long queue at the bus terminus among other hindrances which Nairobi bore in abundance.
A few days later, after the ‘ Hat in Hand’ article, I got a call from Nairobi. The good peeps at the Insyder, a teen magazine, had followed my work and wanted me to write for them, could I avail myself for an interview at 8:00 Am Monday? I said I would. It was Saturday. I packed my bags real quick, electrified at the prospect of working, putting down pen on paper and having my work read by a thousand teens. Mum took me all the way to the bus and waved me away.
Like every other high school student, I had wanted to appear on the Insyder. You have to know that the magazine really is a big deal with high school students. Owning it and smuggling it to school was a preserve of the cool crowd. It was OUR magazine and we viewed the schools that were featured on it with a tinge of envy, having long came to the conclusion that we were too remote to even deserve a mention in the esteemed publication.
Once, some guys were caught by the lens prowling the streets and when their pic was featured in the Back to School category, they were elevated to the status of demi-gods. They walked on their own, feeling superior to the rest whose faces were not grand enough to be featured in the Insyder. One of them, Johnnie, carried a cut-out of the page and would use it to earn brownie points with chics telling them how the cameramen had been impressed by him and had vowed to use him as a model for other shoots once he was done with schooling. The chics would fall over their faces and suck up to Johnnie, the male model, Insyder’s darling boy while we watched and grew jealous of the smooth lying blighter, knowing damn well that the only shoot Johnnie would ever pose for would be a mug shot.
Sunday found me in Nai. The journey had been tiring and my shoulder was inflamed because the lady I had been seated next to had preferred to lean on me- all pounds and ounces of her- and I didn’t have the heart, or the strength, to push her away. I spend the day clipping my nails and having my hair done. Tidying up my act and working on my speech in front of the bathroom mirror which made my Auntie curious as to why I was spending so much time in the john. I finally pieced it together when she took her shampoo off the bathroom shelf.
On Monday, I was jittery and all nerves, dreading the ordeal ahead of me and wishing I hadn’t listened to teachers and Google, both of whom make interviews seem like near death experiences, where you have to be on your guard all the time lest the interviewers decide to throw you a curveball and you, in your utter unpreparedness, ride on it, all the way out of prospective employment. I found myself at the Teenwise Media Limited offices, seated in the conference hall, nervous as a woman of the night in church but my jumpiness gradually gave way to confidence as the interview progressed and as I stepped out onto the streets of Kileleshwa leafy suburb, I had the job. You should have seen me, prancing down the alleys like a moran that had come back to his manyatta with a lion’s head slung across his back, ready to start a family.
Nothing had prepared me for the corporate world. Nothing at all. Straight off the corridors of high school, where we were all arrogant, horny jerks, I was thrust into this other world where decorum ruled and pristine suits were the order of the day. My first day at the office was a fiasco. No one knew me save for the design guy Elias and his proclamations of me being a fantastic writer did not elicit the wowed response he thought it would and he resorted to label the rest of the office as an ignorant lot with no interest in affairs beyond their Instagram. It felt like the first day in high school again. Only, I wasn’t surrounded by enthusiastic first timers like me but old hands, grown up people who were glued on their monitors, thinking of their rent and kids and diapers and side dishes and lifestyle diseases. I felt so alone. Gawky teenager caught in the web of adults and lost in the sea of weighty grown up issues. I, however, caught on real quick and within two weeks, I was already integrated into the job place and was cracking dirty jokes alongside everyone else.
The work was tough and plenty but I did not mind. I was averaging six articles daily and it felt good writing again. It was even better when I tackled a controversial issue and stirred an online debate among the teens. I recall when the strike fever was on and we were doing a series of investigative pieces on the cause of strikes in high schools. It was an issue I felt strongly about because I had been on the forefront of the revolution back in high school. I wrote about my wild highschool tales in this space, many thanks to Magunga (High School and Life Thereafter). My former school, the one I had been expelled from, had razed down a dormitory and it made big news among the locals because the school was not known for such rowdy behaviour. I had the time of my life penning the piece. In writer’s lingo, I flexed. Went all out and pointed out every reason why the seemingly well behaved students had burned down property and implicated the deputy and the principal very heavily in their rogue behaviour, piling most reasons reason for the strike on them.
Using my first hand experiences, I espoused on the wrongful expulsions and suspensions, the curtailed students’ freedom, the retention/detention and degradation of weak performers, poor handling of disciplinary cases. Hell, I even cited their choice of dress as inflammatory to the students. I closed it off with a strong recommendation that the school’s admin be immediately re-shuffled with a dire warning of unforeseen consequences if the two were retained. Then I properly signed it off with all my three official names so that if they read it, which I knew they would, they would have no misgivings as to who wrote the article. I posted it on Facebook, tagged the school, the principal and the deputy in their both personal and official accounts, the governor’s office, the alumni association, the Ministry of Education and every other education regulatory body I could think off then reclined on my seat.
Feeling like the king of England at the close of business, I went to Club Mist, overlooking Odeon, and downed three bottles of Tusker Malt. I drank to the look on their faces. I drank to the memories of them telling me I wouldn’t amount to anything in life. I drank to vindication. I drank to the turning of tables and when I was a little tipsy, on my way out, I tipped the waitress and proclaimed, tongue in cheek,’ A Munuve always pays his debts’.
Later on my way home, I felt bad about it and pulled it down, just as well, it had not attracted that much buzz.
The one thing that I took a long time adapting to was the female presence. Having attended boys only high schools for the past four years, I had virtually forgotten the decorum of handling myself in front of females. No one had mentioned the hot colleagues who sit next to you, ever so often smile at you and while strutting about, carry your gaze, and to an extent your life’s aspirations, along with them. There was one. Olive skin, a mix of deep browns and light shades of ebony, pretty face with just a smattering of pimples on the left cheek, pearly teeth- white as grace- and the best ass in all of Southern and Sub-Saharan Africa. She sat right in front of me and all the other guys were in consensus that I was a lucky bastard; view, line of sight et al. Before I got used to it, and that was quite some time, every time she stood up I’d entirely forget the storyline I was working on and would have to start over again; having been totally and irrevocably ass-struck. Folks, that ass could move mountains, it could bring a smile to your face even in the throes of a nuclear holocaust, it held the secret to inner peace, it was a sanctuary for lost souls, a confessional on which a million fantasies had been laid bare, it was the hope of a better tomorrow.
You couldn’t hit on her- not with that ass. Hit wasn’t the word for her. The word, rather the phrase, was knocking. Yes,knocking on heaven’s door.
Later, I came to know her well and discovered that she had a brain as impressive as her derriere and a personality warmer than her smile. Nevertheless, she still elicited sighs from a brother, reprehensible odes to an awe-inspiring marvel-ass.
As the months drew on, I would meet a lot of Kenyan celebrities, interview a horde of wannabe teenage rappers who believed their rhymes would take the world by storm, vain girls who wanted to be featured as WCWs or appear on the cover page, and youth entrepreneurs who had risen above many odds and were now rolling in cash. I would cover many events from prestigious unveilings at Sarit Centre, Sirville Lounge or Kempinsky to mundane high school functions at far flung corners of our nation. I would come to first meet Magunga at a Coke Studio recording, bored to death by all the fuss around Neyo and sulking at Anyiko for not replying to his emails ( it’s called curving old mate). He disappeared (probably off to score points with Anyiko) and I later found them with Ian Arunga, plotting on how they would call an Uber cab and I had to excuse myself from my moneyed blogger acquaintances and walk to Ngong road before the fares were hiked and hopefully be in town before their bloody Uber cab and for two thousand less. I would come to appreciate how much of a job writing really was and what working for an agency entailed. As my assigned tasks grew and grew, while my earnings remained steady, I grew too grumpy and slouched to work every morning depressed and exhausted, more so mentally. Felt like I was going through a midlife crisis.
I decided I needed a break, needed to see gramps and most definitely didn’t want to hang on a tight, tired edge all the time. I packed up and left for Kitui and that’s what you are doing in Majengo, above Kimwele’s water kiosk, taking in the view.
On November eleven ( I know, 11-11), it will be exactly three years since I came to this platform, under the invite of bikozulu who believed in my writing and was positive you, the Gang, would too. In those three years, my life has taken many turns I hadn’t thought of. My ambitions of being a writer were cemented, I found me the best readers in the world ( Le gang- a crowd that is thankfully devoid of robots), I found me a super mentor ( Chocolate man), I stumbled onto an immensely blessed sponsor, I finished my high school education, I did my final exam, I made new friends and met new people, I got a job, I got out of a job. It’s been and still is a journey.
The remarked results did not reflect much change, I went up a point to 59, B- but they gave me an A in English which was in order, there was no way they could have robbed me off that one I bet. I have applied for a Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Nairobi which I have a hunch I’ll be accepted into. Gramps disposed off some land to the government and, bless him, allocated the proceeds for my campus education. They will cater for my first year at the campus and I’ll have to look for more as I go on but that, at the moment, to quote Kamwana, is a non issue. My kind of plan is the one that I make up as I go on.
At 19, I haven’t learnt much. I am still as clueless about life, and women, as I was at 17. But, from my story and countless others, it has been evident that the world would be a dark and dreary place if we didn’t keep dreaming. Or as Chocolate Man says, if we didn’t “keep writing and feeding ourselves with words.”
Sorry I rambled this much; a forehead somewhere told me I’d Smartika na Airtel if I told long winded stories. Airtel, what say you? There is no single red car here in Majengo, make me famous!