Men touching their cars. That’s what the morning of the 52nd Africa Concours d’elegance felt like before the gates opened. It’s more of a caress but that’s a bit much. It sure felt like it though. With pieces of cloth in their hands, they rubbed, cleaned, and polished. Some sprayed their cars with car air fresheners. They brought their noses close to the bodies of their vehicles, so close they could see their reflection, and then they rubbed off stains other men couldn’t see. They occasionally stood back and admired their cars. Other men joined them in this fete of admiration, mostly in silence, in deep fellowship. Language seemed insufficient for this sacred moment. And when they spoke – strangers- they spoke in that special language only petrol heads understand.
“Is this the 18 Barker?
“Yep. 1951, Daimler DB.”
“Holy shit. She’s gorgeous.”
“Amen to that.”
[Pause]
“Drophead coupes, man… [Man shakes head] They get me.”
“I know, right?” [Man 2, arms akimbo]
[They stare]
“Wasn’t the chassis modified?”
“Yeah, it’s a DB 18. Much better upgrade, if you ask me.”
“Sweet.” [Man nods] “Just diabetic.”
These men can speak in acronyms the whole day: 1952 MGTD; 1922 Douglas 4H, 1915 Indian Model B. Sometimes you suspect they are just throwing letters and numbers about for shits and giggles. To confuse the rest of us.
I was there- Ngong Racecourse – early Sunday morning, at 7 am, before the gates officially opened, because I didn’t have nice clothes for the main blitz. When the clothes horses galloped in their floppy hats and knee-high boots, fanning themselves like aristocrats. It was a nippy morning; dew still on the grass et al. The vintage cars rolled in on flatbeds. Trumpeting motorbikes, the chrome on them gleaming, stampeded through the gates. The place smelled of men and machines. The event normally features 70 vehicles, 40 motorcycles, thousands of sunglasses, hats, and African-print pants.
Now, I’m no petrol-head. I’m on my fifth car but don’t remember naming any of my cars. I like my cars, I enjoy them, but I’d not run into a burning garage to save them. I don’t sit in garages when my car is getting fixed. I have it picked up and dropped off. Nor do I sit in car washes, if I can help it. But I appreciate a good-looking car; something clean and with a beautiful sound. I love cars with a deep growl. Something with curves, that swells and sinks in the right places. A car with a great ass. Note: the BMW X6 doesn’t have a great ass. The Porsche Cayenne does. I’d buy the Cayenne cocktail. I also love a car that smells good. Some people’s cars smell like an abattoir. I can’t stand a dirty car, it reflects the condition of your soul. One shouldn’t polish their shoes and get into a dirty car.
Anyway.
I chatted with some of the competitors about their cars and passion. Which means it was a conversation about love. This post is sponsored by Stanbic Bank, by the way, the co-sponsors of this year’s Concours D’elegance. They kept the lights on at the event and they are keeping the lights on here. These folks are doing the most. Oh, they finance motor vehicle asset financing with zero processing fees. And if you love vintage classic cars and are looking to invest in one, hit them up, they have a product for that. Also, they have a cool logo. I’d say this even if they weren’t paying for this.
Joshua Owundo.
Peugeot 504.
This Peugeot was a workhorse in its former life. If you check its palms you will find them to be callused and tough. It belonged to Ndima Tea Factory in Kirinyaga. It ferried tea and goods around the Mount Kenya region. Joshua’s pops worked as a banker in Kirinyaga, whose clientele included the factory. It was a great car; a strong body and a strong mind, but the work was brutal and it took a toll on her. When they decided to dispose of it, his father bought it and spruced it up. It became the family car. “We all have memories of being dropped off and picked up from school in it.”
It became more than just a car for him; it was a symbol of family. When he saw it, he saw his father, and it represented safety and guidance. “I loved cars from a young age,” he says. “I loved the sound of car engines.”
But then the car grew old and his dad wanted to sell it, but he had already fallen in love with it. How could he sell a family heirloom? This car was who they were. So he said, “Dad, give it to me.” Twelve years ago, after he sat his KCSE, his father said, “Here are the keys. She’s yours.”
To have your keys to your own car felt grown up. He felt that he had been entrusted with the keys to life. To take you back a little, when he was in class 7 Joshua had seen the Concours event announced in the newspaper. [He has the newspaper cut out]. And he had promised his dad he’d enter that competition.
“And so it’s surreal that I’m here today.” He says. It’s taken him four years to raise the vehicle to its current shape. “When I left for college I left it parked. Weeds grew around it. Rust ate at it. Then Covid happened and I thought, This is a great time to work on it. Which he did.
Over time he has poured his savings into the car. “I make three shillings, and I put one shilling in the car. Buying parts is expensive. Eventually, it all came together and when I drove it, it was worth all the sacrifice.”
He can’t believe that he is competing. It’s been fifteen years in the making. A childhood dream is unravelling.
“I couldn’t sleep last night. I have always attended this event as a spectator. When I come in I have always been directed to use the gate used by spectators, today I was directed to use the gate used by competitors. It feels like it’s happening to someone else.”
His father is coming. His two siblings are coming. People will come and see not only a car but a story of family.
“How does it feel to drive a vintage car like this?” I asked him.
“You get stopped by all the traffic cops,” he laughed. “Traffic cops stop all pickups.”
Rhys Mirindo.
1974 Austin Mini,
Home is where you park. That’s Rhys’ mantra in life. Major car lover. Intrepid outdoor enthusiast. Now bring the two together and you get freedom. Freedom is the sound of wind finding its way through the open window of a moving car. It’s finding a car that the world has given up on, something written off as scrap, and nurturing it to life. Freedom is believing in things that everybody has stopped believing in; the little things, like a dead engine coming to life. “Or a fire on a hill. Camping on a beach. The smell of engine oil on your hands. The sound of an old engine.” Rhys says.
He has loved cars for as long as he has known how to blink. His uncle, who he grew up with in South C had vintage classic Peugeots. His other uncle in Donholm had a neighbour with seven cars, “including some very nice classics. Cars stirred something in me.”
Here is his baby; the 1974 Austin Mini, popularly known as a Mini Cooper. “Tough labour of love. Three years of it.” Doing this, restoring an old car, is his poison. “This is what keeps me functioning. What makes me feel like a man.”
He’s been attending this event for the last ten years as a fan, and then the last three years as a support car to other friends in the VW Club which he is a member of. This year he decided to take a stab at it.
The car is called Aisha. “Aisha was a very dear person to me. A girlfriend that I used to have back in the day. And she unfortunately succumbed to a short illness about three years ago. Just when I was buying the shell. So in her memory, I dedicated the car to her .”
He installed a Subaru engine in the love of his life, the VW Combi. “The reason I put in a Subaru engine is because I travel a lot and I needed a reliable engine.” Rhys and his mates, the VW Club members, are campers. They live on the road. He has been in every corner of Kenya in the VW Combi except North-Eastern and Turkana.
“I’ve been to Kampala, Kigali, Dar es Salaam, Tanga, Mbea. We’ve been everywhere. A trusting companion in unfamiliar terrain of discovery.” A couple of years ago, his club did a great Tanzanian Odyssey with this baby. “We drove from Nairobi to Arusha, camped for two nights, crossed over to Moshi, camped by the foothills of Kilimanjaro for three nights. Oh, the views, man. Sunrise and sunsets were magical. Then we drove to Lushoto, 1800 ft above sea level, literally on top of the mountain. We camped on top of the mountain in the clouds. Very narrow roads, and very beautiful scenery. Then drove to Dar, camped by the beach for a week. Then moved to Tanga, camped by the beach again, drove to Diani, camped for four nights, and back to Nairobi. That was in 2022 before I knew my twins were coming. And when they came, reggae stopped temporarily, but now we’re back on.”
He always knew he was an outdoorsy person, since about 20 years ago. He was sure he couldn’t do an 8-5 job, so he got into sales because he loved meeting people. That’s what cultivated the culture of road trips, travelling, and camping. “Don’t wait for retirement to live the life you like. When your bones are hurting and you can’t run and you can’t hike and you can’t go to waterfalls and you can’t camp because you can’t stand a little cold. Do it when you’re young and when you’re energetic. You don’t need lots of money to do this, just find the will.”
But why a pink car?
“Pink is for brave men,” He says. “And I believe my daughter [he has twins under a year old] will love pink when she comes of age.” Fatherhood excited him because “I can’t wait to show my children what’s out here, what I’ve discovered. And I can’t wait for them now to discover more by themselves and come and tell me about their discoveries.”
Travelling and cars are my therapy. “Even before my partner came into my life, she complained about the travels that I do and I told her that this is my therapy. I don’t go to clubs, I don’t like drinking so much. This is what keeps me sane. So let me be.”
He loves the adventure of the journey, the trust he puts in his Combi, and knowing that even breaking down is part of the journey. He loves sitting by the camp staring at sunsets. “I wake up early not to ever miss a sunrise because it’s a promise of a new day, a new leaf. It’s life’s reminder that it’s offering you a chance to start all over again.”
His business
@nairobi_turfgrasss on IG
Kevit Desai.
Mercedes 450 SLC, 1974
If this Mercedes 450 SLC could speak, it would speak like Desai. He speaks with elegance of prose. Like he’s before an audience of many. He’s the former principal Secretary of the State Department of the East Africa community. He loves cars. He’s been a regular competitor for the last 27 years. He uses words like “illustrious and “refinements” to describe his car. His car, if I may chime in with my own description, is not only illustrious but lustrous.
He’s had it for 20 years now and consistently restored it. “I came 10th last year, but I hope to win this year.” He’s currently the reigning champion for the Jaguar 420.
The Mercedes is immaculate. He repainted it, upholstered it, and redid the engine. “It’s lovely to drive these cars. [vintage] They smell so good, they’re so powerful, they look so good, they’re very unique in our times, with an abundance of elegance and beauty and style and quality, craftsmanship, and workmanship.”
[Thank God I had a voice recorder to capture the rhythm of his cadence.] He continues. “You know, we expect 10,000 spectators and some 70 participants who have the same idea as me to be number one. And all of us are making such an effort. What distinguishes an entrant and the success of an entrant is skills. This is one of the largest skills competitions which evokes skills in all different artisanal areas; Hydraulics, pneumatics, woodwork, and paint. These are all skills, artisanal skills, technical skills, and craftsman’s skills exuded at this event.”
Does this vehicle represent your character in any way? I posed and held my breath for a well-stringed barrage of beautiful sentences. “I think it does. It’s bright. I think that I’m bright. It has speed and strength. I’m very strong.”
Where does your strength come from?
“From my passion.”
Gary Ferrand.
I was born 72 years ago right here in Kenya. I was driving when I was 12. And I’ve been driving ever since. I’ve owned 58 cars and 42 motorbikes in my life. I love cars, cars represent movement and evolution.
Shem Oduge Odero.
It’s the confidence in this man. I walked up to him and this conversation unspooled.
“Hi, my name is Biko and I’ve been commissioned by Stanbic Bank to write about cars and car owners.” We shook hands.
“My name is Shem Odunge Odero. I’m from Gem, Yala, just next to the late Magoha, my neighbour.”
Yawa. Okay. Note the mention of the three names: Shem Odunge Odero. What that means – in case you are wondering – is that he is giving you the context of self. He is coming not as a person, but as a clan, as a history.
What’s your relationship with vehicles? I asked.
“I’m an engineer,” he declares. “But I’m a mechanic by profession.”
All right.
“I can repair any vehicle.”
“Cars are your thing,” I say.
“Yes. I have a garage. It’s called Autoboss. Techniques and Spares. We are located in Langata, next to Carnivore.”
When I ask him when his love affair with vehicles started, he takes me back to his childhood, when he was four. “If I saw a vehicle in the village. I would stay there staring at it until that vehicle left. Even if my mother called me for lunch I wouldn’t go. Cars fascinated me.” When his father died, he was left with his mom, being the only child. Things were tough, so tough that he couldn’t proceed with his education beyond primary school. “I decided to join the polytechnic in Busia to be a mechanic.” His mom sold a cow for 4,000 bob and paid the fees. The rest he paid by doing work for local garages. “They would come fetch me from school when they were stuck with an engine. I was very good with the ignition system. I was the best in the ignition system. In fact, I am the best in the ignition system.”
“What makes you the best in ignition systems?”
He tells another story that takes us back to his childhood. This one involves leopards and hyenas which were a menace in his village. “I’d collect dry-cell batteries, connect them, and create a crude switch from softwood. I would run it along the fence and end up connecting to a bulb at the back of my mother’s mud kitchen. When a hyena or leopard crossed the fence the bulb would go off, acting as an alarm. I didn’t know this but I was already building sensors a long time ago, without reading from any book. That’s how I became a mechanic, I was good with engines and machines and wiring. No engine can defeat me, even if there is no spare part. I can make my spare parts.”
I laugh not at him but at that confidence.
“No, I can fix all cars. I can do anything in a car.”
He bought this car – a 1968 Saab – from scrap metal in Donholm. “This is Volvo’s cousin,” he says. “They were going to cut it and sell it as scrap. I paid 30,000 for it in two instalments of 10k and 15K and a friend of mine, the late Tom Ogedo, paid for me the rest.”
I don’t know Tom Ogedo but he sounds like he was a real standup guy.
“Why did you buy this car?”
“I wanted to prove to myself that I could make it run again. It took me ten years to restore it before I sold it to that guy.” ”That guy “ he’s referring to is a barrel-chested white guy who comes over and growls, “We have to go to the stage.”
His garage’s number: 0722814813
George Wakaria.
Don’t call this car green. Leaves are green. This is Apple Candy Green. Yes. I’ve never seen a car like this before. Never heard of it, either. A Hillman Husky. Sounds like a breed of dog. Something with a long backbone that can jump over a fence. “I found it in a barn in Kiambu. It’s inspired by my grandpa who used to drive this car. He passed on many years ago but my dad drove one. I saw photos of it and I wanted one for myself. So this was a lucky find.”
After restoring the car he gifted it to his dad, who isn’t exactly “the guy for driving.” But he was chuffed and he loves the car a lot. George has three classic cars. “As a family we all love cars. That’s my cousin [guy lurking nearby] – he has like five cars and he’s only 28. My dad has always built cars at home. We had a Morris Minor Renault 4CV,”
“He has ten cars!” his cousin says. “Tell him about your cars.”
“You have ten cars?” I ask, astonished. “What do you need ten cars for?”
“They keep me busy.”
Johane Nyagura aka Jo-1
Johan Zim, free rider.
When he told his wife he was planning to ride his bike all the way to Kenya she said, “Kenya? Kenya?? Kenya?!” They live in a small town in Zimbabwe called Kadoma. He’d never been outside of Southern Africa before, now he was planning to go to Kenya??
“Why do you have to go all the way to Kenya?” She inquired by the sink.
“For Concours D’elegance.”
“For what?!”
“Concours D’elegance.”
“Jo. Why do you have to ride so far?”
“That’s why I want to go.” He said. “Because I have never gone that far before.”
She didn’t like the idea at all. Oh, she didn’t like it one bit.
“Do you know how far it is?”
“It’s 4,000 Kilometres. But I won’t be alone.” He was riding with four of his mates.
“You are no longer young to do things like this,” she said. “You are 58 years old.”
“That’s why I need to do it,” He said. “Because I’m 58. I will be fine, dear.” [I added that dear part, he seems the kind of fellow who calls the wife dear.]
She shrugged and said, “If you must.” [Never a great thing from the lips of a wife]. Two of his children were excited, though. One wasn’t. They said, “Is this man for real, Mom?” Regardless, all his friends cancelled on him. I loved his story because he said, screw it, I’m going.
So he set off at first light and pointed his Suzuki Bandit, 1250 CC, North. He rode through Zambia and Tanzania, through thin and wide roads, under the shadows of hills, and over bridges. He rode facing the sunset and away from sunrises. He met great people and people you take with a pinch of salt. He camped mostly, slept in a thin tent, with the wind whispering outside at night. He had time to think about the road, his family, God, and how lucky he was to be out there, free, under a wide sky, going to Kenya, a place he had never been. Took him two weeks to get here.
“Does it get lonely,” I asked, “riding alone for two weeks?”
“No. The sound of your engine becomes a song. But it’s dangerous, this song, because it can lull you into deep thought. And after 15 years riding you learn to be present in every moment.”
Wamuyu Kariuki.
Royal Enfield 350 Classic.
I interviewed this chic nine years ago. She had just started riding motorcycles. I ran into her at the former Java Arboretum, straddling a pink bike with a group of riders. I wrote her story. A few years later she told me she had met a man she loved and they were going around the world on their bikes. I thought, ‘Diabetic!”
In 2018 they set off for their world tour on their bikes and they rode for two and a half years until Covid caught up with them in Nicaragua. All borders closed, they were marooned, unable to come back home. They had children back home. They couldn’t do anything but wait. And wait they did for six months, living in a hostel, with a drained swimming pool. Eating local foods.
“When you do a trip like that as a couple it forces you to be friends. You have no room to sulk for too long, unlike at home. So you learn to just deal with your issues as quickly as possible because the real truth is that it is just the two of you against the world. Do you know that song, Biko? Two of us against the world?”
Yeah, I know it.
“It’s exactly that. So you can’t afford to be mean to each other, to be moody. And you learn to solve problems together.”
She sold her BMW and bought this Royal Enfield Classic 350. Her second. “It’s a very strong bike. It’s all metal. We have no tubes, no plastics. It’s not fast, which I love about that. And it’s very steady and stable on the road. I love it.”
A year ago she had an accident; a matatu hit her. She fell off her bike and was out of commission for a year during which she discovered knitting and crocheting.
“Why don’t these things happen to me!” I cried.
“What, getting hit by a matatu?”
“No, silly, discover other talents and things.”
What started as a coping mechanism now is a ka-business.
Check her out on Instagram: @What_Will_I_Knit_Next.
The Legend
My father first rode a Yamaha motorbike, an XT 400. I was very very young, I barely remember him riding it except for the sound it made. He must have looked cool in it because he had a big 80’s beard going and long legs in flared pants. Then he bought a VW Beetle, a blue one. Then he got a Peugeot 404. I remember the plates – KNF134 – because he had it for as long as I can recall.
He was loyal to that car. It was always clean, for he is a clean man. On Saturdays, we’d all pile at the back to go to church and to have lunch (Fanta, chips, and sausages!) on Sundays. He looked so big and important seated in the front seat. His back filled his seat, his head almost touching the roof. He always drove with his elbow sticking out the window, which meant the car had no AC. Now you stick your elbow out the window and it will get stolen. Your whole arm, actually. We’d hear it coming from three houses away and before he honked, someone was always opening the gate.
Our job was to wash this car. We did it as a duty, not like now children demanding to wash your car for a f*king fee. When we drove to shags, he played his rhumba and Don Williams (I dedicated my favourite “If Hollywood Don’t Need You”, to all the haniz reading this) as they spoke adult things with my mom. I don’t remember them belting up. We certainly didn’t. God remained our belt.
When I turned 15, he taught me how to drive with this car. It was not always a pleasant experience because he’s very impatient (like I am) and he’d snap at me if he had to tell me one more f*king time to release the clutch gently. It was both fearful and exhilarating. I can still smell the leather and the sound of Franco. That car was everything to him. Everything. Cars are.
#ConcoursWithStanbic
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