I once lived next to a cool kid of Nairobi. I had turned 40, and a few years prior, I had swung the steering wheel of my life sharply, sending it in a direction I wasn’t fully in control of – which I relished, even invited. Discomfort has never been something I completely turn away from.
It was a very quiet apartment block on an even quieter street in Kilimani, back before Kilimani went tits-up. The apartments were the kind built when people still cared: massive windows, off-white linoleum floors, and open kitchens. I had reduced my entire life – my very existence – into a one-bedroom. It felt both strange and enough. Every time I opened my door, it felt like I had broken into someone else’s life.
The only real excitement at that address came during COVID, when a woman was found dead in the flowerbed of the next apartment building. She had fallen off the third-floor during a COVID party. The arrival of the police felt straight out of a movie. I wandered over, for reasons unknown even to me, and saw her body, wrapped in sheets, being hurled into the back of a police van by nonchalant, gloved officers.
I didn’t know my neighbours, but I knew of them. I have a rule for neighbours: I keep to myself unless otherwise. I’ve never lived in a place where neighbours meet for barbecues. I can live next to someone for 10 years and exchange nothing more than a nod – and be perfectly content.
The cool kid who lived next door came and went at all hours. He drove a big double cabin from work, which he liked to park on the hill near the gate. From his vehicle, I gathered he was in marketing for a big FMCG. A dandy, he dressed bohemian cool. He sported earrings. He had a thin strip of beard, always studiously trimmed like a hedge at State House. You could tell he was a gentleman. That he was proud. That he cared about how the world saw him. His personality was written on his sneakers.
We shared a wall, so I could sometimes hear his life from my bedroom when I left the window open. The low thudding of his music on Saturdays. The faint humming tenor of his voice late at night, a girl giggling, saying “Stop!” Some nights, I’d be woken by the distant moans of a woman. If I sat writing at my desk by the window, I’d occasionally see him walk them out. His girls were almost always light-skinned PLTs – the type you’d see in bars having cocktails, dressed in outfits that never cover their navels, vape in hand. I knew when he fell in love with one of them; the others stopped coming. He’d hold her hand up the hill to his car.
We never spoke. When we ran into each other on the stairwell, we’d exchange a polite and cursory “Hey” and pass like ships in the dark. I felt we had nothing in common. He was too young and too cool. I was likely too old. He looked to be in his mid-to-late 20s, impressionable. I was in the second chapter of my life, trying to figure things out with my breath held. What were we going to talk about, sneakers?
Then COVID happened.
One night, I found myself joining them; him and his young, cool friends, for drinks outside our doorways. I remember an exuberant, unhinged baddie urging me to try a drug: 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine, otherwise known as Molly.
Drugs aren’t really my thing. Not out of ethics or morality, they just don’t agree with me. Weed makes me sleepy. Cocaine gives me erectile dysfunction. What fun is that? I stick to whisky. It agrees with me. I regarded Molly as a young person’s indulgence, so I waved her off. “No, I’ll pass.” But she insisted. I said no again. “Got anything else?” She gave me a cookie. I took a small bite and shared it with my then-person.
Our relationship changed after that. We’d stop and chat briefly when we ran into each other. Niceties. “How’s it going?” “Haven’t seen you in a while.” “Was that your brother the other day? Man, spitting image.” The usual.
One day, he found me seated on the staircase overlooking the garden next door—a great place to watch the sun set over rooftops and trees. He told me he was thinking of starting a bar. He had a name for it, which I found rad, full of irony. He showed me a logo on his phone. I nodded. “Why not?” I said. “Go for it, man.”
Then one day, his girl relocated out of the country. I could see how he dragged the shell of that loss around. Then he lost his job. Then he moved out.
Then I moved out.
Over the years, we exchanged the occasional message on IG. An odd phone call here and there, him asking about something media-related. He started his bar, and it was all the rage. Still is. We share a gym now, but he goes in at 5 a.m.; I go at 10. We crossed paths once on the treadmill. Still a cool kid doing cool kid things; only now he’s 34, and life is starting to get serious, as it should at that age.
The other day, I was in the gym doing the dumbbell shoulder press in front of a mirror when suddenly, he was standing next to me.
“Hey, bro!” I said, putting down my 25kg dumbbells (OK, they were 14kgs a piece). “This isn’t your usual time. Change your gym time?”
“Nah, I’m taking time off work. To relax.” He held a water bottle and his phone. “And it’s hard, man.”
“What, resting?” I laughed.
“Yeah. I’m used to working. Just working. So this is strange.”
I told him that resting sometimes feels like work. “How’s your life?” I asked. “Things good? I see your business is doing really well.”
He squatted next to my bench and we chatted. Certain things weren’t working out. Roadblocks with some projects. Fear about making major decisions. There was also a girl, and you know how those things go, “What next?”
“It’s just a lot,” he said. “And I’m never one to second-guess myself. But I’m in that period of life.”
I said, “Hmmm,” half to that space he was in, and half to the image of my biceps in the mirror. I gave him some gobbledygook about time, and the universe, and fear. About staying the course.
Later, I ran into him in the changing room. He asked how I was doing. “How are things going with you?”
Instead of saying I was staying the course, I said, “OK.”
Such a lazy answer: OK.
What was I, 12 and broody? OK is when you don’t have to circle the parking lot to find a spot. OK is when your avocados take forever to ripen. OK is when someone says they’ll be 15 minutes late. That’s OK.
I’m not OK. I robbed myself of the opportunity to proclaim progress.
What I should have said was, “Actually, I’m doing fabulous. I have a new book coming out in exactly four weeks.”
Even though he’s into self-help and business books (at least according to his social media feed) he might have perked up. Or pretended to.
He might have said, “Oh, that’s great! Congratulations! Is it your second one?”
People often say, “Oh, I enjoyed reading Drunk. You should write another one.” I never bother to tell them I’ve written two more books since then. They’re obviously not my TA. They’re Lucifer’s TA.
Besides, I don’t want to stand there pitching old books like I’m beating a dead drum.
But because I’d still be thudding with endorphins, I would have told him this is my fourth one, actually.
“Really? Fantastic!”
“It really is. I warned you – I’m doing fabulous.”
Ho-ho-ho.
“You really are. What’s the book about?”
“It’s what happens when boy meets girl.”
“A love story?”
“A fight story.” Then I’d add, “Fight stories can also be about love.”
“Interesting. What’s it called?”
“Big Little Fights,” I’d say proudly, standing there with a towel around my waist. Just two guys shooting the breeze, half-naked, brows glistening with sweat.
But it didn’t happen that way.
Because I chose the lazy way out.
I said I was OK.
Goodness.
***Here’s what you need to know about my new book.
The cover was done by the great Faddy, who also did the last two covers. And it’s my best cover yet; because it’s illustrative, telling a story in itself. And because it’s yellow. Who doesn’t like yellow? Yellow is sunshine. It’s bananas. Yellow is the colour of desire. Wait, that’s red. I can’t imagine yellow lingerie evoking great desire in the heart of a man.
You also need to know that this book is me taking a stab at creative non-fiction. The first of my books in that genre. I interviewed people about fights they’ve had in their relationships. I threw in my own fight too, but you won’t be able to tell it’s mine. Unless you get me really drunk. So it’s a chronicle of the complexity of humans in love, or humans falling out of love, or humans staying in love, but fighting through it. Friction is the spark of love.
You also need to know that to edit it, I looked for a man who used to edit me back in the day when I wrote for ADAM magazine. His name was Craig Bishop, a South African fellow. It’s been 16 years since the ship of ADAM sank – along with most of the contacts I knew. But I looked for him, and I found him. He lives somewhere in the outskirts of Cape Town with his wife, two boys, and one girl who wears her hair short. He once said (or maybe someone else did), “A good editor is someone who cares a little less about the author’s needs than the reader’s.” Craig was a fantastic editor, because on top of everything, he had a great sense of humour.
You also need to know that I enjoyed writing this book tremendously. I know a new book sounds like a new relationship, you don’t see the flaws, just nipples. But really, I enjoyed writing it. I’m aware of its flaws, but they don’t matter to me. They won’t matter to you either, once you get your hands on it. Because didn’t they say imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and that it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring?
Which brings me to another thing you need to know: this book is many things; boring isn’t one of them. How do I know this? Because one of my other editors told me her husband, who prefers serious books, read it in two sittings and chuckled, saying, “Hii buk ni poa sana.” What better review do you need, huh? The man already said it: “Hii buk ni poa sana.”
You already know I fancy writing small, pocket-friendly books. A book isn’t a relationship you drag everywhere. A book is a quick, passionate affair; something that leaves the back of your neck tingling. This book isn’t small, but it isn’t exactly thick either. DRUNK was small but very sexy. This book is petite. It’s a size 8 – a big 8 -but with a strong spine that will surprise you. You can carry it anywhere. It’s not a book that takes up space. Books shouldn’t take physical space. Books should only take space in your heart.
We listened to your feedback and used different paper this time. Previously, we used newsprint paper, which looked like a newspaper. Some of you twisted your noses at it. You said it wore off, yellowed quickly. Fine. So we got thicker paper. It’s not my favourite paper (we have a shortage of great paper in Kenya), but it will do.
Lastly, because the economy is what the economy is, we’re selling it at a lower price than Let Me Call You Back. It’s 1,199 bob. We thought of doing 1,200 bob but said, come on, what’s a shilling among friends? The reason for this is because I don’t want to hear someone say, “Can I get a discount on the book?”
We launch this book on Monday, June 23rd.
But here’s the rub:
You can get your hands on it a week before everybody else—that’s June 16th. A rider will pull up to your office or gate with this perfect 8. Grab an advance copy HERE.
Wait, are you not going to ask why you should get an advance copy?
Because you’ll obviously get it before everyone else. And it will be signed by yours truly. (I’ve done some work on my handwriting. A little.) And lastly, you’ll get it at a discount. A win is a win.
Lastly, when you get your copy, whichever day that is, please do me a favour. Before you open the book, gently run your hands over the cover. You’ll feel something.
I know I did.
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