With Hat In Hand

We are in a bit of a pickle here, as you might have gathered.

You must have pre-ordered my new book, but your doorbell hasn’t rung. Or your reception hasn’t called your extension to say, “There’s a rider here for you.” Or…I don’t know…how do people receive parcels in jail?

When we were planning this pre-order thing with the team… OK, someone (who I won’t name because makosa imefanyika) said we’d probably get a few hundred copies sold before the window closed. The argument was, “Kenyans are last-minute people. They don’t buy early bird tickets or pre-orders.”

But then, a massive tide of people came crashing through the door to buy the book. A swelling of readers. By the time we closed the pre-orders a week later, we knew we were facing something herculean. Rather, I was, because I’m the one tasked with autographing the books.

These aren’t your problems, I understand. But we’re just talking here, as friends, right?

So I got cracking.

Here’s some perspective that might make your heart soften a little and cut us some slack.

When you buy a book from our marketplace site,( which is where you bought the book), Bett, the book manager, has to harvest that information and enter it into a spreadsheet. I have access to this spreadsheet, which contains the buyer’s name (say, a name like Namunyak Sarbabi – an exotic name I liked. [Your book is being delivered today, Sarbabi]), the title bought (any of my four), the quantities, and any autograph message.

We have a tiny office off Argwings Kodhek Road. It’s in one of those new ghastly Chinese apartments. It’s literally a room and a toilet. We use it to store books.

Previously, boxes and boxes of books would go to Bett’s house, but then Bett has a family and one day she said, “These books will end my marriage.”

I said, “Word?”

She said, “They’re crowding our house and I see how my husband looks at them. He has started looking at me the same way.”

We didn’t want to end any more marriages, so we got an office/store.

When books come from the printer, they go straight to this tiny office. One box contains 105 books, packed tight. Bett opens them and checks for spoiled copies—bad spines, uneven cuts, crunched corners—one by one, re-packs them, and then calls an Uber to bring four boxes to my house.

Note: A box of books weighs roughly 22 kg. I live on the fourth floor of my apartment. It’s not the penthouse, but that’s what I choose to call it because words are powerful.

Even when I’m only carrying my car keys and my thoughts, climbing four floors is quite the task. Sometimes when I’m home and the guard calls to say my car window is slightly open and it’s about to rain, I’ll say, Let it rain. It’s a blessing. Because there’s no way I’m going all the way down and back up.

So it rains.

The next morning I open the car door and a flood of water sweeps me off my feet. Something must kill a man.

Anyway, sometimes the Uber guys say, “I don’t get paid enough to carry those boxes four floors up.” So they leave them downstairs and I have to ask the guard to bring them up. If it’s one particular guard who feels he deserves better in life, I have to do it myself; and then lie down for three hours to let my back heal. I can’t wait for Kim to turn 15. That will be his job.

Now, if you’re Namunyak Sarbabi, you’ll write in the autograph section: “Anything really, I’m here for the read. I can’t wait.”

That’s simple enough, so I’ll scribble whatever comes to mind; a dad joke, a weird fun fact about the number of muscles in a cat’s ear, or an inspirational quote from Oscar Wilde. It takes about a minute to write something for someone like Sarbabi.

However, if you’re Samuel Muoki, you’ll request that I write this quote for a book you’re buying for your colleague, Jennifer:

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.”

Now… I know the client is always right, but honestly, it would be faster for me to write another book than reproduce this quote by hand for each request.

Most times I try to honour the wish. But sometimes, after signing books for two hours, when my head is overheated and my fingers are nearing rigor mortis, I’ll say, “Oh, screw this,” and write something else. Hopefully something that still makes Samuel smile.

It takes me about an hour and some change to autograph one box of books. Sometimes more, when life is also happening. I can only sit for two hours straight signing before I crash. That’s two boxes. Around 200 clients.

On a good day, if I really put my back into it, I can do three boxes. That means waking up early, taking breaks, and possibly doing one box in the evening – though I try not to because I’m not an evening person and my evening autographs are very lazy.

The trick is to stop when tired. Otherwise, the autographs suffer.

But sometimes I can’t stop because there are DMs. Emails. People calling, asking one question: Am I getting my bloody book this year?

The books leave my house and go back to the office, where Bett sorts them, places them in marked envelopes, and calls Mutinda.

Mutinda runs a delivery service. He has a small platoon of riders who don’t speak and never remove their helmets. I know them by their eyes. I’ve given them names like Crazy Eyes, Almond Eyes, Dark Eyes, Lazy Eye, etc.

There are usually about four permanent riders, but these days, Mutinda hires more to meet demand. He can deliver around 140 books a day (that’s about 40–50 per rider).

Sometimes they travel to different counties; Machakos, for example. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes the address is wrong. The client’s phone might be off. They can’t leave the books under a tree, so they have to try again later. Sometimes guards receive and keep the books. Right now, they only have a dozen books left to deliver, but I still have tons to sign.

These are good problems for me but bad ones for you, because I can’t autograph as fast as they can deliver.

I’m the weak link.

But I’m not weak. I’m strong. I walk with the Lord and seek refuge under his wings (Psalms 91).

I’ve done this dance before and I know the tricks. I’ve devised a way to get these books out very fast. Your book will be with you in two shakes of a duck’s tail. It’s settling slowly and we’ll resume normal programming once the backlog is cleared.

If your book is among the ones I’m working through, I apologise profusely. I’m working twice as hard to get them out.

I’m not touching anything else. I’m skipping gym. Missing deadlines. I haven’t sat in my living room in ages. I eat from my desk. If I could shower from here, I would.

I beg for your patience and understanding, and I hope this doesn’t turn into a big little fight.

We’re thinking of throwing in a little something in the book as an apology for those who haven’t received theirs yet. It’s not chocolate, but it’s something sweet.

To say: Pole.
To say: We can’t let a book get in the way of this friendship.

Look, I’ve got to go. I have Wilde to quote.

Talk soon, donge?

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Oh, and grab a copy HERE, if you haven’t.