Out and About

​I wasnt born in Loita Street.The sound of that isnt dramatic enough. Let me rephrase.I was not born on Harambee Avenue. Neither did I have the privilege of passing by Accra road on my way to Uhuru park every time my parents had a coin to spare after hefty trolley pushing. I didn’t have the chance to be breathing the same air, within the same city, as the orezo. I didn’t get to live in a building where I had to go up some stairs to get to the living room. (Stairs were a huge thing when growing up. They excited me. They no longer do because I fell in love with fast foods, Corazon and Vera.) 

I grew up in a village that was characterized by a hot sun and cluttering iron sheets prostrating to the intensity of the heat. The roads were dusty with the green that typified vegetation during wet seasons a long gone dream. Bees buzzed  around searching for a fountain to quench their thirst, later on to go back and serve their queen. Home compounds were scarce of green grass and strays of dried green gram leaves and stalks littered the place, making the ground home to patches of small black and white leavings.

Anyway, I grew up and out of the village eventually. Now I know brenjin means bro (big up Kev I hope I got it right) and kukachora means something I will explain some other day. This city has taught me ‘things’ one of them being that corsets are gifts of the devil to man’s vanity.

I still don’t understand every aspect of this urban life which means I am always exploring and discovering various estates, wanting to know which one is East or West of Uhuru highway. There’s a Soweto in almost every city in Kenya and Kisumu ndogo is also a very common dingy. Did I mention Majengo? Yea. It’s a very rampant name on google maps.

One day as I was coming from home, a mama called me. She was a good friend of mine and she wanted me to meet her in town. Since I couldn’t turn her down after doing so effortlessly for too long, I said yes. I rarely say yes. I knew it was going to be a long afternoon since she talks endlessly. She had also started to rock dreads. When you combine dreads and talking much, the end product is something you should be far away from at any one time.

She was waiting for me at Tuskys Tom Mboya street since Archives is too mainstream, common and for wannabe Fetty’s. Besides, someone had not long ago told me that standing at Archives, most precisely just besides Mr Price portrays you as someone waiting for your chance at the kanjo washroom between the two buildings or waiting for someone inside the washroom. Anyway that was a by the way.

So I alighted the matatu and went to meet this chic. She was there alright. Shorter than she had been the last time I had  seen her. Can someone get shorter? Can they? Anyway that’s besides the point. Short but in heels. She was taller than she should have been. The short sundress she was wearing ended just mid thigh. The legs, her long (short) light legs were there for anyone with eyes. She looked delicious. It was Delilah from one of those moments with Samson. Only that Delilah was playing her part in shaping Gods plan. I don’t know what part she was playing.

She looked delicious. I didn’t notice the locks. My eyes were on the dress and the legs. How amazing the process of taking it off would be. The only problem was that in her books, I was zoned in the  ‘No go zone’. A zone set aside for the scum and filth of society. Anyone in this zone can’t be trusted with a woman’s heart, leave alone her purse. 

She wanted me to go and check out where she lived. Can you imagine that? Yes. The devil is real.

So we proceeded to stage. An Embassava stage. So here I was, with an underdressed woman, in a bus stage full of women undressers. I felt scared. What if one of those sex starved idiots decided to pounce on her? What if others followed him? What would I do? I said a silent prayer, held her hand and proceeded to the vehicle all along putting on a brave face while squirming with fear inside.

As I sat next to her, the skirt rode up. Daamn. 

“Where are we going CC?” I asked


“Ka what?”

Yes. We were going to Kayole. An estate East of civilization. On arrival I felt so insignificant. After decades on traffic in Mombasa road, here I was, in a place where apartments extended to the heavens. The buildings were intimidating. Most of them had more than 6 floors and no elevator…

They were packed together like slices of bread in an 800 grammes Supaloaf pack. Garbage was uncollected in most places and I got another point to add on to the million reasons why Mumias had an early death. The only spaces between the apartments were as non existent as Khaligraph’s US background. 

Amazingly, everyone almost spoke the same language. People were dressed in green coats, red shirts and blouses with some specks of white. They reminded me of a certain Co Principal. CC spoke their language. I did too, only that I wasn’t a native. My deputy headteacher called it Environmentally Acquired Stupidity Syndrome – a behavior that rubbs off on you due to association with people of a certain calibre.

Surprising enough, all the apartments were fully occupied. They were one bedroom units so one 8 floored apartment could host 59585949 units. In one of the places, I was told they didn’t allow male tenants. Only ladies. Single ladies. Hot, big assed single ladies. He he the last part was all me.

We headed to her residence and started on the stairs and up we went. At one time I could feel the clouds on my face. Saw God’s feet even…

Her house was compact but neat. A three seater black couche with a red cloth covering the side sat on the far end of the sitting room. The coffee table was painted black and on a keen look I could notice mug markings on its shiny surface. On top of the TV stand was a not so big television set that was playing Lingala music.

She kicked off her shoes, took off the bra with the dress still on (would have preferred otherwise) and sat next to me. She accused me of being a jackass then stopped all of a sudden.

Kathy Kiuna was on TV. So was Size 8 and DJ Mo. Her attention shifted. So did her legs, which had all along been facing me. I don’t remember much of how I got home from that moment. Only thing I recall was Size 8 saying she used to visit DJ Mo in 44, my next stop.


4 responses to “Out and About

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s