WALLFLOWER: THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET

The sun is slowly finding its position in the morning sky. Those who had taken a moment to enjoy the soothing comfort of their beds are now walking in with an energized spring in their step. The cobbler has arrived ready for the day’s work. He knows almost everyone on that street. He takes his time to greet them all. Some for a few seconds, others for a good minute. Asking about the spouse, the children, the gate that needed fixing and the water tap that won’t stop dripping. Anything that is of concern to the other person. He enjoys a laugh here and gives a word of advice there. Old men are treasured here. The wisdom of time can only be acquired through living a long life.

As he approaches his designated position the clothes shop owner appears in the vicinity. Carrying her expensive bag on one shoulder and another bag on the other hand. She carries her own lunch from home, she cannot be caught eating at the vibandas on this street. Not for any other reason other than she is a stickler for healthy eating, which most wish they could have the discipline to maintain. If healthy eating was the reason for her vibrant looks, then it was worth it. If anyone did not know better they would be forgiven for thinking these two people came from the same house, owing to how they always seem to arrive at the same time almost every morning. Lucy opens the door and the cobbler walks in to retrieve his tools as they engage in jovial morning pleasantries. A low stool, a makeshift shelf with three lockable drawers at the top and open shelves on the bottom, a bench for his customers to sit on and a bucket for water or any other thing he might want to put in there to be looked at when the day ends.

The cobbler sprinkles water on his work area and proceeds to sweep before arranging his equipment ready for business. Lucy also does some cleaning in her shop. She puts on her radio and works as she hums to the melodies that fill the room. Occasionally interrupting her humming to converse with the cobbler. Apart from her customers, the cobbler is the only one she has lengthy conversations with. They share a somewhat father daughter relationship, she regales him with the mischief of her children and house help and he imparts wisdom of age onto her. Most times they talk about life, how they ended up to be where they are, how other people end up in the situations they are in, how life was like in 1958. Their chatter is interrupted by their individual work, customers coming in, or music that starts playing and Lucy suddenly cuts off conversation to sing along. The cobbler is used to this and has learned to let it be. Music can as well spark new conversation, it goes both ways.

The cobbler likes Rhumba, the old ones that sound like sleeping instruments were used to create the sound. They are not loud, no banging base, no electric guitars, just simple rhumba. Music that can quickly lull one to sleep after a heavy lunch in the full glare of the afternoon sun. The sounds of Tshala Muana. That is the type of music he likes. Music that allows him to reflect. Music that allows his mind to float freely in the knowledge of the universe. Music that is as old as himself, if not older. He has his small radio too, a red one that is Bluetooth enabled. He turns into a child with a new toy when he takes out his technological device and shows anyone sitting on his bench how technologically savvy he is connecting his phone to the radio.

“Unajua siku zetu tulikuwa na sahani ya santuri tu, kitu kubwa namna hii” and he proceeds to stretch out his arms to show the span of the device he is talking about. “Na ulikuwa ukiwa nayo wewe ni mtu mashuhuri sana kwa village mzima” He goes on about times long passed. Then he proceeds to show how he can connect his phone that his son got him to the little red device and it sings even louder than the “Sahani ya santuri”. Or maybe that’s just because it is hung on the wall too close to his ear. Such simple things excite him. The sound of Chena floating in the air from his red radio, he smiles with his eyes closed as the voice of Tshala Muana soothes his soul. Simple joys of life.

He bought the radio from a vendor walking by with all manner of electronics hanging from his hands and neck and a black bag on his back filled with more goods for sale. The radio was singing in his hand as he advertised his goods on sale. The cobbler was amazed at a radio that worked without being plugged into any electricity outlet. “Kwani uko na stima kwa hiyo bag?” He asked when the seller got to his booth. The young man proceeded to show him how the little red device worked. Explaining that it needed charging for at least four hours then it would play all day without needing to be plugged in. He spent a length of time walking the cobbler through every aspect of this little red radio. How it charged, how it could connect to his phone via Bluetooth, there was even provision for a memory card. They even went into the cloths shop to use the socket for practical demonstrations, how to connect his phone to the radio through bluetooth, how to switch from bluetooth setting to FM setting, everything that the radio could do the young man taught the old man. Even Lucy was pulled into all the excitement, “Nikisahau si utanikumbusha” the cobbler said to her fearing that the new information was too much for him to recall. Lucy agreed, to her this was all rudimentary technology, everything had bluetooth in this day and age. The cobbler never forgot though, part of the excitement about his purchase was that he remembered how to use it without any help. And every night when he went home he plugged it in to charge the whole night. Then the whole day he would listen to his favorite music from his phone, zilizopendwa. Technology served him well.

There was not much to do in the morning unless there was a shoe that was brought when the day was almost over the previous day and work had to be carried forward. But on most occasions, early mornings were time for the cobbler to enjoy his music as he observed the activities around. The old men who came to share in this peace would walk in and sit on the bench next to him. Most times not saying a word until they had recovered their energy from the walk. “Bwakire Jacobu.” A greeting that would pierce deep thought. Most of his agemates called him Jacob, albeit with a slight accent so it would sound more like Jacobu. Others who were not familiar with his name or just felt odd calling an old man by his first name called him Fundi. One time a child called him Sokoro and since then the name stuck among the younger children. But Fundi was the most common name for him. No matter where one was on this street if they asked for Fundi they would be directed to the cobbler.

Jacob loved his work, loved people and loved this street. It was his second home, coming second to his village in Nyamira County. A place he fondly talked about. There was no better banana than those grown in Nyamira according to him. That is what he believed and that is what he stood by. Every time he went to the village he brought back a bunch, and shared to everyone he could and they all agreed, Nyamira County had the best banana. Whether they did so to make him happy or they honestly shared in his belief, he did not care. He and his friends talked about their villages a lot. They talked about the past, how it used to be, and compared it to the present. How the young have gone to the village and built mansions for themselves and their parents in the middle of the rural setting. Making the village look like a beautiful mix of urban and rural life.

The old men talked about the young men, how most seemed to have lost their way. How the women have now taken up roles of providing for their families just like their male counterparts. It was difficult to depend on a man who had not found his way or did not even want to. They talked about how the community had changed. How it was nearly a crime punishable by death to discipline a neighbour’s child who had gone wrong. How some children had become the masters of their parents, demanding things as though it was owed to them and not learning the value of appreciation. Others still who were treated as though they were an inconvenience; as though they had brought themselves into their parent’s lives. Neglected and left to fend for themselves at an age when they should be protected and loved by their parents. These streets showed vividly how the community had changed, and there was never a shortage of a case in point. The old men’s conversations sounded accusatory and impressed by the new order all at once.

WALLFLOWER: WHO IS ON THIS STREET

The Tailor: One of the people who have been in these streets for a while. He has seen businesses rise and fall, he has seen people move and others come in, he has seen buildings come up and others remaining incomplete for years; people using them just as they are in their incompleteness. He has seen those who have found greener pastures go and those who have killed their own grass languish in misery.

He is an introvert with extrovert tendencies. He does not take part in idle gossip, but with those he has formed a bond with he chats away like a parrot that has learnt to like the sound of their own voice. He narrates the tales of time as if he was present in every single event. Even if they took place miles from where he was that did not matter. Somehow, he knew details about events that could only be known by those present at the time. Then again, no one could verify if the events were exactly as he stated, they just took him at his words. They sounded as truthful as anyone would need a good story to be.

Sitting down, one cannot tell the tailor is tall. But when he stands up it is evident. The tailor is a man of unequal proportions. He has longer legs than his upper body. All his limbs are longer than the rest of him. It is striking his disproportions when he stands up but the eye quickly adjusts to his stature. When he moves it almost looks like he is in slow motion, pushing and pulling the air around him slowly trying to displace as little of it as possible to make room for his extra length. He takes pride in his work, often telling people how he inherited his cloth making talent from his grandmother.

He was raised by his grandmother in the village while his parents worked in one city or the other and sent money home, so it was only natural he picked up the skill. Every day he opened his shop now, he had seen better days, he prayed for a good business day. He did not tire from his trade. He knew a day would come that women would once more flock into his shop to get their sizes taken for a kitenge outfit, and drag their husbands along to get a shirt made from whatever piece of the fabric that remained. The importance of matching couple outfits for special Sunday service could not be more emphasized.

The green box in the wall is a frenzy of activity but there are short spans of time when business slows down just a bit. The metal tin painted green turns into a hot shell. It is made of iron sheets so when the sun burns in the afternoon the atmosphere inside is hot and inhospitable to any living thing. Maybe that’s why the mpesa lady leaves to sit across the street at the cobbler’s little booth when he is open; his little work space in on the side of the street that enjoys a cool shade when the afternoon sun burns hottest. The cobbler is a friend to all.

The Mpesa booth window is a wire mesh with a small rectangular opening enough for giving and receiving money and for the records book to be signed that shows money has exchanged hands. The window lays flat to form a countertop on the inside, there must be a shelf at the bottom where she keeps the money. Since no one has ever gone into the booth other than the mpesa lady, she is the only one who knows whether or not there is a shelf in her little work space. There is a padded metal chair, small comforts to make the work worthwhile. On the side, next to the chair she seats on, is the door. Her booth is simple and practical. Nothing fancy, nothing over the top. Just what is needed for the task.

While the early morning is spreading life to the street, the cobbler’s shop does not exist. There is no evidence of any shoe or string. The cobbler’s little booth is in front of a second-hand clothes and bags shop. While the day is still trying to emerge from the night, the cobbler’s little booth has not yet materialized. His tools of trade are safely kept within the secure doors of the second-hand clothes shop. That is where he stores his goods for the night. Theirs is a symbiotic relationship. The cobbler doubles as a bag repairer, especially zips that come loose just when a customer is ready to make a purchase. He is a friendly old man the cobbler. Let us be generous with time and say he is maybe in his mid fifties. No one likes to feel old even when truth and numbers agree but these little white lies are what make life bearable. It would be difficult to wake up knowing the final sleep looms threateningly close like a three horned demon in the dark corner.

The lady that owns the clothes and bags shop, however, is young and vibrant. She does not look a day over twenty six but word on the street has it that she is well into her mid-thirties. She either worked at keeping her body and face looking young or God just felt good about himself when he was creating her and wanted to show off his skills. Let us call her Lucy, she does not keep the company of many of her neighbours so her name is not widely called upon among the vendors. Lucy is of average height and weight. She is always very well dressed and carries herself with dignity and class. Everyone admires her; others are silently jealous, even if they won’t admit it to themselves. Lucy is married to an engineer, word has it they have three children. That much information the walls have been able to gather over time. Most evenings her husband comes to pick her up from her business so that they can go home together. Sometimes she will get a surprise visit from him for a lunch date but those occasions are few. Every time her husband pulls up at her shop in his Nissan X-Trail you can almost hear envy whisper in the lips of those who can only wish for their husbands to bring them even just a banana for lunch to complete a good diet!

More doors open. This is when the time lapse switches from the lazy morning auto pilot to street race stick shift. The mood of the day will be set by whatever happens in this few critical minutes that build up to hours. Every day it is something different, or a different version of what was. Different dramatic episodes will give rise to many tales, each having a version or two of the same scene. Such stories don’t just help kill time during long days. They also work to bring people together. It is amazing how one man’s celebration or calamity can bring a whole village together.

The minutes fill up to create an hour. More people are pouring in from their secret night caves. Those who know each other share the friendly greeting. Even those who do not share a common story greet each other like estranged friends. It’s a good African culture that one. Everyone greets everyone, whether you have met before or not. A simple, “Habari” will suffice, of which most responders will chime back with a hearty, “Mzuri”, it keeps connection alive. If given time, a conversation will be sparked and just like that strangers become strange friends. It can be very heartwarming to witness this brotherhood unfold, good thing in these African streets it is a common occurrence, if you are paying close attention.

To the locals it is completely a natural thing. Strangers will talk for hours about a range of topics without even getting to know each other’s names. If the two happen to support the same political party or come from the same tribe the bond is even greater. Those from the same tribe will find a way of connecting their villages until they find a way to explain themselves as neighbours. They will find a forest that is split in two by a river that flows near a school that one went to and the other will conveniently link the same river to a stream they used to cross when they were walking barefoot to their own school back in the day. The conversation is more comical if it’s men who are age mates, then they find out they were circumcised in the same year! This will bring up a tight kindred spirit. Strangers will walk away brothers, vowing to meet again soon over nyama choma at the makuti near the car wash that belongs to yet another village mate. A meeting that will definitely be honored.

This is how Africans relate. They greet random people, those who do not respond are greeted again. They genuinely want to know how one is doing. They visit without warning even at work places. They do not need an invitation to a party, the musical noise and cheering coming from the venue is the invitation. They will help and shout about it at the village square so that they can receive a pat on the back. They will break bread among five and eat together like it is a feast of kings. They will share until they lack and complain about it until they get more. They will wallow in suffering together and make a promise to each other that they will help each other out if one of them sees the light before the others; that often remains to be proved. Same goes for the people in this street. They all know each other, even the one who seemingly is too introverted or the one who just came in. Their story is known, even if it is not spoken of in loud company.

WALLFLOWER: THE STREET

There is an impatient calm at the break of dawn. Before the sun’s rays penetrate the darkness of the morning sky and chase away darkness. Impatient calm because one moment everything is quiet and then the next, the world comes to life. Ushering in the new day and the new blessings it brings. The quiet night walkers retreat to the shadows giving way to the day dwellers. A burst of blessing that can only be enjoyed by the early bird and suffered by the worm. Soothing calm that is disturbed only by the technology of men. ALARM CLOCKS.

The streets are stirring. The dust that took all darkness to settle will be raised again. One truck that turns into two then ten. The urgency in which a new day begins cannot be slowed. One by one padlocks come loose. “What have we here in the hope of a new day?” The maandazi maker is already situated with his hot oil. When the calm is interrupted it will need to be satiated. It is amazing the brief moment of silence before the orchestra of chaos erupts into a fine-tuned madness that is the bustling streets. The secrets that lie within the corridors are well kept by the walls; widely shared by the silent listeners and consumed by the ear of eager gossipers. There is always an interesting tale in these streets, you need not even pay too much attention.

In these early rising moments of the sun, all doors remain tightly closed. Branding colours is all that can be seen in the brightness of the security lights whose usefulness will soon end. The green of the mpesa shops, the red of the airtel money board, the white of the chemist, the brown of the grocer’s shop, the orange of the boutique and wonderful pictures of professionally made hair at the salon’s doors and wall, the colours that advertise services and goods. All that is left is for the doors to swing open and people will walk in and out of shops getting what they need and some things that are more wants than needs. This early, even one who walks in the silent morning darkness tries to be as quiet as humanly possible, knowing only too well that those deep in sleep would be annoyed to be roused five minutes before the alarm does its duty. This is the hour of the snooze button. Those who need five more minutes before their internal system activates for the new day. When the rays of the sun in the distant sky finally gets the last fellow out of bed reluctantly.

It is a slow process when the morning breaks the darkness of night. It is slow yet fast. An enigma. Nothing seems to be happening; yet everything is. The darkness protests giving way to the light but it stands no chance. Only a keen ear can pick up on the pouring water in the bathrooms, the flushing toilets, the sounds of running water. It is amazing how much water is spent at dawn. The boiling kettles, the shuffling of cups in the cabinets, the paper wraps coming loose. Everyone is preparing in silence for the day. Still there are those who begin on their knees. Saying a prayer for themselves, for their neighbours, for the sick, for the hungry, for the orphaned, for the widowed, for the afflicted, for the nation, for the continent, for the planet, for all things living and non-living. If there is a God, it is these people that keep him appeased. The silence becomes louder as more and more people join in on the activities of the day. Then, eventually, no one even makes an effort to be quiet anymore.

One by one the vendors open their doors. The corner kiosk, this elusive kiosk away from everyone’s direct gaze yet the source of all authentic tales. It does not matter where or when it happened, the corner kiosk will be the place to find out what exactly happened. If only they sold their tales and stories, the kiosk owner would be wealthy enough to own a chain of stores. What a waste of business opportunity! Funny fact, no one knows who the kiosk owner is. Not even the boy who carries the crates of soda from the delivery lorry and arranges them in the huge coca cola fridge that is bigger than the size of the kiosk itself. There is nothing that keeps a good story flowing like a cold bottle of soda to hold on to and sip on as the ears do their dutiful task. The Corner kiosk - first to open, last to close - is a seemingly inconspicuous flurry of activity throughout the day. As a matter of fact, no one even knows if at all it gets closed for the night. The small, barely the size of a six inch square, opening at the window covered by all sorts of goods always looks open from a distance owing to the light always on inside.

The window of this corner kiosk is covered by mesh. On the inside, there is one thing or the other hanging from every possible space: Sweets, coffee sachets, ground nuts, cheap chocolates, a box of cigarettes, an astonishingly wide assortment of snacks, and a box of condoms is hang right above the square opening at the very top. If you get the chance to peep in there is an impressive collection of plastic jars right on the counter attached to the window filled with more assortment of sweets. Then a tin where different denominations of airtime cards are stored can be seen just behind this child’s dream of sweet goodness. An opener is usefully fastened by a cobbler’s shoe thread on one of the wires on the mesh, together with what looks like a metal button - for scratching the airtime cards. It is a well thought out messy confusion that seems to work just well.

A thin, flimsy bench sits next to the mammoth soda fridge. This is where those who have come to partake of the cool drinks rest. The bench does not look long enough, or even strong enough, to hold more than four adults at once; but when the gossip is juicy enough you can count more than six people tightly squeezed on it. Balanced more by their feet than buttocks. Others nearly sitting on their neighbour’s lap but no one seems to mind. A good story is always far more important to distract the mind from the problems of the world. This might be one of the reasons why this corner kiosk is an unlikely favourite among those keen for a good tale. Or maybe it is the location of the kiosk.

The kiosk is located at the corner of an intersection of two roads and where the bench is situated one can see both roads clearly. Perfectly placed for a good view of nearly all the action in the streets. A convenience that is greatly appreciated when the boredom of dragging hours demands cheap entertainment. Also, whichever direction the sun burns there is always a good shade on this spot, perfect for relaxing after walking in the hot sun. Conditions that encourage conversation to give one a reason to spend an hour under the shade instead of the five minutes it takes to drink a small bottle of soda. During the morning hours shade is provided by the tall building across the street, though not entirely. Still the morning sun is welcome for those who might want to bask. When midday approaches the sun shifts and shade is provided from the harsh afternoon sun by the building that hosts the kiosk itself. So it does not matter which time of day it is, the corner kiosk is a pleasant place to be.

The boy employed at the corner kiosk dusts the bench every morning, religiously. He does a lot of things. Anything that requires quick and swift movement and some muscle. The boy himself is a thin lad. If he stood on a weighing scale it would not move beyond sixty five kilograms, even including the weight of his bulky shoes and thin jacket. He is quite tall, not too tall that he appears disproportionate but he stands above most. His skin is dark, maybe from the hours spent under the sun, maybe not. He is very agile. A quiet young man who enjoys going about his business in silence. He graduated from the group of schools that heavily taught that silence is golden. If it came from him it would sound like a prideful brag but everyone knows he is the backbone of the corner kiosk.

As the streets come alive the boy is up and active. Preparing for the good fortunes of a new day. The corner kiosk must be clean. He sweeps the front and wipes the window mesh and bench. He receives all early morning deliveries: Milk, bread, doughnuts, newspapers, everything that comes in must be kept in its rightful place, and all this is done by him. No one knows if the owner inside is awake at this time of the morning but everyone assumes he is, it must be a man because the hand that collects money from buyers cannot certainly belong to a woman. The few times anyone has needed anything this early in the morning the owner has always been there to receive the money in exchange for the goods so it’s a safe assumption that the owner wakes up just as early as the boy. The pair work like a well-oiled machine, one on the inside the other on the outside. The sun’s light quickly chases the darkness away.

It is quite interesting to witness the streets come to life. At the maandazi shop men sit for their morning tea. The tea is long (That is what they call tea that has significantly more water than milk). The purpose of the milk being more for colour than taste. This will do for the hungry men. The heat from the tea will chase the night’s cold and the maandazi will do much more to warm the stomach. The maandazi is simple; flour, a bit of sugar, baking powder, some lemon zest and water to make the dough. They come in different triangular forms, pressed so thin that the puffed up result after a dip in the oil is almost translucent. A bite reveals a hole enclosed in paper thin hot fried dough.

The men munch away. Heavy manual tasks await them at the construction site. There always is one somewhere, and the men will walk kilometers to find the stones and sand ready to be transformed into a building. The maandazi and tea provides the more than necessary fuel for the job that awaits them. Some, like the boy, will not go to any construction site but their labour is just as much and requires sufficient energy, hence the cup of tea that will set him back ten shillings and six maandazis. He could definitely eat more but his riches can only allow him to spend forty shillings. He looks at his coins as he gives them away in payment; if only the five shilling coins could somehow become twenty shilling coins and allow him to enjoy more maandazis. If only!

Everyone eats quickly. The tea is hot, straight from the sufuria where more boils over a large jiko. No one is bothered by the heat. They all drink away and bite into the maandazi quickly. One by one they get up from the bench to give room for more hungry morning customers. It is a cycle that lasts well into the late morning hours. The maandazi maker has only his hot oil and large sufuria of tea, burning over two huge jikos that stand on stones carefully placed on the ground to create a some stability. He also has a long bench for his customers to sit on either side of a taller bench in the middle that serves as a table. This is far from comfort and further away from luxury. The benches are not even sanded to smoothness but this does not deter the consumers from coming in for their morning tea. Their needs outweigh the requirement for smooth surfaces for their cups to be placed on or even their bottoms. The maandazi maker does it all, he cooks the tea, rolls the dough he made at night and cuts them ready for frying, he keeps a watchful eye on those already in the hot oil and also serves those who come in to have their morning meal. It is a magnificent juggle and he does not drop the pin even once.

Right beside the maandazi kibanda is an elderly woman readying her tools of trade. Hers is a menu for lunch. The afternoon meal is hours away, the early birds are still finding their breakfast, yet here she is in full preparation mode. Making ready for some who are still deep in their dreams. She cleans her spot and sets ready her cooking tools. The fire is already blazing and water is already boiling in what looks like a bathtub of a pan. Surely someone walking by is looking at the warm water in there and wishes to jump in, if only to sooth the tightening skin from the cold, the chill of the morning is still harsh in the air. How sad that we shall never smile contentedly in the bliss of knowing the secret thoughts of an oblivious fellow. If only the gift of reading human minds was bestowed upon a select few.

Beans and maize are ready for boiling. Yes, githeri is strictly on the menu. And being well into the dry season, the maize is hard. This is going to make for a difficult meal. Such meals people eat to cheat the stomach that food is coming in order to stop its persistent growling. It is a meal that keeps the mouth busy long enough for the mind to stop sending out hunger signals to the digestive system. Woe unto those whose teeth have failed them. Relief is in sight though, ugali is also another staple on the menu. Served with meat stew and vegetable: Skuma wiki or cabbage. Meat stew is really being too generous with the description of the watery broth that drowns isolated samples of meat picked from the discarded bones at a butcher’s shop. The amount of salt saturated in this brown broth could only be to conceal a taste that would leave those with a sensitive palate slightly disgusted. Then again, the goal was never to play around with food in the mouth but to fill the stomach.

Still a third choice for those who did not fancy meat or had the power of a strong jaw, was beans and chapati. A common choice especially for women. It was more a quality than a quantity thing. Although the difference was just about the same. The beans came with two chapatis, this would not be enough for a proper African man with the intention of eating. To avoid spending a small fortune on additional chapatti, ugali was a much better choice. There is also the unspoken satisfaction of eating with ones hands that chapatti and beans did not allow. The menu would not be complete without the small fish, omena as it is known. Omena, a favourite among the men. Most joking that one can eat two kilograms of ugali with just a single serving of omena.

The kibanda is on a slope of sorts, or maybe the one who put up the structure did not raise it high enough. The building is lower than those around it. At the entrance there is a counter on one side and the other side is a wide arrangement of tables and benches on either side of the tables. On every table there is a translucent jug of water, uncovered, a bowl filled with cut red and green chillis and a salt shaker, for those whose taste senses had completely failed them. The building itself was just that one floor. The roof was a half a meter above the wall, held up by metal poles on all four corners of the rectangular structure. It was made of transluscent sheets to let in as much natural light as possible, there were no windows in this low structure. On top of the counter was a chalk board that served as the menu. All items were written there, foods on the left and prices on the right, joined by a long dotted line. It faced the sitting area, so no one could forget how much they owed. Behind the counter was the kitchen area. Four jikos could be seen from the counter where customers would be standing as they ordered. It looked like a serious food production when everything was boiling and simmering and frying. Soot hang in threads from the translucent ceiling that had now turned pitch black above the kitchen area. There was another door that led outside from the kitchen.

This kibanda has been there for years, all other buildings have come up around it and it has remained the same. Not even a stepping stone has been added at the entrance to help people walk in with ease, especially during the rainy season. There is a depression that has formed right at the entrance, when the skies decide to give way to the rain a puddle of water forms right at the entrance. Even this does not deter hungry people from coming in. Those who wish to complain do so to a deaf ear. Once in a while wood shavings will be poured to fill in the depression but that was akin to fixing a permanent problem with a temporary solution. There is no board or sign that shows the presence of a restaurant there anywhere in sight, not even written in small fonts on the door of the kibanda. What directs people is knowledge of the area and the smell of food when lunch time approaches.

This local food joint is hidden in plain sight. Only locals know exactly where to stop and turn into the shaded area when they have arrived. A new comer will circle back at least twice before allowing the nose to lead. The place is right by the road but feels like a secret cave owing to the tall buildings around it. Strangers and even locals alike who come in there do not want to be seen going in, be spotted while in or even stumbled upon when they leave. Each one has their own reasons, most revolve around the troublesome issue of finance, others just want to enjoy a meal in relative peace. Only those who have been around for a while appreciate the Kibanda’s historical value. The owner, whom they call Mama out of respect, can recount all events that have taken place in the area decades back.

There is a radio somewhere in that kibanda. No one has ever seen it and no one has ever bothered to even trace where the sound is coming from, that is the least of anyone’s concerns. Just the occasional, “Ongeza sauti.” When there is something captivating being announced. Often, if it is the news, an argument will erupt over the political scene and spiral into a full blown shouting match especially when opposite party followers believe their point of view is the only view point. If it is sports, arsenal fans are always the laughing stock, failure seems to have attached itself to the team permanently leaving a scarred but always hopeful fun base. In this world of struggles, sports failures should not be another reason to end the day with a heavy heart.

It is interesting the quiet and determined movements of people when the air is still cold from the night. It almost is like hypnosis, everyone going about their activities on autopilot. No one misses a bit. Every movement slides into the next with mastered ease. It is sweeping and dusting and wiping and arranging and displaying, all is smooth transition. Only time will break this spell. When the sun becomes too hot for the mind to remain fixated on the task at hand and is distracted by passing wind. Or when the body craves a change that nothing else but idle gossip can fulfill. Boredom is usually the perfect opportunity for the most unproductive and sometimes even destructive behavior. No one really truly minds though, it is a necessary evil to keep the day moving on its cracked and crooked hinges.

A suggestive sigh from an acquaintance is enough to bring all activities to a slow halt. Nothing is more responsible for wasted time than idle talk. This, also, is responsible for keeping people from wallowing and drowning in their own sorrows. Nothing makes one see the smallness of their problems than hearing about the magnitude of another person’s struggles. It makes one gain the much needed strength to fight their own battles. And sometimes the idle conversations gives others a break from the fight. “Uliskia jana vile mama Boi alikuwa anapigana na mzee wake...” and just like that marriage counselors emerge, human rights activists come out of the wood works, child rights lawyers are born and the debate thrives on the calamity of one person. Everyone putting in their two cents on the matter, some not even privy to the issue being discussed but weigh in like a close member of the family. Some try to make sense of the husband’s perceived misconducts, others standing strong with the wife in a show of solidarity, the sympathetic pointing out the plight of the children.

These discussions will be had for a length of time and even come to a logical conclusion with workable mechanisms to solve the problem in mama Boi’s house; but that is where it all ends. When the discussion has exhausted all its points and no one else can come up with anything else to add on; the conversation suffers a natural death and people move on with whatever had occupied their time before the distraction. The resolutions to the troubles in Mama Boi’s household never to be utilized in the real life scenario. The purpose of the discussion was never to intrusively meddle in the affairs of another anyway!

Sometimes the subject of discussion walks past and the conversation swiftly changes to a discussion about the barking of stray dogs in the night. One will even very angrily suggest they all dogs be poisoned, another agreeing vehemently citing the noise as the reason for their infant child being unable to sleep which results in the whole household being woken up by the cries. The discussion will take a life of its own and even mature into a full blown debate sometimes even incorporating the subject of earlier discussion who caused the sudden change in conversation. Until the subject leaves and it is ascertained that they are well away from earshot then the conversation changes to the original one and continues without skipping a beat, even if the one speaking had to cut off mid-sentence they would continue with that same sentence. There was always someone who kept tabs with the conversation if anyone got lost in the switch.

The mpesa shop, the corner stone of this entire street, a cubicle just big enough for the average size woman that sits in there to fit. If she so much as gained a pound it would be a tight squeeze. All serious transactions happen in this small cubicle. It is almost beyond belief the amount of money that passes through that small cubical. Certainly most ATMs don’t see as much cash as this little green box in the wall. It sits between a general shop and a tailor’s shop. The tailor has been reduced to fixing buttons on single men’s shirts and patching up school children’s uniforms. That is what he does from morning till evening, every day that he opens his little shop. Once in a while when there is a local wedding he is called upon to fit and make dresses and suits for the bridal party, but it has been a very long while since anyone has held a wedding ceremony. Not that people are not coming together in the lifelong union, they are just not doing so in holy matrimony in front of God and the church. Marriage largely has been reduced to cohabiting to reduce life’s expenses. That is if we choose to be honest and call a spade a spade and not a big spoon.

That the mpesa shop receives a lot of money all through the day is a fact not lost to those who enjoy the thrill of a harvest where they did not cast seed. On many occasions this small cubical has been the target of criminal master minds. When the mpesa lady was still new to this street she had got the classic welcome that most shops that dealt with large sums of money got. It had been a Sunday when she had been informed that her business was broken into. On arriving, she found her small cubical, for lack of better description, dismantled. Nothing much was taken because there was nothing to take anyway. She had carried the money she had transacted and also the phone she used for work. There was only a small amount of money in there and the books she used to record transactions. When she walked into her cubical, the only thing there was her chair and pieces of the books. The thieves must have torn them in frustration.
The police had been called. Investigation was underway in true African style where everything was prodded and overturned but nothing was found. From that day onwards the mpesa lady always carried whatever she had made with her. She also re-enforced the metal bars and grills of her door and window. There was one more such break-in to remind her the importance of vigilance but they did not manage to get anything. The neighbourhood watch sprang into action in the nick of time. Then the most dreaded thing happened that shook the entire street. No one had ever expected such a movie like scenario of a well-orchestrated robbery so poorly executed to happen right there in broad daylight. It was both unreal and comical, not at the very moment but later. Every time anyone would recall the incident there was something to laugh about in the middle of all the near death scenes.

It was a Friday evening. At that time of the month when everyone felt rich and they actually were. Being the end of the week everyone was in good spirits. Everyone was taking the time to relax. Even those walking home were slow about their journey, taking time to greet those they knew. There was something about that particular day that made everyone happy. The mpesa shop was a constant beehive of activity all day. The mpesa lady suffering in silence inside her small cubical as she served her customers ever so diligently. It was a hot day. Petty theft was a never ending complaint on this street but it had been long since a proper robbery took place. People had grown comfortable in the feigned semblance of security. A snatched mango at the grocery, misplaced money, someone’s charger disappearing; that was the endless tale of the street. This time there was something in store for them they had not anticipated or even knew how to react to.

Just before darkness had encompassed the sky, two young looking men walked to the mpesa shop. One smartly dressed in a suit the other in a hooded jacket. Both in black from head to two, a good colour for disappearing into the darkness. They seemed to have coincidentally needed the services of the mpesa lady at the exact same time. They did not acknowledge each other’s presence let alone exchange greetings. “Naweza toa elfu sita.” The one in the hood had proceeded looking at his phone the whole time. Preoccupied by the contents of the screen. The other man in a suit pretended to stay behind to give the other man privacy. He walked and stood right next to the entrance of the mpesa cubical. Blocking it so that the lady could not leave or do anything to seek attention from other people.

All this while the mpesa lady thought nothing of it. She did not even notice the move until it was too late and the man at her window had leaned in too close and was holding what scared the life out of her blood. “Weka kila kitu kwa hii envelop haraka.” The man said so quietly and with such a calm voice that it all felt unreal. The gun he had pointed at her leaving no room for her brain to negotiate the realness of the situation. Her hand went to the door and that was when she felt the obstacle. “Ata usifikirie.” Another voice came from outside. The men looked so neat and well put together. Nothing about them so much as whispered, 'thug', not even in the most gentle voice.

The mpesa lady knew that the Saturday morning paper would be splashed with her images. "In Loving Memory", if she did not comply. So she did, knowing that life could not be recovered; and it did not matter whether she was dead or alive, the thieves would still get the money. Whichever outcome, it would not be pleasant. If she did whatever was asked of her, however, she would at least live to calculate her losses and work to get back on her feet. “Weka kila kitu.” The angst in the man’s voice was heavy on every word. But still they delivered the fear needed to make the mpesa lady know that they meant business. She had just seen the gun once and did not want to look up and meet it between her eyes. Everyone knew no one points a gun unless they intended to use it. The men were getting impatient. It had been all of two minutes, but given the amount of people that used the mpesa, they needed to be as fast as possible.

Just as the mpesa lady was about to hand the envelope back to the thieves the tailor walked out of his shop nearly stepping on the feet of the man who was standing by the door of the mpesa. This startled all of them and a split second later there was a loud bang that sent everyone screaming. “Mwizi.” The mpesa lady shouted as she knelt inside her cubical. The envelope had fallen inside the cubical as well. The gun shot sent everyone on the street to the ground, enough people had watched a movie or two and knew exactly what to do in response to a gun shot. No one wanted to be the unfortunate last stop at the end of that bullet’s journey.

“Chukua haraka twende.” The man in the suit shouted at the one at the window, knowing full well that they had to make a quick escape now that their cover had been blown. “Iko huko ndani.” The confusion that ensued would only be a source of laughter after the imminent danger had passed. The thieves did not waste time finding fault in each other and as surely as fate intended, name calling begun. In true show of solidarity, the people of the streets took the law into their own hands. A man emerged from the general shop on the other side of the mpesa shop and hit the thief threatening people with his gun. On seeing that they were outnumbered and their only defense was gone the other tried to get away on foot. A move that was as effective as a rabbit trying to blend in among wild cats.

Anyone who had ever been robbed of anything took out their frustrations on the thieves who had run out of luck. Anyone who had a score to settle took their anger out on this men. Men who wanted to make a fool of those who prided themselves on their honest work. The mpesa lady in her shop was too shaken to join the mob justice. Her neighbours staying by her side to make sure everything was alright. That ordeal made her close her shop early from that day on. She did not want to be the target of another incident. The chief and his assistant who always appeared when not called upon where the saving grace of the two men. Men who would have breathed their last were in not for them. Being in the custody of the police was much better than in the hands of angry civilians.

From that day onwards the mpesa lady closed her shop early. She and the tailor had started walking home together, it was much safer that way since they were going in the same direction. Strength in numbers. When the mpesa lady closed her shop early she would wait for the tailor, and when the tailor closed early he would wait for the mpesa lady. The near brush with death that sent a bullet flying a few inches from her head that fateful day had marked the beginning of a friendship as well. An unlikely bond that was built out of necessity in the face of danger. When the mpesa lady moved into that street she found the tailor there, the general shop was also there. They had always maintained a cordial relationship. After the robbery it became all too important the need to be a brother’s keeper.

NEW YEAR: NEW SERIES

Let's start a new series. Lets tell a story of daily life. The mundane, the normal, the unexpected, the shocking, the thrilling, the planned. the altering and everything life mixes up.

We start at the crack of dawn and hopefully end at the same time twenty four hours later. We follow the lives of those we see and those who go past our field of vision unnoticed. We challenge common thought and find new schools of thought.

In the end; we see life from a different perspective. If experience is kind, a perspective we have not experienced before.

CHEERS!

IT HAS BEEN A WHILE: HAPPY NEW YEAR BY THE WAY!

I have been away for quite some time. Do I want to recap the year that was? No! All of us were present, we saw, we move on. 2025 has started with a shaking; those who know how to contend for their space when there is a shaking will have quite the story when the year ends. I. for one. am happy to be here at such a time as this.

This year I decided to publish a book that I wrote years back. I have had it in my archives for such a long time and 2025 felt like the year that whispered to me, "Why not". So Price Of Choice is published.

Reading through it I was reminded of times when the world as I knew it felt like it was being shaken. I was too young to appreciate the weight of the situation but not too young that I could not comprehend the danger that we were all in. For a brief period uncertainty the main theme of life. Suddenly my country that had enjoyed peace since independence was in the clasp of war. After all was said that led to what was done; I am sure it dawned on many the real price of peace.

Often times we do not value what we have or take care of the things given to us so freely by life until they are taken away and then we came to a harsh realisation. I just think about it sometimes; that I can walk outside right now even at midnight and the worst that could happen is being robbed. That walking freely at whatever time is even an option! When was the last time one (from a peaceful country) thought of how privileged they were to be able to walk outside?

In times of unrest, trouble and war; we really get to understand what matters most and it becomes real what we would give and give up to have calm.

Let it never be lost on us, on an individual level, the price of peace. That we may never push the boundaries and find ourselves in straits.

All in all, CHEERS!
To a new year.
To better beginnings.
To more thrilling adventures.