boyfulani

Around this time, sporadic rain pounded on our roof tops. I disliked the weather partly because going to my campus fox hole, was a too muddy affair. During these awards, it paid off as the said run-away date could not get to her hostel due to, in her words,  ’the fear darkness and loath she holds inside for mud’.

I had absolutely no objection to her resolution, and in fact, was more than glad to go through my compilation of CDs with her.

The kind that play music.

V- for Voila!  bumps into me along the campus streets. V is getting  rained on and i wonder aloud.

The  umbrella she has back in her room,  has  ’cobwebs’.

Nibbling at her meal now, she throws almost everything aside and complains about how horrible the campus menu is -before she tasted it.

I simply watch blankly, my acrobatic minyos causing a circus as they share my meal. I don’t blame them, they last drown in alcohol.

The hapless chicken thighs have never had it rougher, in between…teeth as only the (dry) powder from the sifted chicken bones appears on my lips.

Tonight, I have to face Mbogo, like a man. Mbogo, let not the buffalo name mislead you, is the little midget who masquarades as the hostel caretaker and watchman.  I owe him two months rent and he has stated addressing me by my surname.

On this other line, I voilate Viola’s sassyness with corny lies and she is wild-eyed with what I think is honest amusement.

She once tried smoking, in Britain, Rotten Britain, had an 8-minute stand in a lift…

And well, doesn’t mind walking in the pouring rain with this fearless jerk.

Dad’s roach-infested National Panasonic radio occupied  pride of place on the large wall unit. You had to face it, no matter where you sat before noticing the wooden coated TV. In fact,  if Kenyatta, the first president of Kenya resided here, he would have probably titled his book: Facing the Wall Unit.

But the T.V. was switched on at dad’s hours (meaning news time) which left us at the the mercy of the National Roaches. That’s where, occasionally, I caught the local and some international matches- listening keenly like a Maasai herds boy.

As football made in England was relatively uncelebrated local teams like Eldoret FC, Rivatex,  Shabana FC Red Berets – fought it out for trophies as the Moi Golden cup (was it really GOLD?).

The commentators never really cared/or were mere sycophants of the regime and only kept one on the edge of the seat.

Idhaa ya Taifa(KBC) had a neat parade of commentators who included veteran Leonard Mambo Mbotela, Jack Oyoo Sylvester and other simply made-for-radio names who would convey the football action laiv laiv from the Nyayo/City/MISC Stadiums.   Though those were the fading days of  Gor Mahia- AFC Leopards supremacy, there were still faithful fans streaming to the stadium. And another league of keen listeners clutching the voice box.

Kwa hakika, toka mechi iaanze hadi tamati (kipindi cha lala salama)  hatari haikutoka langoni (From whence the match commenced, the ball a team was constantly in danger of conceding a goal). Goals were sometimes scored when the commentator was talking about this or the other and he would muse:

Salaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaleee!

Msikilizaji (X 10)

Kijana machachari Ken Ambani ameutikisa* wavu kwa kicki moja kali sana…Gol Kipa wa Shabana amebaki na bumbuazi pale……..na mabao sasa ni matatu nunge. Rivatex moja Shabana bila!

The he’d banter on about how the goal was scored only to come back to reporting on the match when the goal had been equalized.

What would really captivate a listener was their quick tongues, screams, false calls and ululations. Now, I imagine that the studio was not devoid theatrics, going by the agigation in their voice. Sample this:

Amechenga moja mbili, kichwa, pasi kwaaaaaaaaaaaaake, Mulama, Mulama, Mulama ameangalia kushoto kulia haoni mtu. Amesimama….

or

Na mpira umekuwa mwingi sana na umetoka mwingi,  AH!

If you listened carefully, you had to wonder how somebody with the ball could run for one munite head it, dank* it over an opponent (kanzu or kabuti ) and then head to score with a phenomenal mkwaju.

World Cup commentating

With the 2010 world cup here, not all Kenyans have an AuKuma TV in their homes,  even though the number of households owning one has increased. Indeed, trust Kenyans to be innovative. Absence does not translate to nothingness. Trust them to mill around electronic shops, neighbor’s homes-  but sensibly for ‘important’ matches. Still I have realised that  TV is not about to kill football commentating on radio.

I have overheard some stations keeping this ‘art’ alive (in radio Jambo, Citizen) that actually, some Kenyans mute the British commentators and pump up their local choice. Some (commentators) have been notorious of telling stories besides the footballing action. Torome Tirike, he of Citizen, is a classic examples of good football commentators who seem to have a list of ‘friends’ who they ‘big up’ every other second.

These guys include ‘Kip of  Presidential Escort,  Man Kariuki of Mariakani Military base, Mkangala in Kisumu- and you just wonder what they have to do with Slovenia Vs. America.

Or what does a nursary rhyme got to do with football?

Picture this:

Torome Tirike to mate: ..kipara ngoto, maji ya moto…ukimpata mpige ngoto.

As Shiko Msa asks: Surely?

The office looks grim today. Un-inspiration is closely tucking its fold around me.

Several looks around- naetsin!

I turn to my blank post page, minimize this window conveniently, and begin to type. The blogging world has been characterized by an infertile silence and on my side, have milked myself  dry.

Milked myself dry? Hm. I mean the psyche to keep on blogging. Reminds of an awkward moment I had with a cousin last Christmas. The guy, my namesake, was strolling alongside, talking about his changed life. I was easy with the upcountry air, leisurely puffing.

I was half listening, half giving myself up to the temporary buoyancy granted by the prolonged period of not smoking.

He was bantering on about where he had been, his new found peace, when a statement he made and I  stopped on my tracks.

He was now busy confessing to his previous masturbation, back in school…and i looked at him, mouth agape. ’stead of retracting (i think) he continued with more lurid details of his endeavors in the gents, bathroom (geisha shower) and how any lone moments were punctuated by self-love thoughts.

I just told him, I get it, took another long drag at my cig, really wondering when these idiosyncraZies I possess will land me at Jesus’s feet.

Again, I think of all the situations – not addiction to masturbation-  which have steered me close to divinity; and i see myself drifting further, further away.

Or is it closer? Anyone knows Christ’s  GPRS location?

Aha, and thus, my unhappy hour has been uplifted.

When I have loose minutes to walk around, I could burn them ‘javving’ the office lift.

Crazy I know, but here is my story.

First, though some people feel like throwing up when in one, I tend to think that it has a similar effect with getting high: you just sit/stand and it takes you places. It also tends to have the same purpose as i toilet- after you leave it,  you soon forget about the relief it has brought you.

Maybe that is why they say there is no lift to success- for most people hold it that you have to sweat it out.

But don’t successful people use lifts? To the highest offices where they keep on succeeding? Never mind, just thinking literally!

Well, I have discovered offices i never thought existed after pressing the wrong floor, or zombie-ing while studying fellow occupants. This, i would have missed, had I taken my usual dose of the spiraling  staircase. On the third floor, a lady was getting busy checking herself out in the mirror. She looked good yes, and my cheeky self confirmed that with a side comment.

“Er, just confirming…” she started, a startled look on her cute face.

She was seeing some ‘new guy’ who was waiting upstairs, and wasn’t not for the abrupt end of the lift’s journey, somebody would have been turned down.

I haven’t bumped into her since, nor have I called.

It’s the Asian guy, who probably works with some bank that interests me. He stands at the front as if he is in the gents, hands clasping on his crotch. With face looking down, you could think that the national anthem is about to be played. The other day, he was accompanied by a Kyuk lady – who had a tad too much make up, hair woven into ropes- a hairstyle that seemed to have seen better hair days. But she had a perfume about her that bespoke of a ‘don’t-assume’ kind of attitude.

Her legs were chocolatey, smooth as if they came into contact with a Kamba sculptor- the most striking thing about here. Everybody abode seemed to ignore her incessant conversation that she kept shouting into her mouth piece.

I can’t forget those people who try to make small uncomfortable talk in the lift. Maybe silence is the best way to make it through the journey – as you steal looks, however suspicious, just to make sure Onyancha is not around.

Fame-ass

I’ve bumped into some pretty celebrated faces here too, and it’s suffocating. The experience i’ll not forget is that of Sheila Mwanyigah.  Her infectious smile and flawless skin, dude, you could think she jumped off the cover of  Vanity Fair. And vanities were all that my thoughts spelt out, buried in some exquisite perfume-

I mean, who taps that?

Some lucky chap, of course… I tell myself, as I strangle my crazy groupies self into the corners of inaction.

I wonder if it is possible to have that one experience in the lift;

probably get busted, fired, that scares me, but the prospects gets me kind of lifted from the reality.