boyfulani

It’s one thing to scream and it’s another if the screams come from a grown up man.

It’s doesn’t get any bitter when the wails and cries take on a deathly hue, like someone with a 9″ inch knife stuck in his heart.

But when they take place in a place, infested by a nose numbing human odor,  dimmed roster cigarettes, oil (mechanics) acrid smell of shit and urine – you get the picture.

More so, when you have to wake up the others to ‘turn’ as you sleep on the hard floor – well, catch sleep?

Not here.

Tales catch on to half past 3 a.m.

They hardly pose to listen to the guy whose knees have been turned jelly by the Corporal’s cane, but his spirit remains staunch, his voice betraying pain and agony:

“Aki ya mungu, nitakaa ivo, sikuli, huyu Kopeo kumaaaamake! Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Uuuuuuuuuuuui!”

Collo (my confidant) whispers to me that he’s a (serial) fake money peddler.

“Aiii…mimi si ngwea!  Offisa, wanataka kuniua..uuuuuiii!”

“Anadai eti yeye ni ordinari hapa? Anafaa apigwe mbati za mawe!”

Man, you can’t even dare look in that dark corner, filled with miscreants from one walk of life: the dark, dunk and dirty alleys of the city.

On Monday, I’m glued to the screen, headphones in place blotting any attempt to bring back the sights of the weekend, when I’m nudged and find our whole department looking in my direction.

A thin layer of sweat main lines itself close to my spine, and I  collect what is left of  myconfidence to face the boss, who has called impromptu meeting.

His clean shaven head, laugh, and pot belly flash back and forth my mind, meshes with the memory as the gray-haired officer who was on my case with boots, blows a snake-like whip (with a deadly pain).

Licking my ashy lips and making way to the meeting, just desks away, their stares heighten the ‘they know what you did this wick-end’.

Maybe I should be delighted in the fact that the possibility of getting a job here is simply waiting for approval, but men- little surprises me of late.

Truimph, loss -alike, embrace them.

Just like I let Collo take off with my phone,  my leather belt…man- by the end of the state visit, the only thing I wasn’t ready to willingly give up was my dear life.

The moment I was thrown in, there was a hand in my every pockets, and wasn’t not for Collo, all I had would have disappeared into the thick air.

Some background.

Many months ago, I entered into some deal, where money was flowing and I was supposed to deliver services on my end. They were after some skills I possess and they were willing to do anything to get me in the boat, even offering to pay my rent, blah.

As human as one can be (the good side)Ii attempted to resign  and refund all I had taken for the obvious reason that I wouldn’t hack the hustle with my internship in tow.

They flatly refused and went ahead to pumped dough,  which my needs (mashida, lol) weakened the body and my spirit followed through.

It turned out that, true to my prediction, the project went mala.

Apparently, I was labelled the annoying bacteria that spoiled the good milk .

On Saturday afternoon, I receive a call and the guy on the other end says he’s near our offices and would like to see me.

We didn’t speak more than two words before I saw to cops, armed with Ak 47s circling closer.

I could only look at his face and resign to fate, probably just muffle like Caesar: Even you, Brutus

Even as I wrap up with good music, and my thoughts continue to fornicate with the prospect of a warm duvet, something still nags me.

That late night matatu.

After various requests to have the company car to ‘ac-company’ me home,  the sleepy driver said something to do with mileage and went ahead to caress his late-night hard-on with the question:

“Is the intern a lady, she could come over?”

Idjiot!

Anyway, my journey home sends me right into the wanton embrace of drunken passengers who just make the night, a bitter-sweat journey.

For more than an hour, we sit, solemnly waiting for that last matatu to fill. Murphy’s Flaw applys vi-major ; what with Kenyans, in various states of inebriation streaming soon as we are like two guys  short of the ‘legal passenger limit’.

But again, this is Kenya, and the ’seat-fillers’ (will do a post on them some day) quickly get out and mna-realize bado mtu ka kumi!

Last Friday, script haiku-change! Amidst the jostling of the last ‘minuters’, is some jamaa- lets call him Jethro.

Jethro thinks the mat will fly and leave him and he rushes in a kiu-ndutho (fogothary) stairo that shocks the prim among us. He literally shoves and pushes his way to the backseat.

With unamused passengers in his wake, we are all hopeful the mat will get going any moment….

only for a cry to come through:

Weeeeee, hautakaa hapa! Silipi mia na niskumwe na mtu!”

A lady in the back seat demands for ‘haki yake’ and her arms, words are ready to deny rowdy Jethro the pleasure (or pressure) of sitting besides her. I assume Jethro would get the cue, calm down and look for another space to squeeze himself.  But Jethro is Jethro and with everyone’s attention now, he keeps insisting to be ‘songewad’.

Lady 1:Wewe ni mwanaumme wa aina gani unajibishana na wamama?

Jethro: Hawa ni wamama ama ni malaya? Mama mgani ako nje saa hizi?

A debate is sparked with almost all joining in.

One of the two women at the front seat protests saying that with his comment, Jethro has insulted ‘all women’.

It is either the sheer effect of beer or just general loneliness because she next asks Jethro ”aache kuteseka huko nyuma.

“Kuja unikalie” she says in what must be a hooker’s voice.

Jethro remains in a ‘bend over’ position, mooning the rest of the passenger fraternity who let it out:‘mnatopotezea wakati!

The konkodi and dere intervene intervene this time and ‘kindly’ ask Jethro to sit….

Next to me.

All this time, there is the (@milonare) ’s  BambaTwentySomething beside me who is inching closer as it gets chaotic! Talk about getting sand-witched between two forces.

I should raise my haki yangu cry, but the effort is muffled either by the decency or by the disguise of the opposite. More so, we needed to get going.

With Jethro breathing froth beside me, I prefer to think the case was settled.

I welcomed him with, er, open hips  (sic) making sure the bamba-twende-home was ‘without reach.

But the kwekwes ladies at the back keep the insults coming, like acrobats rocking afro-pussies (er, whatever that is)!

They get worse (and funny still) as some mathees on the front seat joined in the gender-based tussle which pitted the culprits exchanging some really nasty words that would fit (or not fit) well, a midnight matatu.

I think i must have zoned out of the conflict because I was ruffled back after by alighting militants.

I realized the seat beside me was empty and caught the sight of an agitated Jethro accosting two ladies who had a guy with them.

This must have been their stage as i could see an estate from where the mat had stopped.

Si niliwaambia nashuka na nyinyi tujue mwanaume ni nani?

The guy accompanying the ladies stepped forward and slapped Jethro so hard he lost his balance.  What followed was a mini-stampede as the ladies joined in kicking the brother who got up and fought back…

Much to the chagrin of the other passengers.

One was picking a rock on the road side, but by this time, the condi who had been holding Jethro back was already in the mat saying; ‘dere twende! wacha afunzwe na dunia!’.

Needless to say, it was now kedo 2 AM and two mathees who had offered Jethro a seat were already discussing the prospect of their next bar stop.

Last night, I witnessed a movie-real-life scene that had the brave heart in me scampering all the way to the dusty abode of rats.

I live on the first floor  of a relatively kawa estate, with street and shops below. My door faces the junction of four dirt roads that stretch into deeper sections of the hood.

I had just arrived  from work, several minutes after ten when I started the bachelor’s  ritual of rinsing  shirts that had been soaking for days  outside my room.

As i wrung some extra thread-bare ngothas, I took the liberty of watching fellow Kenyans doing their last minute shopping (for super I guess), before the shops closed, as the streets cleared up.

There was little movement and so I suddenly noticed a guy with a black jacket, brandishing a gun and shouting orders like a cop.

Last weekend, I had witnessed a police swoop in this exact spot and I thought he was a plain clothes police man. But the manner with which he was slapping about our mama mboga and lady shopkeeper and pooling passers by startled me and I leaned on the balcony to see everything unfold below me from above. (God forbid if he had looked up!).

What stamped my fear further was how he pulled a honda guy who was riding down the street.

“Wewe, simama, ama unataka nikuue?” Hey you stop or get killed.

He was brandishing the gun (An AK 47 – it’s wooden in some places, right?) menacingly like a toy, finger on the trigger. The honda guy jumped off in fear as the thugs accomplice tried to use the bike as the get away.

All this was happening too fast and people around had noticed the anomaly- so,  I think they panicked and the armed guy started firing randomly, in all directions.

He was rotating towards my direction when i knew it was time to take cover like the rest of the people, had to rush in doors as more and more shots rang in the air, instilling a deadly fear.

I have never felt something like that before as I imagined the shots piercing the wall or door and getting to me.

Less than five minutes later, they were gone. And that was when yours truly emerged from his brave corner to see the aftermath.

There was a guy who had just installed his DSTV (for the World Cup i guess) and had been robbed off all the cash he had- and was left with a quarter KG of meat and two tomatoes.

There were the shop ladies and the mama mboga, still shell-shocked.

Our elderly ‘watchman’ with his rungu in hand had dared to inquire what was happening, when an the ugly muzzle was pointed in his direction and told: potea kabisa ama tukumalize!

Interesting enough, police officers arrived less than ten minutes later from a suspect direction- kept vigil the whole night.

This is only my second week in my home town, after being away for long.

Seems like this is Intern season all over the landscape.

Well, I have a minute and a huff.  I’m doing this on word, to wad of the prying eyes of detail –oriented editors behind my back. There is a meeting going on behind me and some designers are getting bashed for not putting up bylines for a certain Swahili newspaper. For some reasons, I am having this fear that they can read through me,  but haidhuru!

This happens to be my third week and other than the self-important condescending employees (harrowed be their names)  I am fairly happy with my progress. First, let me blow my trumpet a little and say that getting here was not a mean fete, as only five of us were shortlisted for these positions. Three of us are already done with school, with yours truly teetering at that 3rd-into-4th year crisis- where you can’t tell your year in one word. Regardless, we moved in full stride, and i chose the weirdest of all posting.

Design Desk.

These are the slave-rs of the media scene, I have come to learn! I thought there was prestige in assembling the country’s most read publications- the synergy, skill and the passion/talent to maintain the standard and all…but well, I am yet to fully internalize it all. Actually, I have been courting conventional journalism too, even from this end- where you are sent out in the field with an experienced reporter, and after you bang in your story and send it to them; there comes the reply:

Boy_fulani: Please spell-check your story before sending. On another note, come over to my desk for some (effing) tit- bits on how it’s done.

Like  a little dog, you let out a whimper then silently follow (with a nod here and there) practical talk about the in-house style, delayed lead and such news reporting details.

(If it’s some snobbish female reporter, she’ll copy and paste it to your office mail and hit send without a hi or bye. If it’s Juma, the jamaa i accompanied jana to some conference where I spent the entire public watchdog duty,  watching the comely Betty Murungi, she of TJRC fame banter on about something or the other…well, Juma? He’ll make SUA you UNDERSSStaND the CoRRREct GRammeRR and SSSSSSSSSSStlye.)

**

There are a lot of stories to share, like the one below now that my blogging mojo is back.

Security B_each

I was startled this morning,  when i was stopped at the security desk and asked to open my ’small package’.  See, after waking up too early this morning,  I really had no time to prepare breakfast. So, I just passed by mama Kanini’s all-round-hotel, b  and asked to for two hot ndaoz to be listed under my name. Walking to the bus stop,  images of the 9 ‘Oclock office and the rubbery mandazi were already making breakfast in my heart, such that, I started humming soon as i signed my name.

“Nini hiyo?” asks the lady guard who was picking my ID

Hii? Keki, Kwa nini?

That is the same question that landed me in trouble a while back.

Haiya.Ati kwa nini? : Some security guy who was standing a distance from the counter, asks angrily and i look in his direction.

Ni nani mkubwa wako, ndio aweze kukueleza vizuri rules za hapa?

I give him a blank look and start justifying why I has asked the question – solely for information.

He wants to hear nothing, and wants my ndaoz to remain at the counter as he refers the case to mdosi.

As I always say, this bitch slaps logic —-yaani,  why phones disappear daily on that floor with no suspects nubbed, but you chase the morning chill trying to nail some kiddo armed with two ndaoz and several coins for a lunch time puff?

This wasn’t a good start for a Tuesday when I was getting the log in details for my first live page interaction- er whatever that means.

_screamyintern_