Nairobi fly

Nairobbery

2008-06-24T14:33:00.005+03:00

My lady friend thought she heard opportunity knocking on her door. She decided she would seize the moment and threw all caution into the wind. Today she is a different woman. Let’s call her Faith. She is good looking, nice body, very successful but too trusting. She is selling her car to raise capital for some investment that would more than pay back for the inconvenience of not having a car. Faith engaged the services of a can do guy; you know the kind of guy that knows someone who knows someone who has connections in every industry legal or otherwise. The can do chap quickly puts together a list of prospective buyers and a series of meetings are promptly scheduled.

Then out of the blue on a Thursday afternoon, a phone call. “Hallo” “I have been reliably informed that you are selling a car.” “Could you please describe it to me?” Are you the vehicles only driver?” “How much are you selling the car for?” “What are your names?” “Very nice, I will be in touch.” The caller sounded genuine, polite and best of all interested. Later that evening the same gentlemen calls. “Hallo” I spoke to you this afternoon about you car.” “May I see the car?” “Tomorrow morning.” “Eleven o’clock?”

Eleven o’clock Friday morning found Faith chatting with a middle aged gentleman over brunch. He had already taken a quick look at the car. Peered at the engine and peeked into the trunk. He drove her around the block, accelerating, braking, turning knobs and pressing buttons until he pulled to a stop grinning with satisfaction and exclaimed, “Let’s do this!”

Faith looked him over one more time as he spoke. He said he was salaried but made lots more on commissions. He spoke softly but confidently. He was curt yet pleasant. Stylish but not fashionable, he seemed well off yet ordinary. Faith relaxed and enjoyed the meal. After the eating was done he slipped his hand into his jacket's inner breast pocket and pulled out a bunch of papers. Slowly the gentleman sorted them out on the table. There were receipts, bills, a wad of crisp one thousand shilling notes and several DL envelops. He pulled one envelop from the rest and slipped it to Faith.

Faith looked at the banker’s cheque in her hand. The date was correct, her names were correct. The amount in words and figures was consistent and correct. The negotiable instrument had two signatures appended on it. All seemed well to her. The man asked that he drive off in the vehicle and she would hand over the logbook and affect the transfer once the funds had cleared. Faith waited for the well-known feeling in the pit of her stomach, there was none. She stretched out both her hands to the stranger across her. With her right, she shook his right. With her left she placed the keys in his left. The gentleman paid the bill and they parted. He dove off in his new car and she walked to her bank to deposit her investment capital.

On Wednesday afternoon, she received a phone call from her bank. Would she mind coming in for a moment to discuss her last transaction? It turned out that the banker’s cheque was a forgery and the thug had a five day head start on her. She had not renewed her insurance. Why would she for a vehicle on sale? The cops? Oh please!

Her world collapsed.

Silly Man

2008-06-06T14:05:00.004+03:00

Last weekend I had the opportunity to be at the 2008 Rhino Charge. This is an annual 4x4 obstacle race whose aim is to raise funds for the fencing of the Aberdare Conservation area. This year’s event was held at a place called Namunyak inMathews Range way past Archers Post on the Isiolo Marsabit Road or non-road because that was not a road but a trail in a military training area. Our camp was located snugly between two hills both known for being breeding grounds for all sorts of creepy crawlies and feline predators. To keep us safe at night we employed all weapons at our disposal which in order of efficacy were; four Samburu morans, rap music, two snoring dudes and a camp fire.

Now amongst us in the amazing camp was one chap who thought he was as smooth as butter on a toast from the grill. He was as bold as brass, as horny as a Billy goat but unfortunately as drunk as a skunk. Let’s call this dude Shenji. Shenji has brought with him a pretty damsel. She was light skinned, pretty face, nice ass, child bearing hips, long legs and most of all had a tattoo on her lower back that she hid like a leopard hides its spots. And yet Shenji still wanted more. One night he spied a couple of young ladies minding their own business, enjoying the fresh air, the starry night and the music from the resident DJ Karis as they waited for their chaps to join them. Shenji slithered to them and engaged his A game that included an innocuous groping that did not go down well with the dudes the girls were with.

What followed next can only be described as the mother of all battles. Shenji faced the wrath of a drunken mob that near beat him to a pulp. When the cloud of dust settled, Shenji was nowhere to be seen. He had bolted into the bush like the snake he was and one of his tormentors was in need of medical attention on his wrist. It took a while for temperatures to cool off but when they did everybody was in need of a stiff drink. The music had been shut off and the amazing camp had been extinguished for the night. Pretty damsel watched the whole episode without uttering a word.

At 6.00am the camp was roused to life by the very efficient and dedicated alarm system singing songs of life and love. Seated by the smoldering embers that was last nights campfire was Shenji; worse for wear, bruised and dirty from last night’s cruel punishment. Pants stained from an inadvertent moment of incontinence as adrenaline kicked in, not for fight but for flight. I felt sorry for him; after all, a man must try. Over a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast washed down by copious amounts of whiskey I thought, can anything worse happen to such a guy? Until, pretty damsel from last night made an appearance from her tent. She shone like a beacon in her cowboy hat and hot pants. Lingering looks followed her like laser lights. Chaps communicated in sonar signals of lower frequencies than the female ear can pick up. The general consensus was that Shenji was not serious. Like the proverbial hyena that split its pelvis trying to walk two paths at the same time. Needless to say, Shenji was dumped on the spot.

Rise again

2008-05-20T10:49:00.005+03:00

Hallo good people!

I am back after an almost 4 month hiatus. During this period i walked through the valley of the shadow of death and barely survived. I suspect i was also in no mood to write as my writing would most likely have been angry, bitter or even sad. That is not my style; I am a survivor not a victim. Now that i am almost fully recovered both physically and mentally, its time to write again.

Toodles

An alternative to post election violence

2008-01-11T09:45:00.000+03:00

See such.

This poem was sent to me by a die hard ODM supporter who received it from an even more resolute ODM.....er. Sure beats maiming, killing and wanton destruction of property.

Last week my vote was my bride to be,
But the president raped my virgin bride,
Tore into her innocence and whored through her,
Right before my very eyes…the president who so claims to respect me as his fellow man,
Killed my tears in a way that I am beyond tears…forever,
As if that was not enough…he asked me to heal…and heal fast,
Asked me to share in his joy by celebrating the day after he had disgraced my wife,
Asked me to feast in with him,
Share in his wine,
Toast to a new day…as if it should be a holiday,
I would say fuck him,
But that does not arrest the pain that I feel,
…and I fear…this pain will last with me for as long as justice is not served,
For as long as he breathes…justice will always be a blind bitch,
For as long as he walks…I will be reminded of how he made my bride his bitch,
He will wish that I forget that day…the 30th of December 2007,
But I swear on this ink that is not faint…I will never,
He is a political gangster that will die by this bullet he has served me,
A pretender to the throne…and not a statesman,
A serial rapist who has done over four million plus…bitches,
Bitches who just like my dear wife…will never forget his face,
Life is a bitch…and as such you have served us just that,
Your fate is sealed in annals of history…
As the rapist who divided my people,
Raped my woman in the freedom and comfort of my bed,
…passed her over to his friends as he made me watch,
Hell is not enough for you,
Death is not enough for you,
Pain would be an aphrodisiac,
But on the blood that my wife has spilled,
You will surely pay.

Charles Amenya

Save our Beloved Nation

2008-01-09T16:41:00.000+03:00

I should be starting this post with belated Christmas and New Years greetings. Instead I make a frantic appeal for peace in our beloved country as I realize that the one Kenya we have been bragging about was diseased to the very core.

Just when we had become accustomed to being heralded as the beacon of democracy in Africa, Kenya has slipped and slid over 30 years backwards. We have lost our moral authority to export mediators and preach peace to our war torn neighbours and right now i will not stand on any rooftop and proclaim that i am proud to be a Kenyan.

Both Kibaki and Raila are accorded state security that is paid for by that princely sum called income tax taken out of our meagre pay. Their immediate families are holed up in grand mansions totally insulated from the current goings on in Kenya. You would think they would be the first to call on Kenyans to shun violence as they sort out this terrible mess between them.

Yet our beloved country bleeds and burns due to a political stalemate. I suppose right now we may bury our heads in the sand and call it a tribal war brought about by unchecked ethnic animosity and a perceived stolen election, but we should know better. The organization of the brutal killers demonstrates a level of preparedness that could not have been achieved in the couple of days that following Kivuitus irresponsible handling of the 2007 general elections.

My question to the tribal chieftains is; when all the unwanted groupings of people are finally expelled from those volatile areas, do you think the marauding gangs will simply disband and get on with their lives? Absolutely not! They will realize they have destroyed economic activity in their lands and the painful appreciation of impending poverty will creep into their icy hearts. They will turn on their own elite as the certainty of their actions dawns on them. We will then have a more dangerous war in which no one regardless of their ethnicity, religion, past or association will be immune from. A class war.

This post is dedicated to all those who have lost their lives, loved ones, livelihoods, dreams and anything else they may have held dear.

Now is the time

2007-11-30T15:16:00.000+03:00

Time to leave the office for a cold white one

Time to start looking for summer bunnies in the clubs

Time to rekindle lukewarm relationships

Time to identify cheap liquor outlets

Time to hook up with like minded individuals

Time to suspend my facebook account

Time to start sending Christmas cards

Time to learn words of Christmas carols

Time to wiggle out of my parents' holiday plans

Time to make holiday plans of my own

Time to list which relatives to avoid

Time to hide my ID and voters card in a cool dry place

Time to celebrate what was achieved this year

Time to dismiss what was not achieved this year

Time to make new relolutions to break

In the middle of the Amboseli National Park

2007-11-29T15:57:00.000+03:00

So Timo is back in the country, on holiday from Germany where he was studying something serious, like Engineering or Movie Production. I don’t quite remember which. Millions of brain cells have been destroyed since, and the memory of the day’s activities, though vivid, may suffer from effects of the consumption of copious amounts of Viceroy over the years. As is Timo’s nature, he brought along a guest from Ugerumani to boast to him the sights and sounds of Magical Kenya. This Mzungu, a medical doctor, who we shall call Ngania, in turn brought his wife with him. Now please realize I am not talking about a young medic, eager to eradicate the world of Malaria or Tuberculosis, but a 40 something seasoned gentleman who has had an opportunity to visit Africa without spending his entire pension.

OG is a cheeky chap managing a transport business in Industrial Area. He has done this forever and now is able to do it with his eyes closed. He is the adventurers type of guy who asks “why not?”, when he should be yelling, “hell no!” I tell you this not to disparage him but enable you to understand him. I on the other hand, was a trader in farm produce, specializing in bananas. OG, Timo and I are friends from way before. So when Timo asks us to join him as he takes his wazungus for a road trip one weekend; we readily jump at the offer.

So early one Friday morning, Timo, OG, Dr and Mrs Ngania and I, drove down Mombasa road. Turned right at Emali and drove the most boring 100 or so kilometres to Oloitokitok where Timo’s grandparents live. Like a well marinated fart, word of the peculiar guests spread around the neighbourhood and in no time we had a steady stream of watus streaming in to say “jambo” to the wazungus. We were celebs mpaka we were taken to the shopping centre for drinks. Anyhow this is not the point so let me say, we ate, we drank, we slept.

The next morning after a liquid breakfast to kill the hangovers, a lengthy goodbye and politely declining to accept a live goat as a going away present to the Doctor, we set off for the Amboseli National Park. The roads were rough but all weather and our little 4 wheel drive tackled the terrain courageously as I was behind the wheel. We arrived at the KWS gate, paid up and were efficiently processed and shown to the KWS guest house. Now this is a modern three bed roomed bungalow, simply but comfortably furnished, available in deluxe mode, should you require and thus pay for house help and/ or a cook, or Standard mode. Naturally, we opted for the self catering or better still, no catering alternative.

After settling in and freshening up, we board our trusty chariot and set off on a game drive. We drive around for about an hour, seeing all the important animals and identifying them to our guests. OG is at the wheel, driving as gently as the booze in his head and the road ahead will permit. He is, however, bouncing us against each other and I can tell that the good doctor, riding shotgun, does not appreciate Timo and I literally sandwiching his significant other. A loud expletive interrupts my thoughts and OG pulls over. In unison we call out, “what?” It turns out that a warning light on the dashboard has lit up. We all know it is forbidden but the men alight from the car to check for the problem, in the middle of the Amboseli National Park. Timo has some rudimentary mechanical knowledge and his diagnosis is that we have a punctured radiator, in the middle of the Amboseli National Park.

We need to refill the radiator and make a quick dash back to our guest house. A hasty search in our vehicle realizes an empty five litre jerry can. That’s a start, now to find a source of water. Have I mentioned we are in the middle of the Amboseli National Park? The view is spectacular; straight ahead in the distance is Mount Kilimanjaro. Its snow capped peak defiantly pointing at the now setting sun. On the left is a bush, thick and impenetrable, extending over one hundred meters backwards and forwards. On the right, ruminants in their thousands are grazing in the large expanse of savannah grassland as long legged birds dip their sharp beaks into a watering hole in search of food.

“Isn’t that water?” asks Mrs. Ngania. No one answers. Not because her question is silly but because of what the next question will be. “Who will go get some?” continues Mrs. Ngania. Mr. Ngania is quiet, wishing he could shut Mrs. Ngania up before she volunteers him. Timo and I volunteer OG to be the first to fetch water. He grabs the jerry can without uttering a word and saunters into the pasture. “Is it safe?” the Nganias wonder aloud. I explain that it is safe because, if there is an attack from the right, the animals will run and we will see. “What if the attack is from the left?” asks Mr. Ngania. Timo without missing a beat answers, “Then we will run and the animals will see” We were there for 5 more minutes as the Nganias wiped tears of laughter off their faces. We collected enough water to fill our radiator, carried a full load just in case, and made a dash for the safety of our bungalow.

The Nganias whipped up a wonderful supper of Pasta and chicken salad. We then sat around a bonfire, sipped on Viceroy and watched the stars as we conversed in progressively louder tones. The flames grew larger and larger and I thought we may need some water on standby in the event that a runaway spark attempted to light a bush fire. I brought the jerry can from before, and placed it strategically between Mr. Ngania and myself. “What’s that for?” Mr. Ngania asks. “It’s our fire engine” I replied.

I can still hear them laughing.

Chicken soup for the soul

2007-11-26T13:17:00.000+03:00

So I am minding my own business sipping on a cold While Cap at Buffet Park on Saturday morning. I do realize Saturday Morning might not be the right time for such an activity but I find it easier to sober up when I am drunk. The chap seated next to me is busy gnawing on a chicken leg and sipping on a clear soup from a large bowl. For a moment I wonder why the chap would rather have his chicken boiled and not roasted or fried. It is at this moment when I realize that several other patrons are engaged in a similar exercise. The bizarre bowls are all over the place. Upon enquiring as to why boiled chicken has become the new dry fry, I am informed that this is a new addition to the menu and I am requested to try it.

The chicken soup offering at Buffet Park consists of a large bowl of the clear liquid, a portion of tender boiled chicken, lots of onions and dhania. It was a wonderful meal and I recommend it to everyone, from recovering drunks to teetotallers. It did wonders to my hangover and in no time I felt alive again. Two gentlemen who joined us on the table also had the soup and agreed it was finger licking good. I commented that the only thing lacking from the wonderful invention was a bun. A freshly baked bun, brown or white would complete the equation for the best light meal north of Uhuru Highway and south of Yaya Centre. I offered to pick up the bun issue with Muya, one of the proprietors, soonest. Bill, one of the chaps on the table, said that the bun recommendation would be brushed aside as too much work and that alcohol and bread do not work together.

Hardly had 5 minutes passed when Muya sauntered by in his characteristic cool way. After exchanging the usual pleasantries and congratulating him on the new addition to the menu, I broach the subject of the missing bun. What happened next can only be described as amazing. Without missing a beat, he did just as Bill has predicted. He totally dismissed the idea that his fantastic creation could be improved by something as mundane as a piece of bread.

So when you pass by Buffet Park for a bowl of chicken soup and wish you would have had a bun to crown it off with, please know, we tried.

What to do?

2007-11-22T13:13:00.000+03:00

Now, I have decided to write in order to get some things off my chest. I feel that with the looming general elections, nobody has the time to listen to a chap rant and rave about personal problems. I will therefore just scream into the wind and maybe, just maybe, I will feel better.

I work in the service industry, specifically in marketing communications. It is a wonderful place to work and I love my job. The staff are competent, motivated, friendly but most of all, I love to get to work every morning, unlike my previous job where getting out of bed was a nightmare (ok, well, if there was a daymare, that would be it). There is one problem though, the company is spending more than it is making. We are debt ridden and the industry is awash with rumour of our imminent closure.

You would think that budgeting would be a lesson learned in boarding school. Be it Primary, Secondary or residential College. I remember having Kshs 1,000 in my pocket on Monday morning. I would eat relatively palatable meals through the week and have enough left over for drinks at KBC and F3 on Friday night and breakfast at Teacher’s outside Florida nightclub on Koinange Street. Incidentally, Teacher is still keeping the flame burning outside F1 all these years later.

In the next 40 days, after the current electoral uncertainty has passed, marketing budgets in this country will be unleashed and all the Advertising and Marketing Communication firms in Nairobi will be unable to satisfy the demand for their services. But my employer is bleeding to death just before dawn. When we should be casting our net in anticipation for a really large catch, we are instead watching the horizon with bated breath, paralysed with fear, in search of an elusive shoreline.

Our staff attrition rate is second to that of soldiers in military hotspots like Iraq Afghanistan, Darfur and Somalia. I always thought that the sign of the ship going under was the rats abandoning the damned vessel and taking their chances in the water. At jobo, the opposite in the case, the wadosi’s are the ones who have resigned and left the wananchi like me to ponder our daunting fate.

There is talk of a rescue package in the pipeline but I wonder, is there light at the end of this tunnel and should I trudge on, or am I strolling deeper into an abyss when I should turn back and get the hell out of here?

Testing the waters

2007-11-21T16:14:00.000+03:00

Cautiously, timidly, ominously, I mill around the edge of this pool. The dark still waters hypnotize me, lure me, taunt me. I realize that once I plunge into this unknown, there is no coming back. I glance at my mobile phone, wallet and shoes on the ground by my side. No need getting those wet now, is there? I take a deep breath, and jump.

I guess I am now a blogger